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“Pour me another, kid.”
The small six-year-old painstakingly tipped the bottle over the tiny shot glass next to Sands’s fingers. The lip clinked on the glass’s rim, and there was a tinkle of liquid as it was filled neatly to the brim. The boy set the bottle, too large for his small, chubby hands, down on the tabletop with a thunk; Sands picked up his drink and tipped back half of it, swallowing with a little click of his throat.
“You know, you really should try this,” he said, pushing the remainder of his drink in the little boy’s direction, who looked interestedly at the sloshing liquid inside of the shot.
“I’d not advise it, young man,” Snape said from behind his book, idly turning another page. “I assure you, you do not want to do that. And I do not say that because of the thrashing you will receive from your mother.” He looked over the top of his book. “You will regret it.”
Sheldon grinned apologetically, clambering to his knees to carefully cap the bottle. “Sorry, Uncle Andrews,” he said, pushing the glass back into Sands’s waiting hand.
“Grow some balls, kid,” Sands snorted, tossing back the rest.
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“Hold still!”
“Get that thing out of my face!”
“Would you prefer to go about with the broken nose, you ingrate?”
Finally, Sands stilled. Snape sighed, pointing his wand directly at Sands’s nose, and Sands jumped a little as his nose healed back to normal before he slid his glasses back into place.
Snape stepped back and stared down at Sands, who was sprawled in his chair with blood all over his face.
“You keep going out like that, you’re going to wind up dead,” Snape said flatly.
Sands just flicked his wrist. “One has to do something with one’s self, you know—not all of us are content to hide in a hole away from all the bad men.”
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Snape was beginning to hate it whenever Santiago decided to leave Little Sheldon Jeffrey over at Sands’s house. Snape didn’t know if it was for the boy’s benefit or his own, but invariably Sands would spend the day driving Snape insane.Such as right now. Truly tasteless music was blaring at full volume from his speakers, and both the Elder and the Younger Sheldon Jeffreys were dancing wildly about the room—sans trousers.“Shot through the heart, and you’re to blame!” Sands spun about and pointed at Snape. “You give l-o-o-ove a bad name!”Snape rolled his eyes and left.
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The meal was pleasantly silent (for once) as they ate their lunch at their usual table. Sands had insisted they buy the red wine, and it had turned out to be fairly good. Snape would have rather just had tea, though.Sands tossed back a shot of tequila before sucking a lime slice dry, tossing the desiccated peel on the table and going back to his pibil. Truly, Snape didn’t know what to make of this uncharacteristic lack of prattle from Sands, but he wasn’t about to question his good fortune.When they were finished, Sands finally spoke.“You’re buying.”
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Snape hated that predatory smile. He especially hated it when he was in this particular situation, with Sands’s hand sliding down the front of his trousers, expertly undoing the buttons with one hand.That grin always meant something bad was going to happen. And within a few moments, Sands spoke.“What do you want me to do?” Sands asked slyly, his hand sliding back and forth.“Nothing, you stupid arse-bandit,” Snape growled.“This says otherwise,” Sands purred, his sunglasses glinting in the light, and Snape made to reply, but then Sands leaned forward and Snape had nothing more to say.
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Snape suddenly snapped completely awake.He wasn’t sure why for a few moments—but it didn’t take long for him to figure it out.He wasn’t alone in his bed.He was squished back up against the wall, his arm twisted painfully beneath him and his cheek pressed against a bony chest beneath the stiflingly hot sheets. Blinking, Snape looked up; Sands was hugging him around the waist, wide awake—and he was smirking.With a wild noise of horrified fury, he shot up, shoving Sands as hard as he could away from him and out of his bed. Sands gave a loud yell as he landed on the floor with a resounding thud, dragging the sheets down with him as he went. Snape leapt out of bed, outraged, and then realized he was wearing absolutely nothing below the waist. He snatched up a corner of the sheet, pointlessly drawing it about his waist, like the last tatters of his dignity.“Get out!” he roared at Sands, who was lurching to his feet, grinning unrepentantly and seemingly oblivious to his complete lack of clothing.Sands chuckled as he groped for his trousers. “You know, you’re really no fun at all.”
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“What color is it?”Snape swung his head around to look at Sands, who was leaned far back in his chair with his head tilted up towards the ceiling.“What color is what?” Snape asked, going back to his journal and scribbling a note as to why the author of a particular article had the brain of a flobberworm.“The sunset, of course.”Snape paused reading again, regarding his neighbor with a wary eye. After judging it was safe to answer, Snape replied curtly, “Pink and gold, as it always is.”Sands grunted. “Mexican sunsets are always so damned ugly.”
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Snape threw open the door to Sands’s house in a towering rage.“What in the hell is all this noise?!” he bellowed at Sands.“It’s called music, dickweed!” Sands shouted back over the cacophony blasting from his stereo. Snape growled, and with a flick of his wand, silence suddenly fell like an anvil. Sands, who’d been singing wildly along to the tune, snapped his mouth shut into that insufferable pout that Snape hated so much that he nearly hexed it right off his face.“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?!”“No,” Sands replied, and pressed play.
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Sands tipped the bottle, listening to the tinkle of liquor into his waiting glass. He counted the seconds to the top before setting the tequila back down on the table. He heard Snape sip at his own glass of whiskey, probably reading the paper or one of those fairy books he was always sticking his big nose into.“Let’s trade,” Sands suddenly said. “I want a shot of your shit.”“You are well aware that I hate tequila,” Snape answered shortly.“And you are well aware that I like your whiskey.”“Then get up and get it yourself.”“Fuck you.”
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When those two men walk down the street, the crowds part. People know to stay out of their way.The local children have learned respect. A swift kick in the kneecap followed by a barrage of ego-deflating venom have a way of teaching someone to behave.They always sit at the same table at the café—the manager always reserves it on Wednesdays.A handful of stories about them circulate throughout the town—less than half are even slightly accurate. Only one of their subjects finds them amusing.And yet life is peaceful for Snape and Sands down Mexico way.
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The music drifts into the street through the thin wood of the front door. It’s loud, it’s exuberant, it’s challenging. It rises and falls with the beat set by the tapping foot of one of the players as the guitars circle one another, their notes twisting and winding about each other like serpents. The music swells and softens, then swells viciously again into a song fit to beat any band.The guitars reach a frenzied pace, snapping and biting at one another, demanding that the other submit.That is, until Sands hits a sour note.“Fuck!” he shouts.Snape smirks.
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Snape turned the page of his newest potions journal, a pencil dangling loosely from his fingertips, should he feel the need to make a note in the margin.“Wanna go out and do something?”Snape looked up at Sands, who was currently sprawled out across his couch, his shirt riding up to expose a strip of pale stomach.“No, I don’t,” Snape replied, going back to his reading.“Neither do I,” Sands said simply. “It’s too hot.” He pulled his shirt down. “Freezing in here, though.”“If it’s so awful, you can leave,” Snape said idly.“I’m not going anywhere.”
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Sands’s funeral was a quiet affair. His family—his remaining sisters, a brigade of nieces and nephews he’d never met (and hadn’t wanted to)—came down to collect his body, taking him back to bury him beneath the blue skies of California with his parents and grandparents.The entire Santiago brood had gone along to pay their respects, a winding mourning procession across the desert. Mr. Santiago in particular was absolutely heartbroken.Snape didn’t go.He stayed in Mexico, just he and a bottle of whisky in the echoingly-silent house.He’d never forgive that fucking Yank for dying on him.
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It’s late afternoon; the pool of shade from the umbrella overhead has slunk away, and now thick sunlight creeps under its brim to press heavily against his face. The bottle next to him is cold and sweating, the glass slippery under his fingers.He idly drags the heels of his sandals over the soft, sticky tar of the roof, letting his head loll back into the loose cloth of his chair. Beads of moisture gather on his upper lip and leave cool, salty lines on his neck.His fingers move slowly across the table, through the wet ring left by his tequila; he grabs a chip from the woven basket and scoops up a generous portion of guacamole, and washes it down with a slug of the heavenly cool from the bottle in his hand.There’s a rustle beside him, and then his companion speaks, his voice rough and sleepy with the heat. “Do you want to go back down?”He shakes his head; tendrils of his sweat-damp hair bounce lightly against his face and stick to the back of his neck, and he pushes his sliding sunglasses back up his slick nose. “Nah. Let’s stay a little bit longer.”