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He’s fucking dirt these days, leadership unceremoniously plucked from his grasp, taken away without much consideration to what he thinks. Hadn’t been no announcement or anything. El Cid had arrived, and one word—white—and suddenly Miguel’s chopped liver, trailing the group, no seat saved, no ears open to what he has to say.
Guerra’s not white, though, neither on the outside nor on the inside.
He’s a bastard through and through, is what he is. His betrayal sticks the deepest; Miguel had made him his fucking lieutenant, yet it’s Chico who jumps ship first, sidling up to El Cid, and proceeding to throw taunts Miguel’s way just to ingratiate himself to his new boss.
Fucking pathetic, really.
But it’s Miguel who’s got the boot against his neck, not Chico, whose willingness to use him as the butt of whatever dumb joke he thinks up seems appreciated by Hernandez. Doesn’t matter much that Miguel finds he could fucking kill Chico every time he so much as smirks his way.
Traitorous fucking cockeyed freak.
Shut the fuck up only makes Chico grin—makes him lick his chops in obvious pleasure—so Miguel keeps his cool for the most part, taking his own quiet solace in the way it pisses Chico off. He can feel the narrowed eyes follow him around the unit, a sharp, baleful focus there, demanding his attention where everyone can see.
Miguel doesn’t give it. Doesn’t want to. He doesn’t like how Guerra kisses the ring—how he mocks and goads like the rest, loud and buffoonish.
“You gonna do your job, man… or are you a fag?” Chico says, pushing it, even when Miguel’s been doing the gracious thing of not grabbing him by his stupid long hair and slamming his head into the table until he’s a bloody fucking mess.
He finally snaps, turning viciously amidst the motherfucker’s ridiculous bak bak baks. He’s no fucking chicken; “You shut the fuck up,” Miguel spits. “I’ll take your fuckin’ eyes.”
Chico’s expression lights up, his head tilting as he chomps his gum, Big Red all blowing in Miguel’s face—cinnamon, the heat filling his head.
That haze doesn’t go anywhere—just festers, turning into a static in Miguel’s head that spreads like a virus. Makes his body shake, makes him think, Forget El Cid, forget Rivera.
“Come and try,” Chico taunts, and Miguel can read the writing on the wall, thank you very much, but the end of the day comes and goes and Rivera still has his eyes.
Miguel slams Chico against the concrete wall of their little meeting spot instead. Hears Chico give a hiccup of a laugh, air punched out of his lungs before he can start acting like that’s exactly where he wants to be, pressed between rock and the hardness of Miguel’s body.
“He says he’s gonna kill you,” Chico huffs, a little tune to his words, delivered derisively as Miguel forces his pants down.
“Maybe,” Miguel mutters, that unhurried grunt belying his impatience. The sound of his own heartbeat in his ears drowns out a lot of the rustle of their clothes, that angry tension he’s been holding in his body winding tighter and tighter in preparation for release.
He wants to beat Chico black and blue, till he can’t laugh out another breath—but he wants to use him first—see if he can’t have his own little victory.
Guerra’s cocky, in his own way. Thinks he can have his cake and eat it, too. Spit in Miguel’s face and still ride his dick or whatever.
Miguel whips him around and pulls him close, solid weight against him—used to be a good thing, a respite, before it all went to shit. Used to take the edge off; now he just makes sure Chico’s mouth is on his when the door opens like he planned. If there’s one thing El Cid hates more than Miguel, it’s the maricones sashaying around Em City. He’s said so more than once—how the likes of Hanlon and Fiona deserve to die; what he wouldn’t give for the chance to whack ‘em—get them out of his sight.
That’s why it has to be a kiss; why Miguel wants Chico wrapped around him, hand down his boxers and tongue in his mouth when light spills into the room.
Gay.
He hears Chico’s stuttering gasp through the triumphant roar in his ears and his body feels hot, spite making that lingering cinnamon taste of Chico in his mouth extra sweet, doubly so as he sees the flash of Chico’s panic, head turning too-late to the already empty doorway.
It’s what he gets. What he deserves, the fucking cocksucker.
Miguel leans back and grins, satisfaction trickling through him, rotting him from the inside out. And when Chico turns back to look at him, betrayed, he’s got that same doom in his eyes, and Miguel just laughs in his stupid face.
He’s a dead man walking, yeah, and now when he goes down, Guerra’s soon to follow.