// dusk //

A flash of indigo and scarlet sky when the stable door opens, and Cristobal can see his profile against the setting sun-- a moment caught in perfect freeze-frame.

"hey," he says softly, and Cristobal nods, then turns back to the reins he's cleaning, worn leather slipping softly through his fingertips. The oil he uses clings thickly to his throat, the smell sweet and cloying like the hay crushed underfoot as the two of them move carefully, cautiously in the half-light.

"mi belleza," he hears drifting in the darkness, a answering low whicker, and Cristobal knows El Gaucho is with the horses, murmuring softly to them in Spanish, his lips pressed against the curve of their necks.

I keep them for my wife and daughter, he'd said once, his fingers warm and soft where they'd rested lightly on Cristobal's shoulder. They both love to ride.

But not enough to keep them here in this place, and days spent awaiting their return had stretched into weeks and then months, and Cristobal knows that no one has dared to speak their names aloud for over two long years.

"mi encantador seņora," whispered quietly in the dusk, lost to the shadows, breathed into the stillness like a prayer. A shift in the layers of darkness, and he holds the breath in his lungs until tiny silvery specks start to dance at the far edge of his vision. "Cristobal," he hears, and it's murmured close to his ear, so close, laced with teeth and tongue and fingers that find his own, still slippery with oil, sliding hot and urgent over hard, silky skin.

"Cristobal, please--" spoken so low he almost misses it-- the words licked into his mouth, tasting of salt and sweat on his lips, his back pressed flat and hard against the worn wood of the stalls.

"Shh," he says, "shhh," and when the reply of fingers curling around his hips is sudden and fierce and all-too-real, he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes.

-for superpana, who asked for something with El Gaucho.

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