Chapter Text
Mickey looks around him, eyes darting, panicked, shifting his weight as he balances on his heels - an animal caught in the headlights deciding which way to run. He can’t see a thing in the dark - sure as shit can’t see Raúl, has no fucking idea where he went - the only light on the beach the silvery fingers of moonlight, stripes upon the sand between the shadows from the palm trees.
He squints into the shadows, imagines the malecon above him, tries to orientate himself in the dark. The decision is made quickly, based on nothing more than a feeling, a vague idea that he knows the right way to go, and he takes off, sprinting awkwardly on the sand, heading towards what he thinks - hopes - is the quiet end of the malecon.
The sand is loose and dry and sinks underneath his feet, spreads between his toes and he stumbles, lands heavily on one knee, cursing himself. Cursing Raúl. He dusts himself off, starts running again, kicking sand around him with his heels, shivering as the breeze blows the sand against his bare ass cheeks.
He blinks quickly, can just make out the shape of the stairs to the malecon in front of him, growing larger as he approaches. Mickey cups his hands over his balls, his junk, and he curses Raúl again - that fucking prick - and he takes a deep breath, prepares himself to cross the road, dodge the traffic, stark fucking naked.
When he catches up with Raúl he’ll kick his goddamn skinny ass.
* * *
Raúl takes the final drag of his cigarette, stubbing the butt out with his toe. He pulls out his phone, checks the time. Twentyfive minutes have passed since Raúl waited for Mickey at the change rooms near the sea baths, laughing to himself, Mickey’s clothes in hand, expecting Mickey to run cursing towards him, naked, demanding his clothes. Twenty five minutes. Raúl sighs. Mickey hadn’t come.
Raúl hums quietly, rubs absently at the hair on the top of Seagal’s head. “I don’t know where your Papa is,” he chuckles to himself as Segal bleats and chews at the hem of his tshirt. “But when I find him, he’s going to be upset with me. Muy enojado.” Very angry.
He lights up another cigarette, inhales slowly as the nicotine stills the fluttering in his stomach, the anxiety that tells him he went too far; that he should have thought everything through before he ran to the sea baths leaving Mickey naked in the ocean behind him.
A breeze rustles over Mickey’s backyard, bringing with it the sound of teenagers yelling, the low thump of music, a party - distant and faint. And then there’s a sound that sends a shiver over his skin; sirens. Police.
He curses himself, palms at his forehead, swallowing heavily as stomach sinks. Has Mickey been arrested? Is that why he’s taking so long to get home? Raúl breathes deeply, tries to calm himself; he needs to clear his head, to think.
Five more minutes. If Mickey isn’t back in five minutes, he’ll head out in his car with Mickey’s clothes and find him. Raúl stands up quickly - nervous energy - and Seagal bleats at him again, startled, before sinking a hoof into his shin.
Raúl winces at the pain, gnaws on his bottom lip. And then he almost laughs, because it feels like a show of solidarity between Seagal and his owner - a reprisal for stealing Mickey’s clothes. Raúl pats Seagal on the head once more and nods.
He probably did deserve that.
* * *
Mickey scales the metal side gate, chuckling wryly as his feet land on the grass of his backyard. Fucking finally. He rounds the corner, mind focused on the best way to break into his own goddamn house and he heads towards the bathroom window - resigned to smash the damn thing open - but he’s stopped suddenly, breath sucked sharply into his lungs with a loud hiss and he finds himself pressed face first against something solid and warm and familiar - Raúl.
“Fuck! Mickey,” Raúl exclaims, surprised, chuckling in relief as he slides his hands over Mickey’s bare shoulders. “Gracias a Dios. I was worried. I was on my way to look for you.”
Mickey grunts in annoyance, finds himself leaning into Raúl’s touch anyway, seeking out his solid presence until he remembers he’s angry at Raúl, really fucking angry. He shakes his head, snorts in disgust at himself, and he pushes Raúl away, both of them stumbling backwards. “You’re a fucking prick!” he yells, eyebrows creased, watching Raúl as blinks in surprise. “What the fuck, man!”
Raúl steps towards him, fingers finding the hair at the back of Mickey’s neck. “Lo siento, lo siento mucho,” I’m very sorry, he pleads, flinches as Mickey bats his hand away. “Por favor, Mickey. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” Mickey huffs, shakes his head. The fucking cheek of this guy. “You stole my goddamn clothes, man. How the fuck else did you think it was gonna end, huh?” He stares at Raúl, sucks on his bottom lip, challenging him, daring Raúl to match his anger, to curse and yell.
Raúl runs his hands through his hair slowly, sighs. “I waited at the sea baths,” he says quietly, trailing his fingers over Mickey’s arms; he clearly isn’t taking the bait Mickey laid out for him, doesn’t bite. “I thought you would follow me, and then I couldn’t find you so I ran back here.”
“Well, I ain’t -” Mickey pauses, bites his tongue. I ain’t a fucking mind reader, Raúl - the words sit on his tongue, unspoken, but he closes his eyes, anger melting away as Raúl’s thumbs rub circles over his shoulders, disarming him. He looks at Raúl, fully clothed, then at his own nakedness, and he chuckles in spite of himself - struck by the absurdity of the moment. “It’s all good,” he mutters, laughing hoarsely. “Figured you just wanted me to run across the city in my fucking birthday suit.”
“I would never..” Raúl shakes his head, moves a hand to stroke at Mickey’s jaw. “I wouldn’t leave you like that on purpose.” Mickey inhales, catching his breath in his throat as Raúl leans in, kisses a path from his neck to his ear. “But I do love it when you’re naked, Mickey.”
Mickey grunts, grabbing at Raúl’s jeans, hips pressed together.
“I didn’t think I’d beat you back here,” Raúl murmurs, hot breath against Mickey’s neck. “You took such a long time.”
Mickey laughs, pulling away. “You run like a fucking gazelle!” He slaps Raúl on the backside, pushes past him, making his way across the yard to his clothes. “You’re a goddamn lanky stringbean! Course you beat me.”
Raúl snorts, chuckling as Mickey unlocks the back door. “Stringbean,” he repeats. “Okay.”
“Yeah, you’re all.. skinny and shit,” Mickey sighs, relieved when they’re finally inside the house - home sweet fucking home. “Like one of those long, green beans, ay.”
Raúl hums, thinking. “Do you know what you are, Mickey?” he jabs at Mickey’s shoulder and he spins around, watches that cheeky fucking smirk spread across Raúl’s face.
“You’re a bebé cactus.”
“What?” Mickey snorts, translates the words in his head. Cactus. Baby cactus. “Why? What the fuck?”
“You’re small and prickly on the outside,” Raúl kisses him, sucks on his bottom lip and Mickey groans, feels himself hard against Raúl’s jeans. “But tender inside,” he adds, lips brushing against Mickey’s ear, “like a cactus.”
“Are you fucking high right now?” Mickey huffs lowly, his disdain half-assed, because his chest is warm and swelling in the best way, and he feels kinda pleased - amazed, if he’s honest - that Raúl bothered to think of a name for him in return.
“Completely sober, Mickey,” Raúl chuckles, then grips Mickey’s shoulders suddenly, rasping in his ear, “turn around.” And so Mickey turns to face the couch, Raúl behind him, grinning to himself as he’s pushed down onto the couch, nodding when he hears the sound of Raúl’s clothes being shed and falling to the floor.
“You taste good.. Muy bueno,” Raúl murmurs, kissing a trail over Mickey’s back, and then he drops to his knees, lips and tongue lingering at the small of Mickey’s back, teasing. “Your skin is so salty. Me encanta.”
“That’s cos some asshole had the brilliant idea to go skinny dipping,” Mickey grunts, breathless as Raúl rubs his thumbs over his but cheeks, parting them, sliding his tongue between them at the top of his cleft.
Raúl ignores Mickey’s complaints, nibbles playfully at his skin, and Mickey moans again, head rolling back as Raúl moves his mouth lower, deeper between his cheeks until his tongue slips inside him, slick and effortless, because Mickey is already stretched and open and ready. So ducking ready. Mickey whines, listens to the wet lapping of Raúl licking into him, hips rocking backwards against Raúl’s mouth, coaxing him further inside, until it’s not just Raúl’s tongue but fingers, too; fingers, tongue, fingers, tongue, one and then the other, then both, fucking him while they both whine from the sensations and Raúl moans those sexy little grunts against him. And then Mickey hears his own voice, urging Raúl on, come on Raúl, come on, he whines impatient and needy, waiting to be fucked.
Raúl chuckles, hot breath replacing tongue, and he removes his fingers, moaning greedily as he does and Mickey knows he’s looking at the entrance, how stretched he is - how open. Mickey whines at the loss and then laughs, a half-chuckle half-gasp as Raúl presses himself against Mickey’s back, sliding inside him, filling him wholly this time.
Raúl hums quietly against Mickey’s neck, a question, are you ready? And Mickey breathes deeply, savours the feeling of fullness - completeness - when they’re connected like this, Raúl stilled inside him, and then he nods and Raúl starts rocking his hips, thrusting into him, fingers brushing against Mickey’s chest, teeth digging softly into his shoulder. Mickey turns his head, leans back against Raúl, finding his lips and they kiss awkwardly, desperately as Raúl fucks him, hitting that spot inside him, sending pleasure in waves over his body until he can’t take it any longer and he’s ready to come, needs to.
“I gotta,” he rasps finally, pulling his lips from Raúl’s, and Raúl murmurs in his ear, come for me, come for me, fingers wrapped around Mickey’s cock, finishing him off, and so Mickey lets himself go, releasing, keening from the feeling, their hips stuttering together as Raúl lets go inside him at the same time.
They slump against each other on the couch, sweaty, panting and chasing their breath, and Raúl kisses Mickey’s neck, his shoulder, then shifts, pulling Mickey down to lay on the couch beside him. Raúl makes a move to pull out, and Mickey shakes his head.
“Stay,” he reaches behind him, pressing his palm behind Raúl’s naked cheeks, keeping him from moving, and he knows if he wasn’t so tired, so completely and utterly fucked he’d want to know why he’s not ready for Raúl to break their connection just yet, why he wants to stay like this. “Just for a while,” he adds, and Raúl nods, murmuring in Spanish as he wraps his arms around him, and Mickey closes his eyes, lets his mind slip quietly away.
* * *
Raúl blinks, waking slowly to the distant sound of traffic; the impatient, irritated beep of scooters and cars, and the occasional yells from pedestrians as the world outside Mickey’s house slowly shrugs itself to life in the early morning. They’re still lying on Mickey’s couch, but now Raúl is on his back, their legs tangled together, Mickey draped over him, still asleep and snuffling quietly, his head on Raúl’s chest. The ceiling fan above them purrs mutely, casting predictable shadows against the sunlight streaming through the windows, but the air remains oppressive - still and thick with heat and sex and sweat. Raúl stretches carefully, tries not to wake Mickey as he straightens his legs, wincing as his knees creak silently from a night spent squeezed onto a couch made for much shorter people. He rubs absently, softly at the skin of Mickey’s back and watches his face as he sleeps; lashes fanned over his cheeks, the gentle purse of his lips and the way his eyelids twitch slowly, subtly, as he dreams. Raúl’s chest flutters warmly and he feels a sudden urge to whisper the words he longs to say to Mickey - to speak them into existence just this once, without consequences or remorse, while Mickey sleeps. He opens his mouth, but closes it just as quickly because something stops him - a voice inside his head says don’t do it, Raúl, and then Mickey grunts and his eyes flutter open, and the moment has passed.
“Buenos dia, Cactus,” Raúl kisses Mickey, thumbs grazing the stubble on his cheeks.
“Asshole,” Mickey chuckles and he stretches, wincing as the joints in his shoulders crack. “Forgot this couch ain’t the most comfortable place to crash, ay.”
“But it was a nice way to fall asleep.”
“It was,” Mickey nods, studying Raúl, brushing the long hair from his face with his thumb, meets Raúl’s lips in a kiss - slow and lazy and languid.
Outside Seagal bleats hungrily from the yard, and Raúl pulls away moving to inspect the bruise he received last night, but it’s then that he sees Mickey’s feet; coated with sand and caked with dirt and dry blood.
“Your feet are filthy,” he says and he rubs his toes against Mickey’s. “I’m sorry about last night, Mickey. Tell me how you got home.”
Mickey sighs loudly, pauses. “I took the fucking scenic route man,” he says finally, a wry laugh as he kicks at Raúl’s shin. “Ran through the construction sites where they’re building those new hotels and shit. Fucking barefoot all the way.”
“Shit,” Raúl groans loudly. “I fucked up. Soy un idiota.” I’m an idiot.
Mickey chuckles quietly, rolls his eyes. “Got wolf-whistled by a bunch of fucking smart ass teenage girls down on the malecon.”
Raúl bites his lip, stifling his laughter, and he slides his hand over Mickey’s butt cheeks, squeezing at the flesh. “They must have liked your white ass glowing in the moonlight.”
“Don’t push your fucking luck, Stringbean,” Mickey snaps, and Raúl withdraws his hand, feels childish, scolded. “And to get back here,” Mickey continues, doesn’t miss a beat, “I hauled my sorry ass through people’s fucking backyards. It was a real fun time.”
Raúl whines, embarrassed, sorry. He buries his face against Mickey’s chest, kissing playfully at his skin. “Am I forgiven?” he mumbles, smiling as he feels Mickey’s fingers stroking at his back. “Do you forgive me?”
Mickey gnaws on his bottom lip, thinking, as Raúl runs a finger around his belly button, teasing him, and then he rolls over, straddling Raúl, hands rubbing at his thighs. Raúl whines softly, grins as Mickey rocks slowly against his hips, and he feels himself getting hard, Mickey’s fingers slowly stroking, encouraging him. He watches as Mickey hardens in front of him - and whines again because he isn’t even touching Mickey, knows he’s getting hard just from the sight of him.
“Fuck me,” Raúl rasps. He’s not going to last - not first thing in the morning like this, and he grabs at Mickey’s hips, stilling him. “Fuck yourself on me.”
Mickey chuckles lowly, spreads pre-cum around Raúl’s dick with his thumb. “Do you feel forgiven, Raúl?” He hums, licks his lips as Raúl bucks greedily, chases the friction of Mickey’s fingers.
“Por favor,” he gasps, “si, yes, yes.”
Mickey hums, smug, mocking and Raúl frowns as Mickey climbs off him, wipes his hand on his thigh. What the fuck?
“Interesting,” Mickey smirks, pulls on his boxers, “I better go and feed that fucking goat. Finish yourself off.”
“Qué!” Raúl calls out, watches uselessly as Mickey leaves the house through the kitchen. He whines again, “por qué,” and he slaps a hand against his forehead, cursing as he throws a cushion across the room.
That asshole. Pendejo bebé cactus.
* * *
Raúl runs his hands under Mickey’s shirt, fingers running over his chest and Mickey rests his weight against the wall behind him, pulls Raúl close, kissing him harder, deeper. The noise from the bar grows distant, the hallway around them filled with the soft sound of lips and tongues and words murmured quietly in Spanish. He chuckles breathlessly when Raúl’s nose ring rubs against his cheek, and he breaks the kiss for a second, catches his breath.
Raúl whines greedily, nips at Mickey’s lips with his teeth and then they’re kissing again, Mickey’s fingers in Raúl’s hair, Raúl’s hands teasing, playing at the waistband of his jeans. He feels goddamn consumed by Raúl right now - Raúl’s body against his own, Raúl’s fingers, Raúl’s lips - he wonders who this new Mickey is, this new version of himself making out with his boyfriend like a horny fucking teenager, outside the storeroom at the bar. Anyone could catch them - his workmates, his boss - and he’d thought about resisting, pushing Raúl away, but he couldn’t turn his thoughts into actions. And now he’s thinking completely with his dick because he’s considering quitting his job, leaving work right now and going back home so they can fuck. To hell with everything and everybody else.
“When does your break end?” Raúl pants as he pulls away, runs a thumb over Mickey’s jaw.
Mickey steals a glance at the clock at the end of hallway and he chuckles. “Five minutes ago.”
“I’d better leave you,” Raúl rubs his nose against Mickey’s, foreheads pressed together. “What are you doing after work?”
“Dunno,” Mickey shrugs, and Raúl nods, licks his lips. He can almost hear Raúl thinking, preparing to say something. “Going home, I guess.”
“Come have drinks with me and some friends, yes?” Raúl casts his gaze downward, then back to Mickey, smiling, eye contact from under his lashes and Mickey figures he’s probably being manipulated, coerced with those eyes and that smile, but he’s beginning to care less and less about that, so he lets it happen. “I want my friends to meet my boyfriend.”
Mickey huffs, feels that swelling warmth in his chest and he has words waiting on his lips; yes, he wants to say, I wanna meet your friends, that’s cool. But he opens his mouth and he knows the words will be snarky, mocking. “Was kinda hoping to go home and fuck my boyfriend.”
“We’re very good at doing that,” Raúl laughs quietly. “But there are other things boyfriends can do.”
Mickey nods, runs his fingertips over Raúl’s ribs. “Aight,” he sighs. “Let’s do this shit.”
“You should get back to work,” Raúl murmurs against Mickey’s lips, kisses him one last time. “Come by that bar on Avenidas Los Palmas after your shift. I’m playing a set there.”
“Okay,” Mickey straightens himself up as Raúl leaves through the back door to the carpark, and his head is spinning, skin buzzing with something like excitement at the thought of meeting Raúl’s friends. But then he thinks about that for a minute - realises how he’s feeling right now has shit all to do with meeting Raúl’s friends, but the very fact that Raúl wants to introduce him to another part of his life. He snorts at himself, imagines the old Mickey rolling his eyes and telling him he’s fucking whipped, and he finds he barely gives a fuck what old Mickey would think of his life now, and he smiles in spite of himself as he walks back to the bar.
* * *
Raúl isn’t sure what woke him in the night - it could have been Seagal’s bleating, or the sticky, stifling heat of Mickey’s room; the tangle of sheets clinging to his sweaty limbs like a heavily laden web. More than likely though, he’d been woken by the dark spectre that’s been hovering over his thoughts for day; that Mickey is barely speaking to him, hasn’t been for over a week now. But whatever the reason for waking at three in the morning, it hardly seems to matter, doesn’t change the fact that the bed next to him is empty, cold. Mickey isn’t with him.
The night they met for drinks with Raúl’s friends was the last time he felt wholly connected to Mickey, when the pair of them together had felt like a truly united front - an us. Raúl could tell Mickey had been nervous that night, anxious, the centre of a social situation he couldn’t control. But Raúl had sat with his arm around him, knuckles lightly touching the skin of Mickey’s neck, and he could feel the taught tension receding under his fingertips as the night wore on - as the alcohol settled in and Mickey realised that Raúl’s friends were okay after all, that they actually liked him.
“This is good, ay,” Mickey muttered quietly during a lull in conversation, and he knocked his knee against Raúl’s under the table. “Your friends are cool.”
Raúl had wanted to kiss him then, but he couldn’t - the bar was too open, too public - so he’d just nodded and whispered I told you so in Mickey’s ear, while the conversation turned briefly to the local music scene; those currently killing it, others who weren’t, bands on hiatus, side projects. The group were all musicians, but Mickey was a gringo, a novelty - and the topic of conversation almost all night. He’d offered his carefully scripted lies about his life in the United States and Raúl had backed him up where he could, the pair of them fielding questions without missing a beat - sharing sneaky, knowing glances between them, communicating with each other through subtle nudges under the table. Seamless and polished, like a duplicitous double act. And even though Raúl had been lying to his friends, weaving distance between himself and the group with their stories, he’d felt closer to Mickey than he ever had, sharing in Mickey’s secret - weighty and ominous. Their secret.
Until Javier had joined them.
Javier, whom Raúl didn’t even really like, rarely ever saw. Javier, with his trips to San Diego to visit family. He’d eyed Mickey with the detached curiosity he leveled at most things that didn’t directly involve him, listened as Mickey relayed vague, nondescript fictions of his life growing up in Portland, Oregon; the oldest of three children, parents divorced. But when the conversation slowed, he sat back in his seat, watching Mickey, eyebrows furrowed.
“Have you ever been to San Diego, Mickey?” Javier had asked.
Mickey shook his head, gulped down the remainder of his beer. “Nah, man,” he replied, shrugging. He was relaxed by now - Raúl could tell. He had no reason not to be. “Ain’t done much travelling in the US. Never had the time.”
Javier nodded slowly, humming, and Raúl had sensed there were more questions on their way and he felt uneasy suddenly, nervous. “But you came to Mexico from the West Coast?” Javier questioned. “You look familiar, that’s all. I feel like I’ve seen your face somewhere before.”
Raúl felt Mickey tense, and his own stomach was heavy, sinking, as though a weight had been dropped inside him from a height. Mickey moved his hands slowly from the table, hiding his tattooed knuckles, and Raúl wrapped his fingers around Mickey’s, squeezing them, letting him know - I’m here, we’ve got this.
“I mean,” Mickey coughed, cleared his throat and Raúl rubbed his leg under the table, encouraging him. “I’ve been through San Diego on the way down here from Portland. Didn’t hang around or nothin.’”
“I love San Diego,” Javier said, “I was there only a few months ago.” Mickey and Raúl nodded, feigning interest as Javier studied Mickey’s face for the longest thirty seconds of Raúl’s life, and then shrugged, dismissive.
Raúl slid his arm around Mickey’s shoulder again, but the damage had been done; Mickey’s shoulders were tense, his knee bouncing underneath the table, teeth gnawing at his bottom lip - his tells.
They’d left for Mickey’s house shortly after and Mickey had been silent the entire way, brooding. They smoked weed before bed and made out for a while under the covers but Raúl could tell that Mickey was distracted still, that his heart wasn’t in it. For the next three days Raúl tried to talk to Mickey about Javier, futile attempts to chip at the walls Mickey had suddenly built around himself, but he’d only snapped at Raúl, become increasingly surly, irritable. By midweek Raúl had offered to stay at his own place, had hoped that Mickey would stop him, but instead he only grunted at Raúl, shrugged and nodded - tacit approval.
Raúl had stayed away for a week, given Mickey space, time to himself, because he understood that need for solitude, room to breathe - but he had no idea what he’d done wrong, if he’d done anything wrong. It was painful to maintain the silence; the awkward, contrived distance between lovers and best friends who live ten minutes apart. What if they saw each other in the street? Would they talk or walk the other way? That something had gone so wrong between them that he even had to ask himself these questions sickened him, brought a lump to his throat. He considered leaving town himself, heading to Cosala to visit abuela, but in the end stayed in the city because he had shows planned and he needed the money.
Tonight, a week of separation stretched between them that somehow felt like months, Raúl had walked to Mickey’s house after his show - he had to see Mickey, to touch him, talk to him if he was lucky. He entered through the back door which Mickey rarely locks when he’s home, stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed next to him.
“Missed you, Cactus,” Raúl said, wrapping his arms around him, inhaling the scent of beer and cheap deodorant and tequila, and Mickey had murmured something in response, placed his his arm over Raúl’s, pulling him closer. Raúl savoured the feeling of their bodies threaded together again finally, warm and sticky from the summer heat, and he exhaled deeply, a stinging in his throat - relief, that Mickey hadn’t told him to leave, or snarled at him or pushed him away.
But now, in Mickey’s bed alone, he feels sick, realises he shouldn’t have come over at all. There’s more to the silence between them than only Javier - there has to be - and he keeps returning to the thought that has haunted him all week; that Mickey is slipping away from him, that he’s losing him because that’s the way that Mickey wants it.
Raúl’s throat tightens and he sighs heavily, a low moan escaping his lips and he realises he’s trying to keep himself from crying. He can’t let Mickey ruin things between them, he can’t lose him - not now, not like this. He smokes a cigarette to calm himself and then follows the muted blue light from the hallway to the living room, finds Mickey sitting on the floor in front of the couch collecting coins and killing mushrooms on the old nintendo. He stands in the doorway, silent, wincing as he tries to count the empty beer bottles littering the flat surfaces of the room - this week has been hard on Mickey too. He continues watching Mickey for a few minutes before he enters, switches the nintendo off, ignoring Mickey’s protests, and squeezes himself between Mickey and the couch.
“Talk to me,” Raúl whispers in Mickey’s ear, wraps his arms around his middle, bare chest against Mickey’s back . “Whatever it is - even if it’s bad - you can tell me.”
Mickey turns the nintendo controller around in his hands, sighs loudly. “It ain’t your problem.”
“If it’s your problem, it’s mine too,” Raúl rests his chin on Mickey’s shoulder, holds him tighter. “It’s our problem.”
Mickey chuckles humourlessly, sarcastic and hollow. “That friend of yours probably recognised me and that shouldn’t be your fucking problem.”
“Is that the only thing? You’re worried about Javier?” Raúl strokes at the plane of Mickey’s stomach, fingers tracing the faint edges of muscle, and he waits for him to respond, to open up to him but Mickey only sighs. “Javier is really only interested in himself. I don’t think we need to worry about him.”
Mickey shakes his head. “I gotta make sure he don’t go running his mouth,” he throws the nintendo controller across the floor towards the tv and a Raúl shudders. “Been thinking he might need an incentive to keep it shut.”
“We’re barely even friends, Javier and I,” Raúl sighs, chooses his next words carefully. “But you can’t threaten him. An innocent man wouldn’t do that.”
Mickey pauses. “I know,” he groans, rubbing at his forehead. “I fucking know.”
“So let me talk to him, si?” Raúl murmurs against Mickey’s neck, smiles as Mickey rests his head back against his shoulder. “I can find out what he knows - if he knows anything.”
“Straight out asking the guy ain’t gonna work.”
“I know that. But I can be... what is the word?” Raúl chuckles, presses little kisses to Mickey’s neck. “Subtle. I will be subtle, and I can throw him off your trail.”
“That’s just it, Raúl,” Mickey tenses, voice raised. “It ain’t right if I drag you into my shit. I thought I could do this with you, and fuck-. I don’t wanna end things with us, but-”
“I chose you,” Raúl fires back before he has to hear the end of that sentence. “I want you and all your shit.”
“You say that.”
He sighs, the true intent behind Mickey’s words is clear; you say that, but you don’t really mean it. “I do fucking mean it, Mickey. Don’t you tell me how I feel.” Mickey makes a noise, a stifled grunt, as if deciding to speak but changes his mind, and Raúl relaxes, softens. “This is why you pushed me away, yes?”
Mickey nods.
“It’s easier to push me away than to talk to me,” Raúl muses quietly, an errant thought.
Mickey turns suddenly, straddles him so they’re facing each other. “I felt like fucking shit about it, Raúl,” he closes his eyes, head tilted at the ceiling. “And I didn’t kick you outta bed tonight, did I? I couldn’t. Probably should have, but I guess I’m fucking selfish. So I came out here to think about that.”
“If you were selfish you wouldn’t care if I was involved in this,” Raúl places his hands on Mickey’s cheeks, coaxes Mickey to look at him, make eye contact. “I will talk to Javier because I choose to,” he says slowly, pointedly and Mickey finally locks eyes with him. “And if my plan doesn’t work, I’ll let you break his kneecaps or kidnap his dog. Whatever you want.”
Mickey grins, laughing loudly. “Really?”
“No!” Raúl flicks at Mickey’s forehead, teasing him. “But I’m going to talk to him and you’re going to let it happen.”
“Fine. Whatever,” Mickey rolls his eyes, giving in, and then he leans forward, foreheads touching.
Raúl smiles, rubs slowly at Mickey’s back as they sit in silence, so close he feels Mickey’s breath, warm and tickling against his lips, little shivers over his body. “I felt like shit this week, too.”
Mickey places a hand on Raúl’s breastbone, exhales deeply, pairing each breath to the rise and fall of Raúl’s chest against his fingers. They’re breathing together, slowly, quietly, two halves reunited. He rubs a thumb over Raúl’s jaw. “Missed you,” he murmurs finally.
Raúl moves forward just enough to catch Mickey’s lips between his own, kissing him slowly and Raúl’s chest is suddenly so warm and sweet and full he feels as though it might burst, he almost wants it to.
* * *
Mickey’s mood at work the night Raúl talks to Javier is foul - so caustic and volatile the customers refuse to tip him, and the waitresses who, for some reason usually find his outbursts funny, can’t seem to stand being within three feet of him. Not even Sofia - calm, accommodating Sofia - can tolerate the cursing, the slamming of glasses and bottles or the surly, smart ass barbs he fires in endless supply. And he knows he’s pushing his luck, that he should just shut his mouth and do his fucking job like he does every other night, but Raúl is meeting with Javier and Mickey’s head is spiralling, his thoughts uncontrollable and loud, barking worst-case-scenarios like a violent, rabid dog. What will Raúl actually do if Javier works out Mickey’s secret? Javier would need his ass kicked, some fear knocked into him - that’s for damn sure - but Mickey won’t be there to do it.
He’s always been the brains behind the scheming and the planning, always been the one pulling the strings, in complete control of every detail - but now, with Raúl out there protecting Mickey’s biggest secret on his own, he’s never felt so goddamn passive, lame. The not knowing is almost more than he can stand; he has no idea of the details of Raúl’s plan, no idea what they’re talking about. No idea about any of it and he feels completely powerless. Fucking useless.
When he smashes his fourth glass of the night, Sofia begs him to go home. “Por favor, Mickey. Get some rest, sort yourself out,” she reaches behind his back, unties his apron. “We will tell Jorge you were sick.”
But the thought of sitting at home alone waiting for Raúl to finish whatever he’s doing with Javier is almost worse than staying at work and Mickey protests, vows to work the final hour until closing.
“If you stay here in this mood, you will get yourself fired,” she says solemnly, and Mickey sighs, knows he really can’t argue with that logic, so he lets her push him out the back exit and into the carpark.
Hasta mañana.
Outside, the night is quiet, humid and sticky as it has been all summer, but still a pleasant change from the tepid, stale beer stench of the bar. The sea breeze carries the briney aroma of the ocean as Mickey walks home, and he feels the dark cloud of his mood lifting slightly, disappearing into the night air. He passes Raúl’s street and he bites his lip, feels guilty again about trying to push Raúl away for his own fucking good and hurting him in the process. What a stupid fucking idea that had been. He should have known it would never fucking work - the pair of them together are too stubborn or too lacking in willpower and common sense to stay away from each other for any length of time. Mickey snorts, rolls his eyes at his own stupidity - he drank himself to near oblivion for a week and hurt Raúl for no reason whatsoever. Javier might have an ass kicking in his future, but if he’s honest, he knows that after the last week, it’s him that probably deserves one.
He’s almost home when the car slows to a crawl next to him, matching the speed of his steps, but he doesn’t notice, and he’s so lost in his own thoughts he doesn’t hear the sound of the window rolling open.
“Hola gringo! How much to fuck that ass?”
Mickey jumps, startled. “More pesos than you’ve had taco dinners, fuckface!” he searches frantically around him, tries to find something to throw at the driver. The car stops completely and hears a laugh from the driver’s side - that contagious fucking laugh - and he grins, rolls shakes his head and opens up the passenger door, jumping in.
“Fuck you, man,” he chuckles, and Raúl rubs the back of Mickey’s neck. “You’re lucky you’re good looking.”
“And I have respados,” Raúl nods towards the back of the car, and Mickey peers at the snow cones in their little cardboard stand, balancing on the seat.
“Fucking nice,” he says as they turn down Mickey’s street. “So, what the fuck happened with Javier?”
“Javier won’t be a problem anymore,” Raúl laughs, and Mickey frowns, wonders what the fuck that actually means. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get inside.”
* * *
They’re stripped to their underwear, sprawled on Mickey’s bed eating snow cones when Mickey finally hears about the meeting with Raúl and Javier. Mickey listens wide-eyed as Raúl relays all the the stories, all the lies, the imaginary details of Mickey’s life before Raúl; how he’d told Javier that Mickey’s name is Michael Morgan, that he’d grown up with a dog, a cat and a bird he’d taught to swear, how back in Portland he had owned a metallic blue Honda SUV but had sold it to move to Mexico. The lies were elaborate, detailed yet somehow banal, almost boring. But Raúl’s personal favourite, the lie he was most proud of, was that Mickey had once worked at a bar Javier used to frequent - the bar itself long since closed, so Javier will never be able to verify the story.
Mickey nods, his head spinning, trying to process everything he’s heard. “So you ain’t just a pretty face, huh.”
“I told so many lies, Mickey,” he chuckles, crunches loudly on his ice. “I even surprised myself.”
“Congratulations,” Mickey pats Raúl on the top of his head. “You’re officially full of shit.”
Raúl shrugs, leans forward and licks syrup from Mickey’s lips. “It was easy once I got started. Maybe I have discovered a new talent.”
“What’s that?” Mickey slurps the last melted slush of his snow cone. “Fake backstories for gringo fugitives?”
Raúl laughs as he finishes his respado. He lays on his back on Mickey’s bed, fingers running idly over his stomach. “This is the funny part,” he says, and Mickey throws his empty paper cone on the floor and lays beside Raúl. “I talked about you so much, Javier became bored. I could see it in his eyes. I barely let him speak and in the end he started texting,” Raúl snorts, pausing to laugh and Mickey laughs along with him. “I think he even made up an excuse to leave.”
Mickey huffs, impressed, strangely proud of Raúl. He had clearly underestimated his ability to run a scam. “You think he believed you?”
“Si, si,” Raúl nods, and he rolls on his side, facing Mickey, head propped on his elbow. “Before he left ,he said he’s glad I found someone that makes me happy. That was nice.”
Someone that makes me happy.
Mickey bites his lip, feels his cheeks flush. “So Javier gets to keep his dog and his kneecaps, huh?”
“You sound disappointed,” Raúl laughs, leans over to kiss him and Mickey shudders, a shiver against his skin because Raúl’s mouth is cold and tastes like raspberries.
“Thanks for doing what you did,” he says quietly, brushing Raúl’s hair from his eyes. “For putting yourself out there. Looking out for me and whatever the fuck.”
Raúl hums, shrugging. “You don’t need to thank me,” he strokes at the skin over Mickey’s ribs. “Don’t ever doubt me, Mickey. We are The Cactus and the Bean. We have each other’s backs.”
Of course, Mickey wants to say, of course we fucking do, but he only nods, speechless, overwhelmed. The Cactus and the Bean. We have each other’s backs. Raúl’s words flutter in Mickey’s chest, soft and weightless like feathers falling on cement, and he wraps his arms and his legs around Raúl, kissing him, fingers pawing at his flesh. A rush of warmth travels over him, throbbing under his skin and he experiences that now familiar feeling of total consumption-by-Raúl - and it’s suddenly as if what happens to him, will happen to Raúl too. The intensity of the feeling terrifies him, and yet, he still finds himself wanting, needing more of Raúl than he can hold onto.
“Raúl, I-,” Mickey rasps, heart in his throat as he fights back the words, barely-formed, stupid fucking words that almost tumble past his lips.
“Hmm?” Raúl rolls on top of Mickey, kisses his neck. “What is it?”
Mickey shakes his head quickly, dismissive. “Nothing,” he murmurs, and they hold eye contact, blue against brown. He’s panting, chest heaving against Raúl’s as he studies his eyes, tries calm himself down by memorising all the details, the grey and green and brown flecks.
“The Cactus and the Bean, huh?” he says finally, and Raúl nods, chuckling quietly. “I like that.”
