The Inevitable

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/45574444.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: M/M
Fandom: Better Call Saul (TV)
Relationship: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca/Ignacio "Nacho" Varga, Ignacio "Nacho"
Varga/Original Male Character(s)
Character: Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca, Ignacio "Nacho" Varga, Original Male
Character(s), Ciro (Better Call Saul)
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sex Work, Suicidal Thoughts,
Episode: s05e10 Something Unforgivable, Sexual Assault, but not
between nacho and lalo, Drug Use, Serial Killers, depictions of gore,
Graphic Violence, Disturbing religious themes (catholic), Barebacking,
Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2023-03-07 Completed: 2023-09-30 Words: 21,288
Chapters: 5/5

The Inevitable
by Seraphtrevs

Summary

Nacho makes an impulsive decision to ignore Fring's orders to open the gates to Lalo's
hacienda, but he can't shake the feeling he was meant to make a different choice. Although
he's safe with Lalo for now, Nacho is haunted both by what might have been and the events
that led him down this path.

Because Lalo isn't the first killer he ended up in bed with. It feels like with every escape,
Nacho ends up in the same place. Was all of this inevitable? Can Nacho break the cycle and
find peace?

Notes

CONTENT WARNING: Chapter 3 and 4 flash back to Nacho's close call with a very evil
man. There will be sexual assault, violence, and descriptions of gore.
 Entanglement

Maybe it was always going to end up this way—face down, ass up in Lalo’s bed with Lalo’s slick
cock thrusting in and out of him. Nacho glanced over at the clock on Lalo's nightstand—3:25am.
The assassins were probably getting impatient.

Nacho wondered if they would give up and leave, or stage an attack anyway. He couldn’t make
himself care either way.

Lalo shifted his angle, startling a moan out of him. Christ, it felt good—better than anything had
felt in too long to remember. Not quite good enough to turn off his brain, but he was getting there.
“Harder,” he growled.

Lalo let out a breathy chuckle. “You like it rough, Nachito?”

He didn’t want to talk, so he moaned again instead and pushed his hips backward, meeting Lalo’s
thrusts. Lalo sucked in a breath and chuckled again, giving Nacho’s ass a slap before ramming into
him harder. It hurt, but only for a moment as Nacho adjusted, replaced by a sharp pleasure so
intense he gasped.

Still not enough. He got on his hands and knees to rock back harder; Lalo was the one who moaned
this time, followed by a steady string of Spanish endearments and encouragements, none of which
Nacho wanted to hear. He pulled away, eliciting a squawk of protest until Nacho turned around and
shoved Lalo back on the bed, then straddled him. He lined Lalo’s cock up with his hole and sank
down. Better. He controlled the pace now. He steadied himself with one hand on Lalo’s stomach
while stroking himself with the other. His eyes fluttered shut as he chased his pleasure. Why did it
feel like he was always running, no matter what he did?

Lalo started babbling again. “Eres tan jodidamente hermoso, te sientes tan bien…”*

“Shut the fuck up,” Nacho said. He’d been waiting a long time to say that, and that felt good, too.

Lalo laughed. “Whatever you say, amorcito.” He bit his lip and put his hands on Nacho’s hips,
encouraging him.

At last, his thoughts melted away. For a few blissful moments, his mind became bright and blank
as his orgasm approached, and then he spilled in his hand, riding Lalo through it.
The afterglow kept him in that bright, empty place as Lalo lifted Nacho off and re-positioned him
on his back. He lifted Nacho’s limp legs up and pushed in again, drilling into him hard and fast.
Nacho’s head lulled to the side. He shut his eyes.

“Mirame,” Lalo commanded. Look at me.

Nacho ignored him. He was tired of being told what to do.

Lalo’s thrusts became erratic. He abruptly pulled out, and Nacho felt the hot splash of come on his
thigh. The bed shuddered as Lalo flopped beside him. Nacho did open his eyes then. Lalo’s chest
was heaving. He ran a hand through his sweat-slicked hair and turned to Nacho. A wide grin
spread over his face; he looked so fucking smug.

“Well,” he said between pants. “That was unexpected.”

Nacho put his hands over his face—or he tried to, but Lalo grabbed his wrists and pinned them to
the bed. “Oh no, you don’t,” he said, still grinning. “Give me another five minutes at least, before
you get all serious again.” He kissed him, his tongue dipping into Nacho’s slack mouth as the kiss
deepened. Nacho let him it happen, but he didn't kiss back.

At last, Lalo let him go. Then he stretched and yawned, loud as a lion’s roar. “You know, I think I
might actually sleep a little. You sure know how to wear a guy out.”

Nacho said nothing, but Lalo didn’t pay any mind to his silence. He never did.

Lalo propped himself up on his elbow. “You’ve obviously done this before, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Nacho said, since Lalo didn’t seem likely to shut up any time soon.

“I have a confession—I was hoping to be your first. I had a hard time figuring you out.” He ran a
finger over Nacho's cheek. "That's rare. You're very special, amorcito."

Nacho looked up at him. The endearment rankled. I hate you, he thought. But the sentiment rang
hollow. Had it ever been true? Why hadn’t he opened the gate? Instead, he’d crawled into Lalo’s
lap by the fire pit and kissed him, and then they’d ended up here. And now it was too late.

“Not my first,” Nacho said quietly. “But you’re my last.”

Lalo cocked his head and laughed a little. “What do you—”

He was interrupted by the rumble of an explosion. Lalo’s head whipped around. “What the fuck
was that?” He grabbed his discarded pants from the floor and pulled them on, cursing the whole
time. “Just my fucking luck—here.” He opened his nightstand and pulled out a handgun, then
handed it to Nacho. “What are you waiting for? Get your clothes on—we’re under attack!” He
raced out of the room without a look backward.

Nacho was slower to put on his clothes. He debated lying back down and waiting for his fate, but
decided it would be quicker to go meet it. He left the gun. He wouldn’t need it.

He hoped they shot him in the head. Much quicker than bleeding out.

***

But he didn’t die.

Lalo didn’t die either; none of his people did. Nacho wandered aimlessly through the grounds of
the hacienda, feeling like he was in some terrible dream. Lalo's men looked as dazed as he felt as
they set to work putting things back in order. The kid—Ciro—looked ill as he clutched his gun,
staring down at the man he shot. He arrived by the fire pit just in time to see Lalo put a bullet in an
assassin’s head. His naked chest was spattered with blood, but it was clear the blood wasn’t his.

Nacho’s thoughts were like static. Had the assassins called in before the attack? Of course they had
—and had been ordered to continue. Fring had to know Nacho betrayed him—or at least didn’t
carry out his orders. Maybe he’d think Lalo caught on. Maybe he’d think Nacho had tried by
something had gone wrong—

No. Fring knew. He’d probably already sent someone for his dad. Would he kill him yet? No, that
would be spite—he wouldn’t do it if there was a chance he could still use Nacho, which meant he’d
get a call soon—his dad, maybe, screaming—

“There you are,” Lalo said, crossing to him. “You okay?”

The world went white. Next thing he knew, he was on the ground, with Lalo by his side, lightly
slapping his face. He was saying something, but the ringing in Nacho’s ears drowned him out.

His body shook. His face was wet. He was weeping.

He thought maybe Lalo would be disgusted at his weakness, but he instead he wrapped him in his
arms. “Shh, amorcito, it’s all right—I’ve got you.”

As if that weren’t the whole fucking problem.

 Schrödinger's Dog

Lalo lay on the ground, limbs splayed, his blue shoes the sole splash of color somewhere deep and
dark as a tomb. A pool of dark liquid was slowly seeping around his head like a tarry halo. A
metallic tang filled the air—blood, although the darkness of the room swallowed the red. The
wound was in his throat—blood burbled from his lips like a fountain. He was laughing.

A blink and Nacho was elsewhere, the light blindingly bright this time—the unforgiving desert sun.
Pain radiated through every part of him, but somehow it felt distant, made dull by the sharper
pleasure of power, to have his fate in his hands. His fate had the shape of a gun. He was holding it
to his own temple. He was going to pull the trigger.

He pulled it.

Nacho woke up with a scream in his throat. He sat straight up, panting. It took a moment to orient
himself—he was back in Lalo’s bed. Vaguely, he recalled Lalo carrying him after his collapse. His
clothes had also been changed, but the memory of that was even fuzzier. Instead of his black jeans
and red shirt, he wore a faded gray T-shirt that was too tight, sweatpants that were too long, and a
loose pair of boxer shorts.

He was just getting control of his breathing when Lalo appeared in the doorway, his expression
concerned. “You okay?”

Nacho rubbed his face. “Bad dream,” he mumbled.

Lalo walked past him into the en suite bathroom and returned with a glass of water. He sat on the
bed beside Nacho and held it out to him. “Here, drink—every drop. You’ll feel better.”

Nacho did as he was told. Lalo was right; he did feel a little better. But as his body fully woke up, it
made its needs known. He gestured toward the bathroom. “I’ve got to, uh—”

“Of course. You need help?”

“No.” Having Lalo fuss over him made him feel like he was still dreaming.

Nacho used the toilet, then contemplated a shower. He had to get his shit together—no more
wallowing in hysterics. His life may have been spared for now, but his situation was precarious.
He didn’t care so much about himself, but he had his dad to worry about.
He turned the shower on and kept the water ice-cold. It worked; his mental fog dissipated.
Shivering, he dried off and put back on the clothes Lalo had lent him. He wondered if Lalo would
let him get his own clothes at some point.

Lalo was standing, waiting for him, when Nacho returned to the bedroom. He was holding
something behind his back. “I know your secret.”

He didn’t sound angry, but Nacho’s heart started to race. “Oh yeah?” he asked as casually as he
could manage.

“Yeah. I had been wondering what took you so long last night when I sent you in for the cognac.”
He brought what he was holding behind his back into view. It was a half-empty bottle of tequila.
“Looks like you decided to sample from my whole liquor cabinet. Just how drunk were you last
night?”

Nacho stared at the bottle. The reason he’d taken so long was that he had been having an
existential crisis. He hadn’t touched any of the other stuff.

Lalo did not look remotely upset. In fact, he chuckled. “So you needed a little liquid courage to
make your move, eh?”

Nacho swallowed and willed his heart rate to slow. “Sorry.” It wasn’t as if Lalo would believe any
denial, anyway. And really, it was the perfect excuse for his strange behavior. It felt surreal to have
that handed to him.

Lalo set the bottle on the nightstand. “You weren’t blacked out, were you?” He sounded
uncharacteristically insecure.

“No.”

Relief brought Lalo’s smile back. “Good.” He sat down on the bed and patted the space next to
him. “Come, sit. We need to talk.”

As soon as Nacho sat, Lalo took his hand in his and lay a tender kiss on the inside of his wrist. “I
don’t know what I was going to do if you’d forgotten,” he said quietly. “Did you mean what you
said?”

Nacho racked his brain but couldn’t begin to think of what Lalo was talking about. “About what?”

“That you wanted me to be your last.”

At the time, he’d been thinking that both he and Lalo were about five minutes from getting shot to
death. What context did Lalo think he said it in? “I was drunk,” he said at last. “I don’t know what
I meant.”

“I think I do—because I feel the same way.” He touched Nacho’s cheek. “There will never be
anyone else for me.”

Was Lalo…declaring his love? Nacho was tempted to take a swig of the tequila.

Lalo leaned in for a kiss. When Lalo’s lips touched his, Nacho closed his eyes—which was a
mistake. The nightmare vision of Lalo choking on his own blood flashed through his head, so
intense that his mouth filled with the tang of copper. Panic overwhelmed him. He pulled back
abruptly and put a hand on Lalo’s chest to hold him at bay.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped as he tried to get his breath back under control.

Lalo was all concern. He put a hand on Nacho’s shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…” But he found he had no words to explain the dread that gripped him, a sense of
wrongness, that things were supposed to have turned out differently. Not just differently—worse.
Much worse. But here he was, alive. For now. At least until his cover was blown, or Fring sent
another batch of assassins, or any number of ways the life of a drug dealer came to an end.

None of that mattered, though. Right now, he had to get his shit together for his dad's sake.

Lalo considered him for a moment. “Last night really got you shook up, huh?”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Can you blame me? Why aren’t you more upset? You could have
died, too.”

Lalo shrugged. “They could have killed me, but they didn’t. So there’s no sense in worrying about
what they might have done, since it didn’t happen. The past can’t be changed—sometimes that’s a
painful truth, but in my experience, it’s just as often a blessing.” Lalo patted Nacho’s leg. “Relax.
We’re okay. He didn’t get us.”

Us. Lalo was all-in on him, apparently. “Who do you think was behind this?” Nacho asked,
keeping his voice neutral.

“Who do you think? This whole thing reeks of chicken shit.”

“You think it was Fring?”

“I know it was Fring.” Lalo’s expression darkened. “The chicken man has been behind all of it—
getting me sent to prison, then getting me out again to force me back across the border to attack me
in my own home. In my home!” he repeated for emphasis, his face flushed with anger. In a way, it
was nice to see he had normal human reactions sometimes.

“So what do we do?” Nacho used the we deliberately.

Lalo smiled—he’d caught it. “Well, for now, I have a meeting with Eladio, but you will stay here
and rest.”

Good. That would give him some time. “Okay.”

Lalo got up and kissed his forehead. “Feel better, amorcito. I’m heading out now. Tell Yolanda
when you’re hungry.”

Nacho stared after him as he left the room. He had gone from Ignacio to Nachito to amorcito so
fast his head was spinning. He didn’t know how to feel about it, but for now, remaining amorcito
was his best bet.

He waited until he was sure Lalo was gone, then went to find Yolanda. He was pretty sure Lalo
had given her his clothes to be laundered, which meant, hopefully, that she would have his phone.
Unless Lalo had gotten rid of it, but why would he? It was clear he trusted Nacho completely—still
a surreal idea.

It turned out he was correct. Yolanda returned his clothes, wallet, and phone. She’d even charged it
for him. Then she insisted on making him a meal. She served mouthwatering chilaquiles. Lalo was
right—she was an amazing cook.
As he ate, he thought over his options. He needed to figure out a way to call Mike, but he still
wasn’t getting service. He definitely couldn’t risk using Lalo’s satellite phone. If he could closer to
civilization, he could make the call…but they had switched cars along the way, and Nacho didn’t
know where the keys to the car they took were, let alone the car itself.

As he ate at the dining room table, the kid—Ciro—shyly approached him. “I’m sorry to disturb
you, señor,” Ciro said, rubbing his neck. “But I just wanted to thank you.”

Nacho blinked. “Thank me? For what?”

Ciro looked around as if he were afraid they might be overheard, then sat down next to Nacho.
“For taking the blame about the tequila,” he whispered. “Don Eduardo would kill me if he found
out I’d been sneaking it. I owe you one.”

Nacho stared at him. “Would he really?”

Ciro laughed a little. “Of course not! But he would be really mad. I’m always screwing up; I don’t
want him to kick me out.”

Nacho considered him for another moment, then he got an idea. “Do you have a car?”

Ciro frowned. “Not exactly, but Don Eduardo has a few cars we can use when we need them. Why
do you ask?”

“Because I need to borrow one.”

Ciro immediately became guarded, his shoulders hunching up. “I-I don’t know if that’s allowed.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

Ciro bit his lip. “What if you drive off and don’t come back? Don Eduardo really would kill me
over that.”

“What makes you think that I’d drive off?”

Ciro’s gaze dropped. He shrugged. “Dunno.”

Lalo might not have been able to see how miserable Nacho was when they arrived, but apparently
other people weren’t as blind. “Look, I’m not going to drive off. I promise. I just need to go into
town to get some more clothes.” He gestured to his overly-long sweatpants. “I can’t keep
borrowing his clothes. It’s embarrassing.”

Still, Ciro hesitated. “I guess I could call and ask him if it’s okay.”

Lalo probably would be okay with it—or he might order Nacho to wait so they could go shopping
together. He couldn’t risk it. Nacho rubbed his face. “Okay, how about this—why don’t you drive
me? That way, you can keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t run off.” He said that last part
with a wink.

“I don’t know…”

“Come on—you owe me one. You said it yourself.”

“All right,” Ciro said, relenting at last.

“Great. I’m going to get dressed in the clothes I do have, and then we’ll head out.” Nacho finished
the last bite of his meal and then stood. He felt better having eaten. At least, he had more energy.
He wouldn’t feel truly better until he found a way to get his father out of the mess he made.
Depending on what Mike said, he might have to steal Ciro’s car to get back to Albuquerque.

But Fring’s failed assassination attempt had changed the calculus. It didn’t make sense for him to
kill Nacho’s father immediately—not until he figured out if Nacho betrayed him, or if Lalo had
discovered the truth and was currently torturing him for the information he needed to implicate
Fring in the assassination attempt.

Nacho wasn’t sure how he was going to get his dad to safety, but his luck had been absurdly good
in the past twelve hours. Maybe it would hold up.

***

The drive to town took over an hour—Lalo really lived out in the middle of nowhere. Neither he
nor Ciro said much—the poor kid looked green with nerves. He hoped he didn’t have steal the old
pickup they were riding in—who knew what Lalo would do to the kid. The thought of Lalo’s
potential retaliation made his stomach clench. Lalo may have decided he was in love with Nacho,
but he was still a very dangerous person with little care for other people’s lives.

Which was one reason he hated him. Or, well, one reason he should hate him. He didn’t know how
he felt about Lalo anymore.

There weren’t many options for shopping, so Nacho had Ciro take him to Walmart, which hurt his
soul a little. As they pulled into the parking lot, Nacho glanced at his phone—he was getting
reception. Now he had to think of a way to ditch Ciro long enough to make his call.

“You don’t have to come in with me,” Nacho said.

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

Nacho pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, I’d like a little privacy. I’ve had an exhausting few
days, and I need time to myself to get my head together.”

“I won’t bother you,” Ciro insisted. “I’m very quiet.”

“Why don’t you find something fun to do instead?”

“Something fun to do?” Ciro echoed. “Like what?”

He had a point; the town wasn't exactly bustling. Time to be more direct. “I don’t care what you
do, but you aren’t coming in with me. If you want me to keep the secret about the tequila, then
you’ll do what I tell you.”

Ciro’s eyes went as wide as a kicked puppy’s. He slumped in his seat and lowered his gaze. “Yes,
señor.”

Nacho suppressed a sigh. He shouldn’t care about the hurt feelings of one of Lalo’s hired guns, but
Ciro looked so miserable. “Hey,” he said. When Ciro looked up, he met his gaze. “Call me
Nacho.”

Ciro smiled a little. “Okay, Nacho. So an hour?”

“Make it two.”
Nacho went into the store, waited a few minutes, and then went out again. He found a relatively
private corner of the parking lot and took out his phone. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants
before dialing Mike’s number.

Mike picked up immediately. “Did you get made?” he said by way of greeting.

“No.”

“Then what the fuck happened?”

Nacho had spent the whole ride thinking of the angle to use. “Like I said to your guy, there were
innocent people at Lalo’s place. Old folks and a teenager barely old enough to shave.” Well, that
was off by a few years, but it’s not like Mike would know. “I didn’t want their deaths on my
hands.”

“Oh, so now you’re getting a conscience?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. You used to have one, too.”

Mike swore. “Well, you picked a damn inconvenient time for a moral epiphany. But Lalo doesn’t
know you’re a spy?”

“No. He trusts me.”

“Good. Here’s what I want you to do—”

“No,” Nacho interrupted. “I’m not taking orders anymore.”

Nacho could almost hear him roll his eyes. “Listen, kid, you aren’t exactly in a great place to
negotiate.”

“Why? Because you’ve got my dad and you’ll kill him unless I do what you say?” Nacho tried to
keep his voice even but failed, his chest heaving. “Because you’re Fring’s right-hand man now,
aren’t you, and you do whatever he says. So are you going to kill my dad? Huh?”

Silence. Nacho waited a few moments for Mike to respond, but seemed like he wasn’t going to. “I
asked you a question, you piece of shit! Are you going to kill my dad? Or will you torture him first?
Or wait, no—I’ve got it. You’ll dole out that duty to someone else,” he sneered. “You think that’ll
keep your hands clean?”

“No one’s going to hurt your dad,” Mike finally said.

Nacho blinked, not quite believing it. It’s what he’d hoped for, but he knew it was a long shot.
“Really?”

“You have my word.”

“And does that still mean anything?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Mike said gruffly. “Can you at least tell me what Lalo knows?”

Nacho hesitated. “He suspects Fring, but he can’t prove it.”

“And do you plan to help him with that?”

It was Nacho’s turn to be quiet.

Mike spoke again. “I want you to consider something. Even with your dad’s life off the table,
you’re still in a lot of trouble. Fring could fabricate evidence, make it look like you were in on the
plot. And then there’s the issue of your little stunt with Hector—he can prove that. I won’t let him
hurt your dad, but I’m not sticking my neck out for you otherwise.”

“Lalo won’t believe it,” Nacho said.

“You sure about that?”

Was he? “My chances are way better with him than with Fring. You really think that after this
whole thing was over, Fring was going to let me retire? No, he always planned on throwing me
away like trash the minute I stopped being useful. You know it’s true. I have nothing to gain by
continuing to be his bitch.” He paused. “Maybe that’s something you should think about, too.”

“Now you’re really pushing it,” Mike said. The line went dead.

Nacho put the phone back in his pocket. His hands were shaking. Did he really just pull that off?
He wiped his forehead, which was drenched in sweat. His pits were pretty nasty, too. He probably
ought to add deodorant to his list.

That was the funny thing about living a life that lurched from crisis to crisis. You still had to keep
taking care of the practical shit.

He took his time shopping; he hadn’t been lying about needing a little peace and quiet to get his
head together—somewhere where he wasn’t surrounded by the armed guards of an amorous drug
lord who was infatuated with him. It still all seemed so surreal.

His nightmare kept floating back to him whenever he let his mind wander—Lalo choking on blood,
him blowing his own brains out. If he really thought about it, it wasn’t that strange of a dream to
have—he had thought Lalo was going to die, and not opening the gate had been a semi-suicidal
impulse on his part. But it had felt so real in the way dreams usually didn’t. Like a memory—or a
prophecy. He shivered.

Ciro was waiting in the truck for him in the parking lot when Nacho emerged.

“Here,” Nacho said as he got in the truck, holding out on of the bags to Ciro. “For you.”

Ciro gave him a quizzical look, then opened the bag. Inside was a bottle of tequila. His face broke
out in a grin. “Thanks.”

The ride back was less tense. Ciro took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Nacho. He didn’t
smoke usually, but he accepted. The mild nicotine buzz gave him a needed boost. He may have
passed out last night, but he was going to need to sleep for at least a week before he felt rested
again. Assuming that was possible.

Ciro looked pretty worn out too, with dark circles under his eyes. Nacho’s mind flashed back to the
attack—he remembered seeing Ciro standing over a body, clutching his gun like a kid might clutch
a teddy bear. A tough night for him too. He wondered what he was doing in this life.

“Can I ask you something?” Ciro said after a while.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

The question took him by surprise. “Yeah,” he said eventually.

“How do you, you know…deal with it? ’Cause I hadn’t until last night.” His voice wobbled a little.

Nacho really hoped he didn’t start crying. “Hey, you have nothing to feel guilty about. You were
defending yourself.”

“And Don Eduardo,” Ciro added.

“Yeah, him too. You did exactly what you were supposed to do. If you hadn’t killed him, he would
have killed you. And trust me, guns for hire like that wouldn’t waste a single moment feeling bad
about blowing you away. You shouldn’t, either.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said, but he sounded unsure. “I had a dream that’s what
happened,” he added. “There was a fire in the kitchen, and Don Eduardo was mad at me because
he thought I started it. And then there was shooting, and he grabbed me, and he…” Ciro
swallowed. “He used me to shield himself. It was so real—when I woke up, I could feel the bullets
in me. I kind of feel them still. You ever have a dream like that?”

“No,” Nacho lied as a sense of unease settled over him. Just a coincidence—not even a particularly
weird one. Of course they both had nightmares after the night they’d had. Still, it made the hairs on
his neck stand on end.

Ciro sighed and shook his head. “Just a crazy dream, I guess. Don Eduardo would never do that.
He looks after us, just like we look after him.”

Nacho didn’t say anything. He didn't think Ciro would believe him if he said the loyalty didn't go
both ways. That was the kind of lesson people learned for themselves. It was how he'd learned,
anyway.

“So was that what happened with you?” Ciro asked. “You were defending yourself?”

Nacho suppressed a wince. He had enough fresh wounds to deal with without opening old ones.
“Yeah,” he said. “I defended myself.”

“Do you still think about it?”

“No,” he snapped. “And I’d like to keep it that way, so shut up about it.”

“Sorry,” Ciro said with that kicked-puppy look again.

Nacho sighed. “Look, it feels bad now, but I promise you’ll get over it. You did the right thing. In
time, you’ll barely even remember it.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Nacho lied.

The lie seemed to make Ciro feel better, but it made Nacho feel much worse. Against his will,
Nacho's mind drifted back in time, to when he was Ciro's age, just starting in the cartel.

The truth was, you never forgot your first. And his first was a particularly nasty ghost.
 The Determinist, Part 1
Chapter Summary

Nacho remembers the first man he killed.

Chapter Notes

CONTENT WARNING

This chapter contains sex work, drug use, sex under the influence of drugs, and
discussions of religious themes.

This chapter and the next center around Nacho and Tony, an OMC, who is an
extremely dangerous person. Strong warnings for on-page sexual assault and violence,
which will occur in the next chapter. (The violence is about what you'd see in TV-14
rated show, so it's not super gratuitous, but still pretty upsetting.)

The part of Tony is being played by Tony Dalton as Sr. Ávila, since that's a great
source of pics of Tony Dalton in a suit with no mustache.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

The first man Nacho killed probably didn’t look as much like Lalo as he remembered.

For one, he wasn’t Mexican—he was New York Italian. His face was clean-shaven, and his salt-
and-pepper hair had no striking white streak. But they had the same sharkish smile, the same sharp
gaze, the same disarming laugh. When Nacho had met Lalo for the first time, he recognized him—
not as the man he’d killed, of course, but as a type of man. The type of man who believed the
world existed to amuse him.
His name was Tony. He’d been dead for fourteen years now.

Nacho sold him drugs. Tony was his first hot-shot client, not just some skell on a street corner. It
was a step up—one Tuco said he was ready for.

Yeah, this guy comes to town once a year for a business conference or some shit, Tuco told him.
He throws a hookers-and-blow parties in his hotel room. The guy’s a real freak, though, so make
the deal and get out of there.

Nacho put up his guard accordingly—any guy Tuco considered too freaky was someone to look out
for.

The hotel was about fifteen miles north of Albuquerque, billed as a luxury resort, although it still
seemed a bit cheap to Nacho—gilded more than golden. A banner declaring a pharmaceutical
conference hung in the lobby, answering the question of what kind of business this guy was in.

As he’d been instructed, Nacho took the elevator to the top floor, where the “champagne suite” was
located. He had to knock on the door twice before it opened, revealing the maniacally grinning face
of a handsome man in his mid-forties. He wore an expensive pinstripe suit, although his red tie had
been loosened, hanging around his neck like a lasso.

The man’s eyes swept over him. “Ah! You must be my angel.”

“Uh, yeah,” Nacho said. Tuco didn’t want him using his real name on these types of deals, so he’d
christened him “Angel.” Get it? ‘Cause you’re the angel on my shoulder, always talking me out of
dumb shit. “And you’re Tony.”

“Guilty as charged.” He opened the door fully. “Get in here—we’ve been waiting for you!”

Nacho entered the suite, stepping into a room with a sofa and two armchairs situated around a sleek
wooden coffee table. To his right was a bathroom. He could see the bedroom just around the
corner, as well as a kitchenette.

In the suite were two other businessmen and three girls. Music blared from the stereo—some strip
club crap that only existed to provide a beat for the dancers. A blonde girl was making use of that
beat, to the rapt attention of the guy sitting in one of the armchairs. The other guy was on the sofa
with an Asian girl on his knee, who was giggling and playing with his tie. The third girl was busy
making drinks in the kitchenette.

“Our angel has arrived with his blessings!” Tony declared, and the others laughed and cheered—he
got the feeling his name had become a joke. He got out his wallet. “So how much do I owe you?
$200?” At Nacho’s nod, Tony handed him some bills, and Nacho gave him the baggie in return.

Nacho counted out the money. “This is $300,” he said.

“I know. The extra is for your trouble.” He winked, then turned toward the kitchen. “Hey,
Destiny!” he called to the girl making drinks. “Pour a drink for our angel here.”

“No thanks,” Nacho said. Even if Tuco hadn’t warned him about Tony, drinking with a bunch of
pharmaceutical reps didn’t sound like a good time.

“Oh, c’mon,” Tony said. “As one drug dealer to another, let me tell you—you need to take a break
sometimes.”

That startled a laugh out of him, which made Tony’s grin widen. “Besides,” Tony continued, “you
can’t say no to Destiny! Isn’t that right, doll?”

Destiny, a buxom brunette, sauntered over to them, two martinis in hand. “That’s right—no one
says no to me.” She held the drink out to Nacho, the tip of her pink tongue flicking over her bottom
lip. She seemed as eager as Tony to keep him here.

“No, really,” Nacho insisted. “I can’t.”

“Heaven misses you that bad, huh? Well, you better fly back, then.” He plucked one drink out of
Destiny’s hand and put a hand around her waist. She laughed and pressed herself against him, but
he didn’t look at her—he kept his eyes on Nacho.

Nacho left unsure of Tuco’s warning. Tony seemed a little eccentric, but not especially freakish. In
fact, there had been something strangely magnetic about him. Nacho hadn’t known himself well
enough at the time to recognize the feeling—he was attracted to him. But he’d only been nineteen
at the time and hadn’t yet realized he liked both women and men.

When he received a page from Tony a few days later, Nacho felt a little rush of excitement.
Another order, the same place. To his surprise, Tony was alone. He was dressed in shirtsleeves,
and his top three buttons were undone, exposing a thin, gold chain around his neck. “Where’s the
party?” Nacho asked as Tony let him in.

Tony shook his head. “They wussed out on me! Our last night in town, and they’re all bitching and
moaning about headaches.”

They made the trade. “Hey, why don’t you stay a little while?” Tony said. “There’s nothing sadder
than doing coke alone.”

Nacho raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you call Destiny?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m bored with Destiny. C’mon, it’ll be fun!”

Nacho hesitated. Tuco told him never to party with clients—although that wasn’t a rule he always
followed himself. “I shouldn’t.”

He got out his wallet again. “Tell you what—I’ll pay you $300 to stay.”

He wanted to pay him? Nacho wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “I don’t know…”

Tony pulled out more bills. “How about $500, then?”

Nacho stared at the money. Two days ago, his dad had gotten an overdue medical bill for $483 in
the mail. It had come out of nowhere—Nacho’s mother had been dead for two years, but they were
still getting surprise bills. It was part of the reason he’d started dealing, although it hadn’t been
bringing in as much money as he’d hoped. Tuco had told him to be patient, work his way up, but
patience was hard with debt collectors breathing down your neck—they’d been dancing at the edge
of bankruptcy for several years now. That $500 would make at least one worry go away.

Besides, he wanted to stay.

“You want me to beg?” Tony said. “I’ll do it.” He got on his knees and held out the money like an
offering. “Please, have mercy on me, Angel, and bless me with your presence!”

The sight of him on his knees made the blood rush to Nacho’s face…and other, confusing places.
He laughed a little, embarrassed, and accepted the money. “Okay, okay. But I can’t stay too long.”
Tony got to his feet and grinned. “Then we better get this party started!” He spun around and
headed for the kitchenette. “First, drinks—you a gin guy or a vodka guy?”

Nacho sat on the sofa. He wasn’t sure what kind of a guy he was yet, to be honest. “Whatever
you’re having.”

“You got it.”

Tony returned with two drinks. He sat beside Nacho and handed him one. “To good times,” he
said, holding his glass aloft.

Nacho clinked his glass against it. “To good times.” The liquor was smooth going down, but it lit a
fire in him when it hit his belly.

Tony tapped some cocaine out on a hand mirror and cut it into neat lines with a razor. “To better
times,” he said, holding out the mirror and a rolled-up twenty.

Nacho hesitated again, but only for a moment. There were worse ways to make $500.

Tony fulfilled his promise of a good time. The alcohol and the coke made Nacho relaxed but
energized. Their conversation took a lot of wild turns that left Nacho either thoughtful or laughing,
sometimes both.

Like when they somehow got on the subject of free will. “I’m telling you, man, it doesn’t exist.”

“What do you mean?”

Tony inched a little closer on the sofa. “So there was this neuroscientist who came up with an idea
for an experiment. He put electrodes on people’s heads and had them watch a rotating clock on a
screen. They were supposed to choose a moment to push a button, and then tell him what time the
clock read when they made their decision. And you know what they found?”

Nacho shook his head. The coke buzz was fading, and his brain felt foggy.

“That the areas responsible for movement in the person’s brain lit up before they made their
decision to push the button.”

Nacho scoffed. “No way.”

Tony put a hand up. “Hand to God, it’s true! And if their brain kicked in before they were aware of
it, then can you really say they made that decision?”

Nacho thought about it—or he tried to, anyway. “Well, if they didn’t make the decision, who did?”

Tony laughed. “No one did! We are matter in motion, set off at the beginning of time, descended
from a long line of actions and reactions that lead us right here, to this moment.”

Nacho shook his head again and chuckled. “I’m way too high for this conversation.”

“Nah, you’re not high enough.” He took out the baggie and tapped out some more powder, then cut
it and offered it to Nacho. Nacho accepted it—the rush perked him up again. He was suddenly
aware of firm, warm pressure of Tony’s thigh against his own. His gaze locked with Tony’s, whose
own gaze had grown heated.

Tony leaned in and put his lips close to Nacho’s ear. “I want to do coke off your tits.”
Nacho blinked a few times, then burst into laughter. “Off my what?”

Tony leaned back and grinned. “You heard me.”

Nacho laughed again, convinced that any moment Tony was going to say he was just messing with
him, but Tony just kept looking at him with that heat in his eyes. “Uh, I’m not gay.”

Tony shrugged, still grinning. “Neither am I. So what do you say?”

Nacho’s head felt like it was spinning in opposite directions at the same time. He was definitely not
into men, right? But his body was telling him something else. “I don’t know…”

“Would another $500 help you make up your mind?”

Another $500? The idea only made his head spin more. “Yeah, okay,” he found himself saying.

Tony’s grin became more of a smirk. He tugged at the hem of Nacho’s shirt. “Then let’s get you
out of this.”

Nacho let Tony help him out of his shirt, then allowed him to lay him back on the sofa. Nacho’s
skin had broken out in goosebumps even though the room wasn’t cold. Tony fetched the baggie
and the razor and then straddled him. He tapped out a little powder on his left pec, then drew the
razor lightly over Nacho’s skin to make the line. Nacho shivered when the cool blade grazed his
nipple.

Tony put the razor aside. Using a rolled-up bill, he snorted the line off his chest, letting out a
whoop as it hit him. “Fuck, yeah!” He laughed, which made Nacho laugh, too.

Tony scraped Nacho’s skin again, but he pressed a little too hard, causing the blade to bite into
Nacho’s skin. He winced and tried to jerk away, but Tony’s weight on top of him pinned him in
place.

Tony sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Whoops. Sorry, Angel,” he murmured. Or maybe he’d
meant it angel, lowercase—an endearment. It sounded like one. He ran a thumb over the thin, red
line where Nacho’s skin had split, smearing the blood. “Doesn’t seem too deep.”

“It’s fine,” he said, which was the truth. It stung more than it hurt.

“Let me kiss it better.” Tony bent down and place a kiss on the cut, then moved slightly to left to
lick Nacho’s nipple.

Nacho gasped, suddenly rock hard—something which Tony must have felt as he straddled him.
Tony gave his hips a lazy roll before leaning over him and dropping to his elbows on either side of
Nacho’s head. When Tony kissed him, it felt inevitable. Matter in motion. He kissed him back.

The rest happened so fast. Before Nacho knew it, he was fully naked. Tony kissed down his body
until he reached Nacho’s erection. He gave him a roguish look before taking it in his mouth.

Nacho watched in fascination as Tony’s head bobbed up and down. It seemed surreal to have this
rich, white man in between his legs, servicing him. Cautiously, he placed a hand on Tony’s head,
his fingers sliding through his salt and pepper hair. Even more cautiously, he tightened his grip. He
got a moan in response, which sent a surge of arousal through him so intense he was suddenly on
the verge of coming.

“Wait—I’m—fuck, I’m—” was as far as he got before busting. Tony pulled off and stroked him
through it—Nacho’s come splashed on his stomach and chest.

As he was catching his breath, his body strumming with the afterglow, Tony knelt above him,
straddling him. He was still fully clothed, but his fly was open and he was stroking himself
vigorously. A string of saliva dripped down his chin as his face twisted into a snarl—the thought of
wolf’s teeth flashed through Nacho’s mind—and then he was coming, splattering Nacho’s torso.

The afterglow faded quickly. It was like waking up from a dream; he felt almost bewildered at the
sight of Tony staring down at him.

Tony’s gaze flickered to the mess on Nacho’s chest. “You should get cleaned up,” he said as he
moved off him.

Nacho went to the bathroom, still half-dazed, and got in the shower. A tinge of pink stained the
white fabric of his washcloth as he cleaned off his chest; the cut had opened.

As his mental fog cleared, two thoughts came to him—that he had just had sex with a man, and that
he had just had sex with a man for money. He wasn’t sure if the money made it worse or better.

Tony was dressed in a white T and boxer shorts when Nacho reentered the room—ready for bed.
Time for Nacho to go, then. For a moment he wondered if Tony was going to make him ask for his
money, but Tony got his wallet from the coffee table and fished out the money. Amazingly, he had
plenty of cash left over even after counting out another $500.

Tony held the cash out, but when Nacho tried to take, Tony didn’t let go. “Come to Phoenix with
me,” he said.

Nacho blinked. “Phoenix?”

“Yeah. It’s where I live. Come spend a week at my place.”

Nacho stiffened. “Look, I don’t do this. I’m not a—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Tony let go of the cash. “Right, of course not. I’m just inviting you to be my guest. And because
I’m always generous with friends, I’d also like to give you a gift—maybe $5000?”

Nacho’s mind spun with all of the things $5000 could do. Was he really serious? And was Nacho
seriously considering it?

Tony drummed his fingertips on Nacho’s head. “C’mon, I can feel your neurons firing—you are
definitely saying yes,” he said, teasing.

Nacho took a step back. “How about $10,000?” he said. “Half up front.” He figured there was no
way Tony would agree to such a ridiculous amount, and there was definitely no way he had $5000
on hand.

But he was wrong. Tony held up a finger, indicating he should wait, as he went to the closet and
opened a safe. He came back with a stack of cash. He counted out the amount and held it out to
Nacho. “Done.”

Nacho stared at the money for a long moment. “I’m still not a whore,” he said, managing to get the
word out this time.

“Who said that? Not me.” His voice got a little softer. “We won’t do anything you aren’t
comfortable with.”
Nacho stared at the money for a moment longer before finally accepting it. He could always stand
him up—it’s not like Tony knew where he lived. He didn’t even know his real name. If he went
complaining to Tuco, Nacho would spin it as him ripping off a pervert. “When are you leaving?”

“The earlier, the better. We’re driving.”

“I have shit I have to take care of first.”

“All right, then meet me here at three. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Nacho said.

Tony flashed his teeth. “Until then.”

On his way home, Nacho’s thoughts alternated between resolving not to go and making plans. He
could tell his dad he was going to visit Domingo at college; Domingo would have no problem
backing him up. He was only part time for Tuco, so he didn’t think he’d get too much shit for
being gone a few days. And at the end, he’ll have netted $11,000.

Tony was right. His mind had already been made up. He guessed he was going to Phoenix.

Were he a little bit wiser, he might have wondered why someone like Tony would pay someone
like him such a large amount of money just for his company. But Nacho was young, full of enough
naïve vanity to think that this was an offer made in good faith. He figured that money meant
nothing to guys like Tony. Maybe that was true, but that wasn’t the reason.

He would find out later that he hadn’t made the deal he thought he had. Tony had something else
in mind.

***

Tony had a bright red Corvette, which he let Nacho drive. It felt good to be behind the wheel of
such an expensive car, and not just to take measurements before getting started on an upholstery
job. It also felt good to be wearing a 10k gold chain he’d bought for himself before leaving. Most
of the money would go towards bills, but no reason for him not to get a little something for
himself. Besides, he couldn’t pay off the bills all at once—his dad would notice.

To this day, he still wore the necklace. He wasn’t sure why. A reminder, maybe.

They stopped at a diner for dinner in a small town on the border of New Mexico and Arizona.
Tony was dressed in a suit still, which seemed strange to Nacho. Wouldn’t he want to be more
comfortable for the drive? But maybe he’d had business that morning. Or maybe he knew how
good he looked in it.

“So why Phoenix?” Nacho asked. They’d talked about how he was originally from New York.

“Honestly? I like the name. You know, like rising from the ashes. A new start.”

“A new start from what?”

“From the Family business. That’s family with a capital F, if you get my drift. New York’s got five
of them.”

Nacho scoffed. “What, like the Mafia?”

Tony laughed. “I take it you aren’t impressed.”

“Are people usually?”

“Depends on the person, but yeah, mostly.”

“They wouldn’t be if they knew how much bullshit is involved.”

“Amen to that. The cops are always up your ass—it’s exhausting. No, it’s much easier to be
respectable. You can get away with basically anything if your collar’s white enough.” He flashed
Nacho a toothy smile.

Nacho raised his eyebrows. “Like what?”

Tony’s smile turned sly. “You’ll see.”

Their food arrived—burgers for both of them. “So you tell anyone where you were going?” Tony
asked around bites.

“No,” Nacho said. “I told my dad I was visiting a friend of mine at his school.”

“And what did you tell your friend?”

“I just told him I needed an alibi. Mingo’s cool like that—he’s always got my back.”

“You didn’t tell any of your associates?”

“Are you serious? Best case scenario, I’d get my ass kicked if they had any idea about this. I also
told them I was visiting Mingo.”

“So I’ve really got you all to myself, huh?” Tony brushed his foot against Nacho and gave him a
look that made his cheeks heat.

“Uh, yeah, I guess you do.”

Nacho hadn’t thought the questions were strange at the time. It was just making conversation.

They arrived in Phoenix around 10 p.m. Tony lived in an upscale neighborhood filled mostly with
Spanish-style houses with terracotta roofs, the soft white exteriors seeming to glow under the
streetlights.Tony’s house was set farther back from the street from the others. A large gate
obscured the view. Tony had to reach over him to input the gate key; his body was warm and
heavy.

They drove down a short drive. Unlike the other houses in the neighborhood, Tony’s house had
two stories, with a large second-story balcony. The home seemed even bigger on the inside, with
ceilings as tall as a cathedral, with an honest-to-god chandelier sparkling above them. A grand
staircase led to a mezzanine, like something out of a movie. Nacho couldn’t help climbing them
right away—up, up, up.

“You like my house?” Tony called up to him.

Nacho leaned on the railing and looked down. “It’s okay,” he said with a nonchalant shrug.

Tony laughed. “I love an angel with an attitude. C’mon, let me show you around.”

Nacho descended the stairs and followed Tony to the living room, filled with chic furniture that
looked barely used, then to the dining room with a long, oak table that was big enough to seat
twelve at least. The kitchen was full of top-of-the-line appliances.
There were two doors in the kitchen—one led to a pantry, presumably, but surely there weren’t two
pantries. It wasn’t something he thought much about at the time—not when there was so much
more to see.

The tour ended in the master bedroom. The décor was what you’d usually expect, sleek and
expensive, except for a large crucifix on the wall facing the bed. It was elaborately gruesome, like
something out of a medieval church. The contrast with the otherwise modern interior made it seem
even more grotesque.

Glass doors led to the balcony. Nacho stepped outside to enjoy the view. The moon was full,
bathing everything in a silver glow. “I’m going to have a place just like this someday,” he decided
as he came back inside.

A chuckle was Tony’s only response. He poured himself a glass of brandy at the small bar in the
corner of the room, then sat down on an armchair a few steps away from the bed. “Take off your
clothes.” A command, not a suggestion.

Nacho’s heart leapt into his throat. He tamped down on his nerves—it’s not like he hadn’t been
expecting this. Nothing he wasn’t comfortable with—that was what Tony had promised. And Tony
had already seen him naked.

He stripped, letting his clothes fall to the floor. Tony sipped his drink as he watched, his eyes
unblinking. Shivering, Nacho started to wrap his arms around himself, but instead forced himself to
relax. No backing out now. Still, he hesitated. What exactly did Tony expect of him?

Tony nodded in the direction of the bed. “Get in bed and touch yourself.”

Okay. He could handle that. He crossed the room and slid onto the bed. Tony’s gaze was so hot he
could almost feel it burn his skin; he shut his eyes, as if that could shield him. He tried to conjure
up some fantasy of a woman, but his imagination failed him.

That didn’t stop him from getting hard.

Nacho’s eyes fluttered open when he heard Tony unzip his pants, but he made no move to join
Nacho. He just wanted to watch, apparently. The thought sent a bolt of arousal through him, and he
sped up his strokes. Nacho came first, unable to stifle a cry as he shot into his hand. Tony’s moan
followed a moment later.

Nacho found a tissue box on the nightstand and cleaned himself off as best he could. Tony
approached him, still dressed in his suit, although he’d loosened his tie. He looked down at Nacho;
their gazes met, but his expression was so blank that Nacho couldn’t even guess what he was
thinking. It made him nervous.

“You ever take that suit off?” Nacho asked at last. His voice only shook a little.

Tony smiled. He shed his clothes until he was standing naked before Nacho, stripped of everything
except his necklace. A saint’s medallion hung from the chain, as well as a key. Tony motioned for
him to move over, then joined him in bed and pulled the covers over both of them.

Nacho took the key and the medallion in his hand. “What’s this key for?”

“It’s the key to my heart, of course.”

Weird. Nacho examined the medallion—it had the picture of the Virgin Mary. His gaze flickered
back to the crucifix. “So, uh, are you religious?”
 “Catholic, born and raised. Aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, I was, but I’m not anymore.”

“Why?”

“I’m a drug dealer. And I steal.”

“So? God loves sinners.”

Was he fucking with him? “What are you, a youth minister?”

“Hey, you brought the topic up.”

Fair enough. “My parents are really religious,” Nacho said. “I was, too, until my mom died. She
was practically a saint—always so kind to everyone, never missed a Sunday. And when she got
sick, she prayed and prayed. She died anyway. Either God didn’t care, or God isn’t real. Either
way, I never went back to church.”

“Just because she died doesn’t mean God didn’t care. God loves suffering.” He gestured to the
crucifix. “Look what he did to his only son—no one made him do that. That was His plan all along.
Why else would He do it if he didn’t enjoy it? It doesn’t matter how much you beg. If He wants
your pain, then he’ll have it. There’s not much you can do about it. Besides, He's got a plan, and
you can't opt out. It's already been determined.”

Jesus, that was grim. “And here I was taught that God is love.”

“But He does love you. You can hurt someone and love them at the same time, can’t you?”

Nacho thought of his father and how much pain it would cause him if he knew what Nacho was
doing for money. “I guess so,” he conceded.

“I’ve got a deal with God,” Tony continued. “If I ever do something He doesn’t like, he can smite
me. He hasn’t yet, which means He must approve.” Tony stretched and put his hands behind his
head, staring up at the crucifix. “We have a lot in common.”

Was he joking? His tone was light as if it was, but his expression seemed very serious. Later,
Nacho would wonder why he hadn’t found this at all alarming.

Tony yawned. “Let’s get some sleep. I’ve got business tomorrow, so you can hang out here. And
when I get back…” He gave Nacho a kiss. “…we’ll have fun.”

Tony turned off the lamp, leaving the room lit only by the moonlight coming through the glass
doors, causing eerie shadows to fall over the crucifix. When he shut his eyes, the image of the
crucifix remained.

It took him a long time to fall asleep. When he finally did, he dreamed of himself nailed to a cross
in the desert somewhere. Blue flowers bloomed all around him.

Chapter End Notes

I feel like this is one of my weirder ideas, so I feel like explaining a little. The idea for
this fic came when I had a dream about Nacho having sex with someone who looked
like Lalo but was not Lalo. I decided to combine it with a vague idea I'd had for a
while about exploring whether Nacho really had a choice to betray Lalo by following
what might have happened if he had changed his mind at the last minute and defied
Gus's orders to open the gate. What if changing his mind didn't lead to his father's
death, as he assumed it would? Would he have chosen differently if he had known his
father's life wasn't in danger after all?

For my OMC who looks like Lalo but is not Lalo (who I naturally had to name Tony),
I thought it would be interesting if part of the reason Nacho had such a negative
reaction to Lalo was that he reminded him of someone from his past. I wanted this
character to not only look like Lalo, but have some other parallels that are just a little
bit off - it's Lalo, but it's not Lalo. (This also is keeping in line with the s6 motif of
character doubles.)

So - Tony has ties to a crime family, except he's Italian with ties to the Mafia rather
than the Mexican cartel. He's a pharmaceutical rep, making him a kind of drug dealer.
And since Lalo is someone who kills serially, Tony is...well, that's next chapter.
There's also a lot of Bluebeard in this story, which is my favorite fairy tale. Don't
worry - we will be back with Lacho in chapter 5! Things are actually looking more
optimistic for them than I'd thought when I started this fic.
 The Determinist, Part 2
Chapter Notes

WARNING - this chapter contains sexual assault, descriptions of gore, and graphic
violence.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Nacho woke up alone.

The morning light streamed through the glass doors, gently rousing him. It took him a moment to
remember where he was—not on the creaky old twin mattress in his father’s home, the bed he’d
slept in most of his life, but instead a king-sized mattress with sheets so soft they made his own
seem like sandpaper in comparison.

Tony was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was an envelope left on the pillow, with “Angel”
written in cursive on the front. Nacho opened it and pulled out the letter inside, also written in
cursive:

Dear Angel,

Sorry for leaving without saying goodbye, but you looked too peaceful to disturb—an angel fallen
straight from heaven and into my bed, like an answered prayer. I have a few things I need to take
care of at the office. In the meantime, mi casa es su casa. Feel free to explore. Help yourself to
anything not behind a lock.

I’ll be home by six.

- Tony

An angel? An answered prayer? Corny, but still, Nacho's cheeks heated from a mixture of
embarrassment and pleasure. He stretched, then headed to the bathroom to shower. Afterward, he
put on a robe he’d found hanging on the door, then headed for the walk-in closet—he had dumped
his duffel bag there last night. The closet was as large as his bedroom at home. Designer clothes
surrounded him, hanging like banners proclaiming Tony’s wealth.

Nacho pulled on a pair of his boxers, but instead of getting dressed right away, he brushed his
hands over some of Tony’s shirts, enjoying the feeling of the fine fabric under his fingers. As he
sifted through the clothes, he noticed a wooden box on a shelf above the hangers. He had to stand
on tiptoes to reach it. When he opened it, he found jewelry inside—thousands of dollars’ worth, it
looked like. A lot of the jewelry had a religious theme, unsurprisingly—gold chains with saint’s
medals, rings with crosses. There were also two watches and a diamond earring.

It didn’t occur to him at the time that the earring was strange. Tony didn’t have a pierced ear.

Absently, he touched the gold chain around his neck, the one he had bought with the money Tony
had paid him. It was the most expensive thing Nacho had ever purchased, but nothing compared to
this. All that wealth excited him—he had the sudden urge to drape himself in it. A little silly, but
no one was watching. He put a watch on each wrist and then the all of the rings, stacking them on
his fingers one on top of the other, and finished with several necklaces. Since he was on a roll, he
selected a blue shirt and a charcoal gray suit. When he was all decked out, he admired himself in
the full-length mirror that hung on the back of the closet door.

Well, maybe admired was the wrong word—he looked ridiculous. He removed most of the jewelry
and put it away, leaving only a watch and a pinky ring, then added a maroon necktie to his
ensemble. He tried to imagine himself as a pharmaceutical representative, or a lawyer, or
something similar. The fantasy didn’t last long—the drudgery of business was not for him.
Besides, he wasn’t sure that world would let him in, even if he wanted it.

He took off the watch and put it with the rest of the jewelry, but he hesitated over the ring and
decided to leave it on. A little cheeky of him, but Tony did say to help himself to whatever he
wanted that wasn’t behind a lock. He was pretty sure Tony would find it funny, and maybe he’d
even be able to keep it. Carefully, he removed Tony’s clothes and hung them back up. Once he was
in his boxers again, he paused for a moment to look at his mostly nude body in the mirror—a body
Tony found worth $11,000. Maybe it meant he was vain, but Nacho didn’t have too much trouble
believing it. He worked hard to look good, spending hours at the gym.

He wasn’t as secure about his face—sometimes he thought his nose was shaped funny, and his
hairline was already receding a little. All the men on his father’s side of the family went bald
eventually, but for now he had thick, curly black hair, and people often complemented his eyes,
which were a rich brown, with lashes so thick that every girlfriend he had expressed jealousy. His
lips weren’t bad either. He tried a pout—not an expression he normally used, but he felt like a
different person here. Nacho didn’t pout, but maybe Angel did. Angel did a lot of things Nacho
would never do.

After changing into his own clothes, he went downstairs to have some breakfast. The fridge was
fully stocked—there was even a bottle of champagne cooling in the door. He wondered if Tony
was saving it for tonight. But on the other hand, he did say to help himself to anything, and a
mimosa sounded really good. He made some scrambled eggs and toast as well.

Once he’d finished breakfast, he continued his exploration of the house—Tony had shown him
around, but the tour had been brief. He returned upstairs and found three unremarkable bedrooms
and an office. Downstairs was the kitchen, a dining room, and a living room, which had a large TV
and a state-of-the-art stereo system. The attached garage contained a Mercedez-Benz convertible
and a small but well-equipped gym.

Only an hour had passed since he’d woken up, which left another eight before Tony returned
home. What was he supposed to do with himself? The luxury was fun, but that was a lot of hours to
fill. Maybe he’d work out in the gym later, but for now, he returned to the living room to watch a
movie—Tony had an extensive VHS collection. He picked The Godfather—it didn’t surprise him
that Tony owned it. Was the real mafia anything like the movie? He guessed he could ask Tony,
assuming he was telling the truth. Lots of guys bragged about mob connections that turned out to
be bullshit. He believed it of Tony, though. People who were raised on the wrong side of the law
had always came off a little odd, like Tuco. Nacho didn’t envy either of their childhoods.

After the movie was over, he went to the kitchen to make lunch. But when he opened the door to
the pantry to look for bread for some mustard, it turned out not to be a pantry after all. Instead, a
steep staircase led downward to a door. An ominous feeling crept over him—but why? It was just a
basement.

To prove to himself that he wasn’t ridiculous, he descended the stairs to the door, which was a
dark, dull red, with the paint peeling in places. In a house that was otherwise immaculate, the
disrepair stood out. He put his hand on the tarnished doorknob and turned. At first, it stuck—
Nacho felt a mix of relief and disappointment. But then there was a click, and the door creaked
open.

It was pitch dark inside and cold enough to give him goosebumps. Nacho felt for a light switch and
found one. He sucked in a breath as he flicked it on—and then let it out in a relieved puff when he
saw the contents of the room. Racks of wine stood along one wall—a wine cellar, of course. But on
the other wall were several bookcases. There had been many bookshelves throughout the house—
Tony was either a big reader or wanted to be seen as one. But these books were different—they
were bound in leather and looked very old. Probably valuable—didn’t old books need to be kept in
dark, cool places? It all made sense. He couldn’t believe he’d been scared of a basement, as if he
were a little kid. He took a closer look—Tony’s collection had a Catholic theme, unsurprisingly.

A desk sat in the corner, with a cart beside it. Nacho went over to investigate. The cart contained
paper and canvases, paints and brushes, fountain pens and ink. Tony was an artist? Pages of
practice calligraphy and sketches lay scattered over the desk. Several books were stacked in one
corner—not antiques like the ones on the wall, but nonfiction titles. Some were all glossy
illustrations—used for reference, maybe? Nacho flipped through one called Christian Art and
Iconography of the Middle Ages, grimacing at the paintings depicting the gruesome deaths of the
martyrs. Every saint wore a placid expression—they looked almost bored as they were torn limb
from limb, or decapitated, or boiled alive in oil.

He put the book down and picked up another—this one a collection of poetry. A silky red ribbon
marked a page; Nacho turned to it. It led to an illustration of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.
Eve held an apple out to Adam; the serpent was coiled in the branch of a tree above her. On the
opposite page was a poem:

Adam lay ybounden,

Bounden in a bond;

Four thousand winter

Thought he not too long.

And all was for an apple,

An apple that he took,

As clerkës finden written

In their book.

Nor had one apple taken been,

The apple taken been,

Then had never Our Lady

A-been heaven's queen.

Blessed be the time

That apple taken was.

Therefore we may singen

Deo gratias!

There was a note in the margins—it read, No salvation without sin, underlined firmly.

Nacho snapped the book shut and set it down. A sketchbook caught his eye. He hesitated—it felt
like an invasion of privacy, but he’d always been nosier than was good for him. The book
contained Tony’s interpretations of the art of the medieval martyrs, except he'd drawn them in a
realistic style. These saints did not look bored—instead, their faces were twisted in agony as
gruesome tortures were enacted on their bodies. Their wounds were depicted with the same
exacting detail as their faces—torn flesh and lots of blood. Each saint was labeled with a name
done in elaborate calligraphy—St. Michael, St. Mary, St. Christina, St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Gabriel.
The only thing unrealistic about the pictures were the bright halos encircling the figures’ heads. On
the last page was a very rough sketch of a muscular archangel—clearly a work in progress, as the
face was still blank.

Gently, he closed the book and set it back where he found it. He guessed there were weirder
hobbies, but the whole thing left him unnerved. As he turned to leave, he saw a door he hadn’t
noticed before—it was so gray it blended in with the wall.

He approached it and put his hand on the knob. It wouldn’t open. In all his exploration, this was
the only lock he’d encountered. What could be in there that was more valuable than jewelry,
luxury vehicles, stereos, wine, and antique books? He remembered the key around Tony’s neck—
what had he said? It’s the key to my heart. Something personal, maybe? Or maybe cash. Nacho
hadn’t encountered any safes yet, and it seemed Tony liked to keep cash on hand.

He rattled the doorknob to see if it would unstick. Not that he would steal from him, probably. He
was already walking out of this deal with $11K—it would be stupid to get even greedier. But he
was curious, and the rest of the house had been so open.

No luck. That was when he noticed a smell—faint but foul, like a mixture of rotten meat and fruit.
The ominous feeling he’d had before returned, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on
end, but he quashed it. He wasn’t a little kid. Basements smelled weird sometimes. Maybe there
was a meat freezer in there that was malfunctioning.

Still, he found himself eager to leave. He ascended the stairs and shut the door firmly behind him.

***
Tony returned home a little after six, as promised. He joined Nacho in the living room with a
grocery bag in hand.

Nacho switched off the TV—he’d been lounging on the sofa, arranging himself in a way he
thought would look seductive. Years later, when Amber and Jo came to live with him, he’d catch
them doing the same thing. It hadn’t seemed demeaning at the time. In fact, it had made him feel
expensive and desirable, but now it struck him as pathetic.

Tony set the bag down and smiled like a wolf on the prowl. Nacho’s heart skipped a beat as Tony
approached the sofa and towered over him. His smile widened. “So, you enjoy my house?”

Nacho swallowed and managed a nod.

Tony put his hand on Nacho’s bare knee—he was wearing loose shorts. The touch became a
caress, and Tony encouraged his legs open, then crawled on top of him. Nacho’s heart no longer
fluttered—it pounded. What did Tony want? He’d promised nothing Nacho wasn’t comfortable
with, but the truth was that Nacho had no idea where the line of his discomfort was. Was he
supposed to enjoy the sex he was getting paid for? Was he allowed to? These questions had been
swirling in the back of his mind all day, but they were no longer abstract, not with Tony’s heavy
body on top of him, not with Tony’s hips pressed against his, not with Tony’s hot breath on his
cheek. Nacho’s cock hardened—he knew Tony must have felt it, which made him even harder.

Tony pulled back a little and lifted one of Nacho’s hands to examine it. “Nice ring.”

It took Nacho a minute to remember the pinky ring he wore. “Thanks,” he said, trying for a flirty
tone—Nacho was serious but Angel could be playful. “The guy I borrowed it from has great taste.”

Tony laughed and kissed the ring. “You can keep it.” He ran his fingers over Nacho’s gold chain.
“Did I buy that for you, too?”

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

“You’re welcome.” He slid his hand upward and expanded his fingers until he had Nacho’s whole
throat in his hand. “It looks good on you.” He applied a small amount of pressure—not gripping
him exactly, but making sure Nacho felt it. Holding him still, Tony leaned down and brought their
mouths together for a kiss that was almost obscenely gentle. Nacho wanted more, but Tony
abruptly released him and stood.

“I’m making fish for dinner,” he said as he crossed the room and picked up his bag from before.
“Come on, you can help me.” He headed for the kitchen.

Nacho took a few deep breaths and flexed his thighs until his erection went down. It was a little
embarrassing that he was hornier than his client. He joined Tony in the kitchen, who had taken his
suit jacket off and rolled up his sleeves. Tony got out a cutting board and put it on the counter, then
plopped a huge, whole fish on top. “Put some rice on,” he said as he selected a knife from its block.
“The rice cooker is under the counter there.”

Nacho did as he was told. He watched as Tony inserted a knife in the fish's stomach. Its glassy eyes
stared at him as its gut split open. It was the squelching sound more than the sight that turned
Nacho’s stomach.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a fish gutted before,” Tony said.

He must have been making a face. “I have. My dad used to take me fishing when I was little. It was
gross then, and it’s gross now.”
It had been more than that, though. A memory flashed in his mind—he was seven years old and
just caught his first fish. His pride quickly morphed into tears when he realized that his dad
planned to kill the fish he’d just caught. What did you think we were catching them for, mijo? his
dad asked, exasperated. But he’d dried Nacho’s tears and released the fish. He didn’t take him back
until he was older, but Nacho never enjoyed it.

Between the two of them, they got dinner on the table. Tony opened a bottle of white wine and
poured them both a glass. It had been a long time since Nacho had a home-cooked meal; he and his
dad survived on take-out and frozen dinners since his mom died. Tony was a good cook.

“So, you discovered my hobby,” Tony said after a bite of fish.

Nacho swallowed. “How did you—?”

“You’ve got an ink stain on your finger.”

Nacho glanced at his pinkie—sure enough, there was a small ink spot on his skin. No point in
denying it. “Yeah.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know.” He was smiling, but his eyes were dark.

“Hey, you said anywhere that wasn’t locked.” Nacho kept his tone light—Tony wasn’t angry, was
he?

“So I did. But your explorations are over. There are only locks left, which you should steer clear of
—you understand me?”

Something really valuable must be in there. “Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

Tony’s posture relaxed—it seemed his scolding was over. “Well? What did you think of my art?”

Weird, but Nacho couldn’t say that. “You’re talented.” That was true enough. “Interesting subject
matter.”

“It’s my meditation. The contemplation of suffering brings me closer to the divine.” Tony gave him
a closed-lip smile, like someone with a secret. “Do you like dancing?”

Nacho blinked at the change in subject. “Like, at the club? Sometimes.”

“Good. I’m taking you out. You got anything sluttier to wear?”

Nacho’s face heated. He had, in fact, packed clothes he thought Tony might find sexy. “Uh, yeah.”

“Get changed. I’ll clean up.”

Dazed, Nacho headed toward the bedroom. The glass of wine combined with Tony’s comments left
him feeling off-balance; the house felt like it had grown larger, as big as a castle. It seemed to take
a long time to get up the stairs.

When he returned to Tony, he was dressed in a tight black T-shirt with a picture of a skull with
roses in its eyes, and ripped black jeans that slung low on his hips. Tony had just finished loading
the dishwasher. He whistled in appreciation, but then held up a finger. “Hold on, I’ve got an idea.”
He opened a nearby drawer and pulled out an X-Acto knife.

Nacho tensed as Tony approached him. “What are you doing?”

“Making some adjustments.” The knife clicked three notches, then Tony carefully split his right
sleeve. He gave it a little tug, and it tore. “It’d be a shame to keep these gorgeous arms of yours
covered.” He kissed the newly exposed skin.

A shaky laugh escaped Nacho’s lips. Tony moved to the other sleeve. This time, he wasn’t as
careful, and he nicked Nacho’s skin. “Whoops,” he murmured. He kissed the shallow cut, then
licked it.

It was the second time Tony had “accidentally” cut him. Why hadn’t that alarmed him?

“So am I ever going to see you in something besides a suit?” Nacho asked.

“If you insist. I’ll be right back.”

It only took a few minutes before Tony returned, wearing black pants and a red shirt that stretched
tight over his chest. He wasn’t as sculpted as Nacho, but his chest was still broad and strong.

Tony held his arms out. “More to your liking?”

He was showing off for him? Nacho took a risk and stepped closer until they were only an inch
apart. “I liked the suit, too.”

Tony rewarded him with a kiss. “Come on. Let’s go have some fun.”

***

It had been a while since Nacho had been to a dance club. Last year, he’d dated a girl who loved to
dance and dragged him out all the time. Nacho liked it okay, but he sometimes found all the people
overwhelming.

And this club was crowded. The air conditioning blasted, but it hardly made up for the heat
coming off the dancers, packed together like cattle in an abattoir. The salty smell of sweat and the
bitterness of body odor filled his nostrils as Tony led him onto the floor—all masculine. Tony had
brought him to a gay club.

But Nacho’s apprehension melted into pleasure as Tony put his arms around him. In his normal
life, he wouldn’t be caught dead with a man in public—or more accurately, he might end up dead if
he was caught. The cartel was not the most accepting of organizations. Here, hundreds of miles
away, deep in the dark, anonymous crush of bodies, no one even knew his real name. The music
pulsed around them like the heartbeat of an enormous beast, and he gave himself over to his more
animal side. Strange how quickly his inhibitions vanished. Last week, Nacho hadn’t even known
he was attracted to men. Or maybe he’d always known it a little, but he’d managed to stomp it out
of conscious thought. Being here should have freaked him out, but instead he felt liberated.

It was only much later that Nacho was able to articulate to himself why. The money Tony offered
was the excuse that let him say yes. He could follow this strange desire, get it out of his system,
and not have to confront anything about himself. After all, he’d only done it for the cash. It
wouldn’t happen again…unless he found someone else to pay. Which he wouldn’t. He wasn’t a
whore, not really, and he definitely wasn’t gay. He’d find a girl to fuck when he went home—he
never had a hard time with that.

But maybe Tony would invite him back. That might be fun, and profitable. No more than once a
year, though, he decided.

For now, he relished the feeling of Tony’s strong grip on his hips as they moved together. Too
much more of this and he was going to come in his pants, but just when his pleasure almost
overwhelmed him, Tony pulled away and pointed to the bar. “Drinks!” he shouted, although Nacho
could barely hear him over the music.

It was a little quieter at the bar. Nacho let Tony order for him—he hoped no one would card him,
but he saw a lot of guys who looked even younger than him.

Just as their drinks arrive, a young man approached Tony. “Hey, I’m looking for my friend. I think
you know him?” He handed Tony a flyer. Nacho peered over his shoulder—there was a picture of
a smiling young man, Latino like him, with a diamond earring. The words MISSING - GABRIEL
MONTEZ were written in bold letters at the top. There was some more writing, but Nacho couldn’t
read it in the dim light. Nacho frowned—he looked vaguely familiar.

Tony handed the flyer back. “I don’t know, man.”

“I’m sure I’ve seen you with him before.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the only guy Gabriel fucked around with. Not by a long shot.”

The young man’s expression hardened. “You sure you haven’t seen him?”

Tony shrugged. “Not recently. Sorry I can’t help.”

***

Nacho told this story to no one, partly because he wanted to forget, but also because it made him
look like an idiot. So many red flags, each bigger and redder than the last—the outrageous sum of
money offered, being taken hundreds of miles from anyone who knew him, the “accidental” cuts,
Tony’s religious mania, that stray earring in the jewelry box, the smell in the basement, and worst
of all, Gabriel, whose face he had seen just hours before laying eyes on this flyer, sketched in
Tony’s book, but Nacho hadn’t been able to place him.

The thing is, no one knows what type of story they’re in until after it’s over. Nacho thought he was
in a coming-of-age adventure, but instead, he’d stumbled into horror. An audience can spot the
signs easily because they know what’s to come, and no one expects to meet a monster in the flesh.
They live in airport thrillers and on movie screens, or else in sleazy crime TV shows featuring
murders that happen somewhere else to someone who isn’t you.

He was sure Gabriel had thought the same thing.

***

When they got back to Tony’s, they headed immediately for the bedroom. Nacho was a little
drunk, which just made him more desperate. His body burned like it was on fire, sweat glistening
on his skin, his heart racing, his chest heaving. They pulled off each other’s clothes and landed on
the bed. Their movements grew more and more frenzied as they kissed and stroked each other.

Tony broke away and reached for the nightstand’s drawer. Nacho’s heart leapt into his throat—
what was he getting? A dozen scenarios played in his mind—what would Tony ask of him? What
would he be willing to do? His cock was so hard it hurt. He’d say yes to anything.

But instead of producing a condom or lube, Tony pulled out something else. “Do you know how to
pray the Rosary?” he asked, dangling the beads in front of him.

It took Nacho’s lust-addled brain a few moments to understand what he was saying. “Uh, yeah?”
“Good. Here, take it.”

Nacho accepted the rosary. It was made of black and red beads. This was very weird. “So what,
we’re atoning for our sins?”

Tony smiled, close-lipped. “No.” He gestured towards the foot of the bed. “Kneel on the floor, in
front of the cross. No, don’t get dressed,” he said as Nacho reached for his clothes.

Naked, he walked to the spot Tony had indicated but hesitated, looking back over his shoulder.
Tony also got out of bed, his hard cock bobbing as he moved to the chair where he’d sat last night.

Nacho was starting to understand why Tony paid for sex.

“What are you waiting for?” Tony asked. “Get on your knees.”

“You want me to say the whole rosary?” Nacho clarified. That was a lot of praying.

“Yes.” He gave his cock a lazy stroke. “Let’s contemplate the sorrowful mysteries.”

Nacho swallowed and looked at the crucifix on the wall. “I’m, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I
don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.”

“I thought you didn’t believe anymore.”

“I don’t,” Nacho said.

“Then what’s the problem? It’s just words, right? And I hate to bring it up, angel, but I am paying
you over ten thousand dollars.”

That was true. Slowly, Nacho got to his knees, facing Tony.

“No, turn around,” Tony said. “Face the cross.”

Okay, then. Nacho got into position. The floor was hard on his knees. He fidgeted with the rosary
beads; how many times had he prayed with his mother, especially when she was ill? The words
should be effortless, but they stuck in his throat, and the thought of his dying mother made his cock
wilt.

“The sign of the cross first,” Tony prompted.

Nacho crossed himself. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
He shut his eyes; the words came easier. “I believe in God, the Father almighty, the Creator of
heaven and earth…”

He heard Tony start to breathe harder, accompanied by slick sounds. Nacho tried not to think about
it.

He made it through the Apsotles’ Creed, the Our Father, the three Hail Marys, and the Glory Be
—“Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; as it was in the beginning, is now, and
ever shall be, world without end. Amen.” He stopped and looked behind him. “Uh, my knees are
really hurting—can I get a towel or something?”

“No. Keep going.” Tony’s face was as flushed as his erection.

Nacho turned back around and ran his thumb over the large red bead the marked his place, trying to
think of the first sorrowful mystery.
“The Agony in the Garden,” Tony said for him.

Right. Nacho continued. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

He made his way through the rest of the prayers, with Tony prompting each of the mysteries—the
Scourging at the Pillar, the Crowning of Thorns, the Carrying of the Cross, the Crucifixion and
Death… Nacho tried not to think about what he was saying, but the gruesome images of Jesus on
his way to die kept popping into his head anyway. The monotonous prayers lulled him until he
imagined himself nailed to a cross, wearing a crown of thorns and blue flowers. A chill swept over
him, making his skin break out in goosebumps. His knees throbbed with pain.

Nacho startled as a shadow fell over him. He opened his eyes to see Tony standing over him,
stroking himself.

“Open your mouth,” Tony said. There was a dark edge to his voice that startled Nacho into
complying before he had a chance to think. Tony put a hand on the back of Nacho’s head, holding
him in place. Nacho dropped the rosary, and the beads clattered against the floor. For a moment,
Nacho thought that Tony was going to shove his dick in his mouth, but he merely aimed it. He
stroked himself a few more times, then came with a moan, shooting thick ropes into Nacho mouth.
He flinched, but Tony held him firmly in place.

When he was finished, Tony forced Nacho’s mouth shut and held his hand over it. “Swallow,” he
commanded.

Nacho did, although it made his stomach lurch. His mouth tasted salty and sour.

Tony wiped the corner of Nacho’s lip with his thumb, cleaning away a spot of cum. “Amen.”
Finally, he released his head, but then he grabbed Nacho’s arm and encouraged him to his feet.
Nacho’s aching knees almost gave out, but Tony caught him.

Tony cupped his face and kissed him. “My fallen angel,” he murmured. “You did well.” He tugged
Nacho’s hand. “Come on, let’s shower.”

Dazed, Nacho allowed himself to be led. Tony’s shower had clear glass doors, and it felt strange
bathing behind glass, unnervingly open. Tony soaped him up and kept kissing him, murmuring
something, but Nacho wasn’t listening. Instead, he felt disoriented and nauseated, and a little bit
like he wanted to cry.

But this is what he agreed to, right? For all that money? Nothing bad had really happened, had it?
Except he said he was uncomfortable, and they did it anyway. Tony broke his promise. The
thought made Nacho feel like a child, crying about things being unfair. He’d made this deal, hadn’t
he?

Looking back years later, it was easy to see how Tony had manipulated him and taken advantage of
his inexperience. But he was new to adulthood then, and he didn’t want to seem naïve—which
was, of course, the most naïve response of all. Considering the horrors Tony had planned for him,
maybe that night shouldn’t loom so large in Nacho’s memory. But there was something bitter in
that more mundane betrayal of trust than the terrifying attack in store for him the next day. For
years, he blamed himself for agreeing to any of it, but lately he realized how futile that thinking
was. There was not another decision he could have made, considering the circumstances and who
he was up against. It was inevitable.

***
Nacho woke up alone again the next morning, with another note on the pillow:

Angel—

No rest for the wicked, but I’ll be back tonight. Steer clear of locks, my angel.

—Tony

Nacho balled it up and threw it away. A headache throbbed in his temples—he was hung over, but
not too badly. While the headache was dull, his mind was sharp. He needed to get out of here.
Agreeing to come had been a mistake, but Nacho was a fast learner. He wouldn’t stick around to
see if things got any weirder.

But first, he was getting paid. After getting dressed, he got Tony’s jewelry box out and dumped it
into his duffle bag. (He saw the earring again, but again it didn’t register.) Briefly, he considered
the risk of Tony reporting him to the cops, but it seemed more likely that Tony would want to
avoid any scrutiny about the barely legal kid he’d been paying for sex. Rich people might play by
different rules, but it would still be too embarrassing to risk. At least, that’s what he hoped. The
only thing he didn’t take was the pinky ring Tony had given him. He left that behind as a fuck you.

As he was packing up his toothbrush and razor, he noticed something—Tony’s necklace with the
key lay on the sink. Nacho vaguely remembered Tony taking it off before their shower last night.
He must have forgotten it.

He should have left it alone, but he didn’t. The thought of cleaning Tony out was too appealing. So
he took the key and himself down the stairs, and down the stairs again, and to that dull, gray door.
The door swung open with ease.

The smell hit him first, making him gag, but it took several shocked moments for Nacho to fully
register what he saw. An honest to god crucifix dominated the room, with a body nailed to it.
Decay had stripped its identity, but flesh still clung to the skeletal remains in places. A set of
knives and various instruments of torture lay on the ground beside it. In one corner was a freezer,
splattered with blood. Jars sat on top, containing organs floating in murky liquid—a heart, some
less recognizable organ, and worst—a floating pair of eyes.

And there was more. Five skulls stared at him from shrines made from bones, with jars of their
own. There were photographs showing what had happened to people those bones belonged to—
medieval tortures so terrible his mind refused to understand. Nacho at last recognized the
anguished faces, the models Tony had used for his “contemplations.” He thought of the angel in
the sketchbook with the blank face, except it wasn’t blank in his mind. He saw his own face on it,
twisted by torture.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained frozen. It was probably only a few minutes, but it felt like
centuries. He didn’t scream, or cry, or throw up, even though he felt like doing all of those things.
Instead, he turned and walked back up the stairs. It felt like someone else had taken over his body
and was piloting him. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t leave his ID for Tony to find. It had his
real name and address. Go upstairs first, then get his things, then get the fuck out.

But just as he picked up his duffle bag, he heard the front door open, and Tony called his name.
His numbness faded as panic swept over him. What should he do? His breaths came in shallow
gasps, too fast, and the world grew white around the edges. He was going to faint...

No. He sucked in one more breath and held it, then let it out in a controlled exhale. The autopilot
took over again. By the time Tony stepped into the room, he was the picture of calmness. That
remained a strength of his—the ability to keep his screams on the inside.

Tony smiled. “There you are! Didn’t you hear me calling?”

“Yeah—I yelled back." Lying was another one of his strengths. "I was in the bathroom though—
guess you didn’t hear me.”

Tony cocked his head. “You feeling all right? You look a little clammy.”

Nacho shrugged. “Hung over. I’ve been puking all morning, actually.”

“My poor angel.” Tony approached him.

It took all of Nacho’s willpower not to flinch when Tony cupped his face. In fact, he even managed
to lean into the touch, as if he welcomed it. “I wasn’t expecting you until later,” he murmured. He
played with Tony’s tie. Maybe he could choke him with it.

“I’m only here for a moment. Just here to pick up my necklace—I forgot it. Have you seen it?”

Nacho froze. The necklace was in his pocket. “No,” he said. Maybe he should have made up some
excuse as to why it was in his pocket. Not that it would have mattered.

“I think I left it in the bathroom.” Tony started to head there, but Nacho tightened his grip on his
tie. He didn’t try to strangle him—he wasn’t confident he could overpower him—but instead drew
him into a kiss. “You can stay for a little while, can’t you?” he said when he broke away. “I can’t
stop thinking about you.” Get him horny, then slip away to the bathroom to “get cleaned up” and
replace the necklace. Not a great plan, but the best he could come up with.

Tony fell for it. Or at least, he seemed to. “How can I say no to that?”

They kissed again, and soon fell on the bed. Tony stripped Nacho’s shirt off and got on top of him.
When he reached for Nacho’s fly, Nacho tried to push him away, his excuse about cleaning up
ready in his mouth…but then Tony reached into his pocket and pulled out the necklace.

Tony dangled it in front of Nacho’s face. “Well, what do you know?” he said, not with anger or
surprise, but instead with demonic glee. “Here it is! Is there something you want to confess?”

In the moment it took for panic to grip him, Tony flipped him onto his stomach and pinned an arm
painfully behind his back. “Don’t feel too guilty,” Tony panted as wrestled Nacho under control.
“It wasn’t a test you were meant to pass. You’re only human, and this is how it always goes. First
paradise, and then disobedience, and then repentance—” He twisted Nacho’s arm so hard Nacho
screamed in pain. “—and finally, salvation. Shh, now. Hold still or I’ll break your arm.”

For the moment, Nacho complied. Tony grunted in satisfaction, then leaned down to press his lips
to Nacho's ear. “Don’t worry, angel—I’ll make sure you get to heaven. Eventually.” He started to
pull Nacho’s pants off, but that gave Nacho the moment he needed to break free. He tried to run,
but Tony tackled him, and they fell to the floor. As they grappled, Nacho got a lucky shot to
Tony’s groin—he shrieked in pain and doubled over. Nacho scrambled to his feet and kicked him
in the groin again before racing out of the room and flying down the stairs, faster than he had ever
moved in his life.

The first place he ran was the front door, but after swinging it open, he hesitated. It was such a
crazy situation—who would believe him? Not the police—not in this neighborhood, not from
someone like him. Instead, he left the door open to make it look like he’d run, then doubled back as
quietly as he could and headed for a weapon—down in the basement. The last place Tony would
look for him, he hoped.

Going back into that dungeon remained the hardest thing Nacho has ever done in his life. Every
nerve screamed the same primal message—run—but somehow, he summoned the strength to enter.
As soon as he shut the door, his stomach heaved, and he vomited on the floor. Shakily, he wiped
his mouth on the back of his hand, stepped around the mess, and approached the crucifix. Averting
his eyes from the corpse, he grabbed a knife from the torture kit and scurried to a spot behind the
door. Tony thought he was God, but he was predictable, too. He knew Tony would want to
commune with his saints after failing to find him.

And Nacho would be ready for him.

It took a long time before he heard Tony’s footsteps on the stair, slow and plodding. Nacho got to
his feet and held his breath as he clutched the knife in his sweaty hand. The door opened, and a
shadow fell across the room. Nacho made himself wait for Tony to take a few steps in before
pouncing. He wrapped an arm around Tony’s neck to hold him still and cut off his air while he
stabbed him in the back, angling the knife upward towards his heart. Assuming he had one. He
stabbed him again and again and again, and then held onto him until Tony went limp.

It was almost anticlimactic the way Tony collapsed to floor. Nacho expected him to leap up at any
moment, but Tony just lay there in a widening pool of his own blood. Nacho nudged him with his
foot, rolling him onto his back. His chest still moved up and down, but very weakly. Their gazes
met, and Tony opened his mouth as if to speak. Instead, a gurgling wheeze bubbled up from his
lips as blood poured out. Sometimes he wondered what Tony had been trying to say. He would
never know.

Nacho watched for another minute to see if the breathing would stop. When it didn’t, he stepped
over his body and shut the door, leaving Tony to die slowly among the remains of his victims—the
only justice Nacho could offer them.

An eerie calm settled over him, like he was watching himself from a distance. He’d passed the time
waiting for Tony by thinking of everything he’d need to do once Tony was dead. The cartel had
taught him how to get rid of evidence. First, upstairs for a shower—he washed himself quickly but
thoroughly, making sure to get the blood out from under his nails. After getting dressed, he took his
duffle bag and bloody clothes downstairs. He put the clothes in the washer and turned it on. He’d
wash the bed sheets separately.

Next, he got gloves and cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink and set to cleaning every
place he’d been, erasing any fingerprints he might have left behind. He vacuumed, too, to catch any
stray hairs. The only thing he was guilty of was defending himself, but he had no desire to be the
star of the circus that would spring up as soon as Tony’s “saints” were discovered. Besides, he
wanted to keep the jewelry—the bastard owed him money. He took the pinkie ring, too.

All told, he took him three hours. The last two things he did were make the bed again and pack his
newly washed jeans and underwear. They were still stained, but since both were black, it hardly
showed, and at least they didn’t smell now. He’d burn them when he got home. Then he put on his
gloves again—one more task for him to do.

Down to the dungeon one last time. Tony had finally died; he resisted the urge to spit on him. He
reached into his pants and pulled out his wallet—Tony had about $300 on him, which was enough
to get Nacho home. He replaced the wallet, then picked up the knife he’d used to kill him. He’d
wash it and take it with him.

He paused for a moment before leaving. A bone-deep weariness made him too tired for terror. He
 might have said a prayer, if he thought anyone was listening. But he was sure now that no one was.

***

The journey home was remarkably uneventful. He took a Greyhound bus back to Albuquerque. His
dad was surprised to see him back early, and laughed when Nacho hugged him and wouldn’t let
go.

The nice thing about already being a part of the criminal underworld was that he knew who to go
to help him fence the jewelry. He threw in the knife, too. No questions were asked. Turned out that
the watches were worth $5k each, with the other jewelry and the knife bringing in another $2k. He
ended up netting $10k, after the fencer took his cut. The initial thousand, plus $5k, plus another
$10k - that put his total at $16k for his troubles, more than he expected. He used it to pay off debts
and get himself a used van.

Tony’s body was discovered three days after Nacho returned home. It was front page news across
the world. Tuco was obsessed. Holy shit, that’s the hookers and blow guy! Fuck, that’s some sick
shit! I told you he was a freak. A small cottage industry formed dedicated to the study of Tony and
the mystery of his death. Everyone agreed it must have been a victim who got away. The cops
promised no charges would be filed for anyone who wanted to come forward. Nacho was pretty
sure that was a lie. There was a close call when the cops interviewed the man who had been
searching for Gabriel—his best friend, as it turned out. He’d said he’d seen Tony with someone the
night before he was killed, but then he recanted. Years later, he told a reporter why he’d taken it
back. I wasn’t about to help them drag him back. God bless him, whoever he is. The general public
seemed to agree. There was no appetite to bring Tony’s killer to justice.

Nacho had always been quiet, so no one noticed when he got quieter. He confessed to his dad about
selling drugs, and then quit working for the Salamancas, determined to turn his life around. That
only lasted about a year. He felt guilty sometimes about throwing his second chance away, but not
guilty enough to stop. Over time, it started to feel like a weird dream—something that happened to
someone else.

Over the years, several books were written on Tony. Nacho read them all. He learned that Tony’s
father was a notorious hitman for the Mafia, and that his grandmother was fanatically religious.
One particularly deranged author claimed that the literal hand of God had struck Tony down,
which was why there was no evidence. Two documentaries were made; one of them won a prize.
Someone wrote a novel imagining how it happened—the hero of that story was the lover of one of
Tony’s victims who used himself as bait in a trap to get his revenge. The novel was adapted into a
TV movie, which many people mistook for the truth. Nacho overheard an argument once between
two tweaker customers of his about whether or not the case had been solved. They asked Nacho
what he thought. He said he didn’t know.

Nacho learned a lot from Tony. He learned not to trust. He learned to assume a betrayal was
coming and protect himself accordingly. He learned he liked older men with broad chests and salt-
and-pepper hair. It surprised him that the attraction remained, although it was matched by an equal
level of repulsion. He went looking for that sort of man in gay clubs in distant cities, where no one
knew his real name, and played out how he wished that week had gone, as if he could rewrite the
story.

But he couldn’t. And now here he was, back in bed with a killer. He hadn’t escaped, after all.

Chapter End Notes

I'm back, babey! Thanks for being so patient. I had bad writer's block due to various
reasons, but it seems to be getting better. Fingers crossed that keeps up! Next up - Lalo
gives Nacho some perspective. Much to my surprise, this fic actually has a pretty
hopeful ending - I couldn't bring myself to leave Nacho too miserable after sending a
serial killer after him lol.

I've made a playlist! You can listen to it on YouTube here and Spotify here. I first
heard the poem Tony cites when I sang the Ceremony of Carols back when I was in
choir, so you'll find that on the list. It's very haunting so I think it fits the mood well.
"Devil" is from the wrong decade, but it's what I played when I was getting in the
mood to write the scene at the club.

As always, I would love to hear from you! I'll be answering unanswered comments the
next couple days.
 The Compatibilist
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Lalo was not home in time for dinner.

His cook, Yolanda, insisted on serving Nacho all by himself in the dining room, a delicious feast
that she must have had planned for Lalo. It felt weird, being waited upon like the lonely lord of a
manor in some Victorian novel. He considered asking Ciro to join him, except he didn’t have a
good feel for the politics of casa de Lalo—it might make problems. Besides, he didn’t really feel
like talking anyway.

Afterward, when he was full and a little sleepy, he browsed Lalo’s library. It had surprised him at
first that he had one, and then he’d felt stupid for being surprised. Every step of the way, he’d been
wrong about Lalo. His collection was a mix of Spanish and English titles, all mixed together. If
there was some underlying organization, Nacho couldn’t understand it.

A title jumped out at him—No hay salvación sin pecado. No salvation without sin. Curious, he
pulled it off the shelf—and immediately dropped it, as if it were on fire. It was a Spanish language
book about Tony, with his grinning face on the cover.

That was the kind of coincidence that might make some people believe in ghosts.

He shut his eyes, sucked in a breath, and reminded himself that he wasn’t that kind of person, then
retrieved the book from the floor.

He remembered the first book written about Tony—it came out about a year after his death. Nacho
was still in his repentant phase, determined to make the best of his second chance by moving back
in with his dad and devoting himself to the shop. He’d been happy at first to have something to
throw himself into, but at a year in, he was restless. That gratitude for life he had felt so keenly
when he escaped had soured into dissatisfaction, even though he had promised himself that would
never happen.

Sometimes he felt like something was deeply wrong with him. He often thought about the
conversation he and Tony had that fateful night when Nacho agreed to go with him. We are matter
in motion, set off at the beginning of time, descended from a long line of actions and reactions…
Maybe he was stupid for thinking he could control himself. Maybe his fate was already sealed.
Maybe he should stop fighting it.

Every Sunday before church, he and his dad watched a corny morning news show. One day, the
cheery host put on her serious face as she introduced the author of a new book about the shocking
murders out of Phoenix last year. That was the only warning he got before Tony’s smiling face
filled the screen. Saint Killer, the book had named him.

Nacho made it to the bathroom before he puked, but only just barely. His father fussed over him,
wondering if it was stomach flu or food poisoning. He told his dad to go ahead to church without
him. Nacho didn’t know it at the time, but he’d never go back to church again.

When his dad got home, Nacho lied and said he probably had the flu. His dad agreed it was best if
he stayed in bed for a few days. He hated that Tony still had this power over him—would he
always be reduced to this whenever he heard someone mention his name? It was likely to be quite a
lot over the years. The bastard was memorable.

That was when he decided to buy Saint Killer and read it, starting very slowly and giving himself
breaks. When he reached the end, he read it again, then again. It was strange to read a real mystery
that only he knew the answer to. He studied a photo of Tony’s corpse carefully, to remind himself
that Tony was dead and that he had killed him. There was nothing to be afraid of anymore. Nacho
had made sure of that.

It made Tuco’s tantrums seem like nothing in comparison. Nacho had handled Saint Killer. He
could handle anything.

And here he was, in a different killer’s lair. Still handling it. He would spend his life handling it.

He opened this new book to the title page. It was inscribed—a gift to Lalo from Tuco. Happy
birthday, nerd. I used to sell this guy drugs—sickest shit you will ever read, guaranteed. – Tuco
(the cool cousin)

Nacho tucked the book under his arm and went outside to the patio. The bodies of the assailants
had been swept away to who knew where. All that was left of that night was a few blood stains.

After an hour or so of reading, the sun set and the stars appeared—a dazzling spectacle unavailable
to him in the city. It reminded him of his trips to see his abuela when he was a small child; she
lived in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Mexico, too. He’d gotten into his childish brain somehow that
only Mexican skies had stars; why else wouldn’t he be able to see them at his home in
Albuquerque? He wondered why his parents had left; it was so beautiful here.

Still no Lalo. Nacho waved to Ciro as he went to bed; the kid had night watch, along with four
other guards. Some new guys had arrived while he and Ciro were at the store. Nacho would
probably be safer tonight than he had been in a long time. Maybe he’d get some sleep.

***

And he did, although it was fitful. He had the nightmare again of Lalo bleeding out on the ground,
burbling and choking as blood poured out of his horrible, grinning mouth. Suddenly, Lalo
morphed, and it was Tony bleeding, just as he had when Nacho had killed him. Except this time,
Tony pushed himself up off the floor, his bloody grin the same as Lalo’s. He started to amble
towards Nacho—he noticed the knife in his back. Tony twisted his arm around to pull it out, then
lunged for Nacho, blood pouring from that horrible grin—
Nacho awoke to find that grin looming over him, barely visible in the pale moonlight streaming in
from the open window. In a panic, he surged upward and shoved his awakener forcefully off the
bed and onto the floor.

“¡Dios mío, Ignacio! You always this violent when you wake up?”

Nacho quickly turned on the bedside lamp; the ghost transformed into Lalo, who was picking
himself off the floor. He sounded more amused than upset.

An amusement Nacho did not share. The clock read 3:00. He rubbed his face. “Jesus, Lalo. You
couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Hey, you’re in my bed. What was I supposed to do?”

It was true. Why hadn’t he slept in the guest room? He’d been too tired to think; it just seemed
natural to sleep here. “Sorry. I’m a little on edge.”

“Still?”

Nacho stared at him. “We were ambushed by assassins one day ago. We almost died. The question
here isn’t why am I on edge, but why aren’t you?”

Lalo shrugged. “We lived, didn’t we?” He tutted. “Those bags under your beautiful eyes are dark as
bruises. You okay?”

“Bad dreams,” Nacho admitted. But the last thing he wanted to do was talk about it, so he changed
the subject. “How’d it go with Eladio?”

Lalo scowled. “I should have guessed that Eladio wouldn’t want to believe it. Fring is an ‘earner.’”
He spat that last word like a curse. “We need proof.”

Nacho swallowed. “Fring seems like someone who would cover his tracks.”

“Everyone slips up,” Lalo said with a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I’ll figure it out—I always do.
Besides, Fring knows what he did. Desperate men are dangerous, but they can also get very
stupid.” Lalo’s grin faded a little. “We should be ready for some tricks. There’s a good chance he’s
going to try to smear you.”

Nacho blinked. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you’ve been newly promoted. That makes you an easy target for blame.” Lalo took his
hand. “Don’t worry, amorcito—I won’t believe a word of it.”

And just like that, Fring’s last grip on him released, like the line to an anchor being cut. But the
surge of relief didn’t last long; nausea gripped him. He wrapped his arms around himself. Just
another delay of the inevitable.

Lalo’s gaze fell on the nightstand, and he picked up the book. “Some light bedtime reading?” he
asked with a quirk of his eyebrows. “No wonder you’re having nightmares.” He flipped through it.
“You like this sort of thing?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither. These sorts of killers, they’re such amateurs.”

Nacho stared at him. “Amateurs.”

“Yeah, amateurs! It’s not their job—they’re just doing it for fun, which is why they’re so weird.”

“So you don’t ever enjoy killing?”

“Well—I wouldn’t go that far, but that’s different from”—he flipped through the book again
—“fucking corpses and pickling their organs? Man, Tuco was right—this guy really was sick.”

“He kind of looks like you.”

“No! Really?” Lalo held the book to his face. “You think so?”

They had the same coloring and the same build. But other than that, the resemblance wasn’t
especially striking now that he saw them side by side, especially with Lalo’s moustache.

Lalo set the book down, then gave Nacho a long look. “I know what you need,” he decided. “A
good, hard fuck.”

A headache twinged behind his eyes. “What I need is more sleep.”

“Exactly! And what’s more relaxing than an orgasm? That even puts me out.” He put his arms
around him. “And there’s nothing better to remind you that you’re alive, yes? Don’t worry, mi
amor—I’ll do all the work.” He pressed his lips gently to Nacho’s, keeping the kiss shallow as he
rubbed his hands in slow circles on Nacho’s back.

Nacho meant to push him away. He drew back from the kiss and opened his mouth, trying to make
the words come—seriously, I’m not in the mood. But instead of words, a sigh of pleasure escaped
his lips. Getting into bed with Lalo the first time had been a part of his self-destruction. He didn’t
expect to survive long enough to regret it. But the wolves at the door had been chased away, and
against all odds, it looked like he might live. For now. And that thought sent a different kind of
terror through him. His arms wrapped themselves around Lalo; his mind was in turmoil but his
body knew what it wanted.

Lalo’s lips moved to Nacho’s ear. “Should I stop?” he murmured, his breath warm on Nacho’s
skin.

Words were too hard, so Nacho answered instead with a kiss. His lips parted in invitation, which
Lalo accepted, sliding his tongue inside.

When they came up for air, Lalo gently encouraged him to lie back. He caressed Nacho’s cock
through the thin fabric of his boxer-briefs; it didn’t take long until Nacho was fully erect. Lalo
dipped his hand inside Nacho’s underwear and closed his fingers around him, giving his cock slow,
firm strokes. He kept it up until Nacho couldn’t hold back a moan; he wasn’t sure why he’d been
trying to.

He whimpered a little when Lalo’s hand pulled away. Lalo hooked his fingers into the waistband
of Nacho’s underwear and peeled them off him before tossing them aside. After a few more
strokes, Lalo unbuttoned his shirt—not slowly, but not quick enough. Nacho half-sat up and
reached for Lalo’s fly, but Lalo batted him away.

“I’m doing all the work, remember?” he said. “Relax.”

Relaxation was the farthest thing from his mind, but he obeyed. Lalo’s bed was surprisingly soft,
like lying on a cloud. He let his eyes drift shut, letting the waves of arousal wash over him.

When he opened his eyes again, Lalo was nude, his own cock flushed and hard. He reached into
the drawer of his nightstand and pulled out a bottle of lube but set it aside as he lay on top of
Nacho. The heat and weight of him anchored Nacho to his body; the last of his thoughts dissolved
as Lalo kissed him again.

Eventually, Lalo broke away and trailed kisses down Nacho’s body. When he reached Nacho’s
cock, he took it into his mouth—no teasing. Nacho threaded his fingers through Lalo’s hair and
held on for dear life as Lalo sucked him.

Just when he was about to come apart, Lalo pulled away and reached into the nightstand for the
lube. He put a pillow under Nacho’s hips and pushed his thighs back, opening him up. The slick
sound of Lalo preparing himself echoed in the otherwise quiet room; Nacho’s cock throbbed in
anticipation.

Another kiss. “You ready for me?”

Unable to find his voice, Nacho nodded.

He lined himself up with Nacho hole and pressed into him. Nacho pushed back, opening himself,
and Lalo’s cock slid in all the way to the root. Once he was fully seated, Lalo paused to allow
Nacho to adjust while he stroked his cock. It was too much and not enough. Nacho thrust his hip
upward, encouraging him to move.

Lalo took the hint and started fucking him in earnest, stroking Nacho’s cock in time with his
thrusts. Pleasure filled Nacho, overflowing into all the empty places inside him until he was
nothing except sensation, alive alive alive…

Lalo’s thrusts grew faster. “I’m close,” he moaned.

His arousal surged even stronger. “Don’t pull out.”

“You sure?”

In response, Nacho wrapped his legs around Lalo and squeezed. Lalo’s responding laughter melted
into a groan as he fucked him harder. Nacho was close too—he batted Lalo’s hand away from his
cock and took over himself, jerking himself as Lalo’s thrusts grew erratic. It didn’t take long until
orgasm hit him like a tidal wave, his cum splashing on his hand. With one final moan, Lalo pushed
inside him and spilled while Nacho’s orgasm was still pulsing through him.

It seemed like a long time before he came back to himself. Lalo was now curled by his side,
whispering sweet Spanish nothings in his ear, so quietly Nacho could barely register their meaning.

Which was fine. Meaning was overrated, anyway. When he finally fell asleep, it was in Lalo’s
arms.

***

Nacho woke up alone, but not disoriented. He sat up and stretched—for the first time in a long
while, he felt rested. After showering and brushing his teeth, he got dressed and went to find Lalo.
He found Yolanda first, who directed him to the patio, then told him she’d bring him breakfast.
She did not frame it as a question.

Lalo was sipping coffee and reading a book. He stood to greet him and gave him a kiss on the
cheek. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually.” They sat. Nacho craned his neck to see what Lalo was reading—it was the Tony
book. “Thought that wasn’t your thing.”

Lalo shrugged. “I never got around to reading this one—it was a gift from Tuco. He knew this guy,
if you can believe it. He was his dealer.”

Nacho hesitated. He didn’t want to tell Lalo the whole story, but he’d never breathed a word of his
encounter with Tony to anyone, ever. What would it be like to talk about it? “I knew him, too.”

“¡No mames! How?”

“The same way Tuco did. I was the one who delivered the drugs to him.” Nacho chewed a nail. “I
did coke with him once.”

Lalo laughed. “Wow! A serial killer on coke. What was that like?”

“We had this weird conversation—he told me about this study some scientist did on people’s
brains. It showed how machines can predict what people are going to do before they’re aware that
they’re making a decision.”

“What, the Libet experiment? Overhyped, in my opinion. I never found it very convincing.”

Nacho blinked. “You’ve heard of it?”

“As a philosophy major, I’ve always been interested in that kind of research.”

Nacho blinked again. As a what? “You went school?”

“Texas A&M, class of ’82.”

Huh. Is that why Tuco called him a nerd? “And you majored in philosophy?”

He pointed at the yin-yang tattoo on his arm. “Yeah. I got this tattoo when I graduated. What did
you expect me to major in? Cartel economics?”

He had a point, but— “Why?”

“Why not?”

“Seems like a waste of time, I guess.”

“Learning is never a waste of time. That was my mother’s opinion, anyway. She really didn’t want
me going into the family business, not after my dad and brothers were killed. I agreed to go to
school in the States, away from cartel business for at least four years. If my mind was still made up
after that, she promised never to nag me about it again.”

“Did she keep her promise?”

“She died while I was at school—heart attack. It turns out she’d been born with a small hole in one
of the chambers of her heart.” Lalo stared into the distance for a moment, his face blank. “I had a
little bit of a crisis after that. Searched around for some answers to what it all means.”

When Lalo didn’t elaborate, Nacho prompted him. “Well, did you find any?”

“I found out I should be looking for questions instead.”

Yolanda emerged then with breakfast. Lalo and Nacho moved to the patio table as Yolanda put
plates of fresh chilaquiles in front of them. The smell of the freshly fried tortillas and perfectly
cooked eggs made his stomach growl—recently, his appetite had been poor, but now he felt
famished. Yolanda also provided them with cups of rich, steaming-hot coffee.

The food occupied Nacho’s attention for a little while. When he was finished, he felt more
grounded, although the whole past few days still felt more than surreal. They enjoyed the peace of
the morning for a little while in silence. “So why don’t you find the Libet experiment convincing?”
Nacho asked after a while.

Lalo held out his forearm. “Hold your arm out, like this.”

“Why?”

“Humor me.”

Nacho did so. “Now what?”

“Did you pay attention to the exact moment you turned the thought of ‘moving your arm’ into
action?”

“Not really.”

“Lower your arm and try it again. Pay attention this time. Separate the thought from the
movement.”

Nacho did it again and tried to pinpoint the moment.

“You can’t do it, can you?” Lalo asked.

“But isn’t that the whole point? That that feeling is an illusion?”

“The experiment measured at what point a person paid attention to the decision, not when it was
made. Of course it’s delayed. And what does it mean if ‘you’ make a decision? Are you only your
conscious mind? Aren’t your unconscious thoughts also yours? Why is consciousness the only
measure of will?”

Nacho pondered it. “I don’t know.”

“No one does! Like I told you, it’s about the questions. The right ones are more interesting than
answers. I bet you’ve got a few good ones already. What’s stopping you from asking them?”

Silence again as Nacho turned Lalo’s words over in his mind. Yeah, he did have a lot of questions.
“Do you ever feel like everything you do is just staving off the inevitable?”

“The inevitable? What do you mean?”

What did he mean? “That you were always meant to die a certain way.”

“What way?”

Nacho shrugged. “Violence, I guess.”

Lalo had the nerve to laugh, although he stopped when Nacho shot him a dirty look. “Oh, don’t
look at me like that! I don’t mean to laugh, but it is a funny question. With the business we’re in, of
course we’ll die by violence!”
“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“It beats dying like my tío is dying,” Lalo said, suddenly more serious. “We all have to go
sometime. I want to go out fighting. Don’t you?”

His strange dreams came back to him—himself standing with a gun to his own head, Lalo on the
ground laughing as he bled out from the throat. Were they premonitions? Something else? “How
about dying in bed of old age?”

Lalo chuckled. “Well, stranger things have happened, I suppose. Seriously, it’s not worth worrying
about. We’re alive now, aren’t we? And one way or the other, we’ll end up dead. It’s the only
thing every human on earth has in common—other than that we’ve all also been born.” He shook
his head. “Sorry, amorcito, but that’s a shit question.”

Yeah, it kind of was. “Could I have made a decision different the ones I’ve made?”

“Better! I think you both could have and did. You ever heard of Schrödinger’s Cat?”

“The one that’s alive and dead?”

Lalo snapped his fingers and pointed at Nacho. “That’s the one! So how can it be that the cat is
alive and dead until we open the box?”

Nacho thought about it. “Because we don’t know if it is or not until we open the box?”

“Right. We can only know when we pay attention—when we observe. But the trouble is, the math
that explains quantum mechanics tells us that all particles exist as probabilities. If it’s true on the
quantum scale, and all matter is made of quantum particles, then doesn’t it have to be true on the
macro scale as well?”

“What are you getting at?”

“That all possibilities happen; reality branches into different universes.”

“So you’re saying every time I make a choice, another universe is spawned?”

“More like, you made the only choice you could have made given the universe you found yourself
in. Had the circumstances been different, you would have made a different decision. But they
weren’t, so you didn’t. It’s not worth worrying about.” He nudged Nacho’s foot with his own.
“How lucky we both are that we’re in a universe where you were so horny for me that we were in
the bedroom rather than on the patio when the assassins arrived!”

Nacho rolled his eyes.

“Is this what’s been really bothering you?” Lalo asked. “Are you having an existential crisis?” His
tone was teasing.

Maybe he was, but for the moment, he felt strangely okay. He felt well-rested for the first time
since he could remember. His stomach was full, his normal aches and pains from his injuries
quieted. He closed his eyes tilted his head to let the sun warm his face. When he opened his eyes
again, his gaze fell on a patch of blue flowers growing along the wall. He breathed in deeply; he
could just barely catch their sweet fragrance.

There was more trouble for him in store. Lalo was right—they’d both likely die by violence one
day, but he was also right to point out everyone died eventually. Maybe Lalo would discover his
 treachery. Maybe Fring would get his revenge. But for now, he would enjoy the moment. It
seemed a shame not to.

Chapter End Notes

The end! Thank you so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoyed! This fic sent
me down some wild rabbit holes. If you'd like to read more about some of the things
Lalo and Nacho talked about, here's a comment with a list of links to some of my
sources.

I'll be answering comments I haven't gotten to yet - I appreciate every one of them.
And thanks so much for sticking around - next on the agenda is finishing my damn
WIPs, although Lacho Week 2023 is coming up at the end of October, so I'm going to
have some short one-shot treats for you (including a bottom!Lalo fic )

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