He played for a long time, until the moon had shifted so that he could see the shadows move across the wall in front of him. His own body, outlined and filled in with black marker, loomed above him like some threatening figure from one of the tales his mother used to read him as a child. She had told him about ghosts and monsters, and yet he had never been afraid, knowing he was safe with his mother, father, and older brother all watching over him. He had never slept as soundly as he did after having been told one of her stories. Sometimes, when she was sick or tired, his brother sat on the edge of his bed, telling him the stories he remembered from his early childhood. Hazel eyes gleaming with excitement, the child had curled up in bed, clutching his teddy bear with one hand, the other hand curled into a fist in his mouth, listening to the older boy regaling him with his tales, wishing he would never have to stop.

El had seen plenty of pictures of these moments, and the thought of how the relationship with his older brother had ended was enough to make him curl that same fist, and bite those same knuckles until they bled. The life of a brother in return for the life of a lover - a lover who had her life taken away from her just a few short years later. The people he loved seemed to always be snatched away from him. It was dangerous to love. Too dangerous. Love had made him careless when he should have been cautious, blind when it should have made him see.

"Jesus, The...look at you, fucking wallowing in self-pity. We're in Mexico, for fuck's sake! Just go out and get yourself a girl. There's plenty of tail to go around in this country, I'm telling ya. What's your problem, fancypants? Are they not good enough for you?"

"Noone's good enough." El let his hands rise to his forehead, rubbing the creases and marks, then ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his face. He paused at the sensation of warmth against his neck, and then shook his head to get rid of a sudden rush of emotions he thought had abandoned him long ago.

"Aw hell. You know, I'm just going to say this once: if you don't watch out you're going to end up an old man, with only that goddamn piece of shit to keep you company."

Without turning his head, El's eyes drifted to his guitar. The slender instrument had been a gift from his father, who had spent countless hours teaching him how to play. El had always wanted to be a Mariachi, a wandering guitar player, taking the occasional jobs in bars all over the country, never settling down, moving from place to place. He needed the sense of freedom it gave him, and besides, there was no home for him anyway. He was restless, rootless, cut adrift, like a ship in the night, taken by currents he had failed to see in time, and swept away to places he had never dreamed he'd be visiting, even in his worst nightmares. And there had been a number over the years: he couldn't recall when he'd last had a night of undisturbed sleep.

Life's bitter irony had made him a killer, a widower, a grieving father who feared the past more than any future. A man with a heart like a piece of burning coal, smouldering inside his chest, consuming everything, feeding off of itself, and slowly falling apart into nothingness. A man always walking in a shadow, a man with no life, no hope, and no foreseeable future. A dead man, ashes scattering as he roamed the streets, chains jingling, the morbid announcement of approaching death. Shackled to this age and place and existence, biding his time, waiting patiently to appear at Hell's Gates and spit the Devil himself in the face.

"You and me both, El."

He sat motionless, staring into the emptiness in front of him, eyes flashing with a long-forgotten fire. With a last flicker of light, the candle on the dresser suddenly went out, and he was left in complete darkness. As usual, the memories haunting him grew stronger and more compelling, feeding off the night and the black seeping bitterness that had once been his heart. Head still in his hands, he tumbled back into shadow.

With the last of the guns, he lingered. It was the sawed-off shotgun that had saved his life on countless occasions, and he let his head rest against it for a moment, feeling the cold steel against his hot forehead. He always carried it with him, if not in the guitar case then tucked into the front of his pants, or hidden somewhere inside his jacket. This was the gun that had left General Marquez in considerable agony on the floor, both kneecaps blown off; El's last revenge, and his friends had been there to help him out and to share his victory. He smiled at the thought of Fideo, of Lorenzo, of his old friends Campa and Quino; together, they had been a team, something to count on, something to remember. After all, what good was a Mariachi without his fellow musicians?

"Weren't you going to teach me how to play guitar? You always said I had the fingers for it."

Curled up in bed together, tangled black hair sweeping across his chest, slender white fingers playing with the chains on his trousers. Stroking the other man's head, El looked up at the ceiling. A gigantic moth had found its way into the room, and was buzzing around the single lightbulb above, barely illuminating the bed and the two men on it. Tanned, Hispanic skin in sharp contrast to Caucasian white; a chessboard, but without the usual rules that brought order to the game. Noone ever knew who would make the first move, or draw the first weapon.

El nudged Sands gently, and pointed upwards.

"What?"

"Look."

"Haha. Funny."

"There's a moth in here."

"It's a fucking bug."

"It's beautiful."

"Whatever you say, man." Sands had gone back to playing with his pants, and with a sigh that was part happy, part exasperated, El resumed the caressing of his head. They often lay like this for hours, not speaking, listening to the silence and the wind, sometimes howling, sometimes just letting out slight gasps outside their window, gasps to match their own.

El groaned loudly and flopped back onto the bed, gun still in his hand. Out of old habit, he stuck it underneath his pillow, not bothering to check if the safety was off or on. The gun had replaced his long-lost teddy bear; he sometimes clutched it in his sleep, unaware, but strangely soothed by its physical presence. It made him feel safe, as safe as he could ever feel in a world where every step he took could bring him face to face with someone who wished nothing more than to see him dead. He had very narrowly escaped his followers the last time, but others had not been so lucky...

In a blinding flash, enough to make him cover his eyes with the back of his hand, squinting hard as if trying to shield himself from the painful memories, the day of the funeral came back to him, in full detail. A beautiful fall morning, birds singing, sun high in the air, and the temperature for once bearable, with a soothing wind caressing his cheeks as he stood, head bent, listening to the priest's last sermon. On the ground in front of him, stretched out on his back as if sleeping, arms tucked neatly to his sides, hands joined as if in prayer, lay Sands. Clasped in his grip was a single dandelion, swaying softly in the gentle breeze.

His troubled gunslinger had found peace at last. But his peace had come at a great cost, and even as the dark eyes had begged him to follow, El hadn't been able to do it. He had backed away from the bed, the ivory hand too feeble to retain its grip, and he had run, run as fast as he could, out of the hospital, into the street, down the main road, across the highway and straight into the desert. He had only stopped when his legs wouldn't bear him any longer, and he fell, face first, into the dust. Lying there, unable to move, unable to speak except in mutters, wails and long moans, the man who had at last lost everything turned his dry face to the sun and cursed the day he was born.

With Sands, and the current events, El had lost much of his restlessness, his will to kill, to avenge, even his desire to always be on the move. He was now happy with staying hidden, ducking around corners, spending every day and every night with Sands, without fear of being discovered. He felt a certain responsibility for the other man, owing in much, no doubt, to having cared for him in his helpless state, but also to a fleeting feeling that was at the same time unfamiliar, and the most familiar feeling in the world. It reminded him of lying in his childhood bed, listening to his brother's stories, feeling like the world was his and that he would go to any lengths to protect it, to prevent any harm from coming to him or those he held dear.

But as he was soon to find out, everything was not within his control. Returning to the hotel room late one night, El was startled at the emptiness of it. Sands was nowhere to be seen, and knowing he never ventured far away from the room on his own, El searched the premises for his friend, but came up emptyhanded. Upon re-entering the room, something fell against him from behind the door, and his quick reflexes caught it before it hit the ground. With one hand, he held it out to the light. It was the white cane, speckled with irregular spots that to the untrained eye could easily be mistaken for rust; but El knew the sight of blood far too well to be fooled. Throwing it aside, he ran from the room, and out into the quiet street.

The moon was shining brightly, illuminating the otherwise dark road, its silver light reflected in the knives and guns of several men, forming an impenetrable ring at some distance from him. Something stirred suddenly, and a man stepped out from within the group, one hand firmly closed around a straining neck, the other wielding El's shotgun, the one he always left behind with Sands, for protection. The Mariachi took a step forward, but stopped dead in his tracks at the soft click of the safety.

"Not so fast."

El watched helplessly as the two men approached him; Sands, stumbling, head bent forward, muzzle of the gun held firmly against the left side of his neck. He stood, motionless, unarmed, eyes straining to see in the darkness. Finally, his friend and his assailant were close enough for him to barely be able to make out their features, and as Sands raised his head, El couldn't keep a gasp of horror from escaping his lips.

The bandages had been ripped off, the freshly healed sockets mutilated by God knew what, and he was bleeding profusely, face even paler than usual. His frail body shivered in the chill of the night, and El felt an uncontrollable rage rising within him. His clenched fists shook, as he helplessly watched his friend writhing in agony as the cool wind touched the newly torn open flesh.

"What the hell do you want?"

"You."

"Then take me, and let him go. He has done nothing to you."

The man pursed his lips. He seemed to be contemplating El's proposal, turning it over, examining it in his head for a very long time. Finally, appearing to have made up his mind, he leaned forward to softly whisper something into Sands' barely conscious ear. The he looked straight back at El again, gun wiggling slightly in his hand, as if to tease him.

"...No."

El woke at the loud, reverberating bang, which continued echoing in his skull until he forced it out by repeating Sands' last words, whispering them over and over again, into the darkness.

"Don't worry...I'll come back for you."

After the men had left, El knelt to the ground, clutching the barely alive body tightly, picking him up; slowly, stumbling under his weight, Sands bleeding helplessly in his arms, they made their way to the hospital.