“I could kiss you senseless,” Luis says, idly flickering the rusty lighter on and off, the orange flame illuminating his features in the darkness— Luis glows, Leon thinks, he glows.
Leon rolls his eyes and grumbles something, a murmured “Don’t be ridiculous,” before his eyes glue themselves back to the contraption in his hands.
“You’re doing it all wrong, Sancho.” Luis speaks again, voice smooth and confident as he steps towards the worn down table, gently plucking the contraption from Leon’s fingers.
The mechanism effortlessly clicks into place, and Leon almost wants to roll his eyes again, but he doesn’t— Too transfixed on how beautiful Luis looks with his brows pinched together in concentration, chewing his bottom lip.
God, Leon craves. He craves so much that he aches with it.
“Voila! All done.” Luis announces proudly, and Leon smiles. Leon actually smiles.
Luis catches all the things Leon hides. The coldness in his stare, the vacancy in those icy eyes that really means he’s thinking about something, really thinking about it.
“You keep thinking those thoughts so deeply, Mi Amor, and you’ll drown in them.” Luis says, voice adorned with its typical playful edge, but he cares. His eyes show that he cares.
Leon snorts, “I can swim, y’know.”
Luis just smiles and shakes his head, then, a playful tut, “Even the best swimmers drown, Sancho.”
“Tell me, Leon, what is it you want?”
Leon opens his mouth; “I just want…”
But the words don’t come out.
“I could kiss you senseless,” Luis says again, but this time—
This time blood spills with every word, a strained cough, this time, Leon is begging the world, don’t take this sinner from me, not yet.
“Don’t talk,” Leon speaks, a pleading crack in his voice that betrays the way he tries to keep his hands steady, but the wetness in his lashes is not something he can hide.
“Don’t cry, Mi Vida— Don’t cry,” Luis soothes, eyes fixed on Leon, watching, admiring, adoring. “No lover leaves a rose garden without blood on their hands.”
Leon laughs. Soft. Disbelieving, because even with his last breaths, Luis is reciting sappy poetry to him.
He kisses him. He kisses Luis and he tastes blood on his lips.
He tastes something he can’t have. He tastes Luis.
You can’t force the stars to align when they’ve already died.
“Leon?” Luis asks, calls for him in his time of dying, voice so soft and fragile that it makes Leon ache. “Yes, Luis?”
“I’ll tell every star about you.”
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