Chapter Text
Lalo snorted as Carlos threw his cards on the table, revealing a five and eight. “Lo sabía! I knew it! You’re shit at bluffing, man,” he said as he swept his winnings from the middle of the table towards himself. Mainly Carlos’ chips, who had hoped to get Lalo to fold against his bet of a few hundred, while everyone else had been smart enough to drop out early.
“Thought I might try, at least,” Carlos muttered sheepishly and took refuge in his drink.
“See, that’s your problem! You thought? You have to commit, not -”
Nacho picked the cards off the glass table, ignoring Lalo’s rant as he shuffled and dealt. Lalo was the most annoying poker player he knew, and that was saying something; Nacho had played with Tuco, after all, and Tuco wasn’t exactly known for his patience at loosing or getting played. A Salamanca gene, perhaps. It took a different form in Lalo, though, who liked to mock any move his fellow players made, endlessly ribbing Carlos for being a bad liar, Domingo for being too scared to raise, and Blingy for believing in the heart of the cards, or some shit.
With Nacho, he’d found a different sore spot.
“Nachito, don’t let Domingo fool you, eh? He’s got nada.”
Nacho barely winced at the nickname anymore, too used to hearing it from Lalo’s mouth. That didn’t mean he liked it being uttered at the poker table. He needed respect from those guys, not ideas of the cutesy pet names their boss liked to call his second-in-command.
Still, he raised obediently. His hand in this new round wasn’t much better than before, but he knew Domingo well enough. Just as he’d expected, Domingo gave a weak smile and shake of his head, dropping his cards face down on the table. The others having folded before any of the board had been revealed, Nacho added his meager winnings to the pile in front of him and leaned back, watching Blingy shuffle.
The regular nights of poker had been Lalo’s idea. Something about getting to know the guys who worked for him, though Nacho was pretty sure it was really an excuse to make fun of them. Just another opportunity to hold his power over their heads, knowing full well they were too scared to talk back. At least by the third night, they’d finally dared to develop the conversation at the table beyond sycophantically laughing at Lalo’s jokes. Their rounds almost resembled a typical poker table now, mismatched pieces of conversation and laughter here and there, interspersed with old anecdotes and the news from the street.
Just a normal round of poker between a cartel lieutenant and his underlings - if one discounted Lalo’s leg nestling up against Nacho’s under the table, almost aggressive in his need for pushing boundaries. There was only so far Nacho could shift in his seat without drawing attention, and at least he was reasonably sure the mirrored surface of the glass tabletop hid Lalo’s advances, so he suffered in silence, determinedly looking anywhere but at Lalo.
Of course, Lalo wouldn’t have any of that.
“Che, cabrón! Get us another round, yeah?” he said, nudging Nacho with his knee for good measure, which finally earned him the flinch he’d been gunning for. Like a kid in a zoo, knocking against a terrarium until they got a reaction.
Nacho tried not to let his annoyance show as he stood and collected some of the empty bottles from the table. It wasn’t like Lalo was behaving rudely, not with the rank he held. It was a perfectly reasonable request, spoken in an almost friendly manner - if only Nacho didn’t know how much Lalo enjoyed ordering him around.
“Another mate, Carlos?” he asked, trying to distract himself from his simmering anger at Lalo.
“Yeah, thanks, Nacho.”
Carlos never drank, something about addiction running in his family. Ironic, considering the substances he made his buck with.
As Nacho headed to the kitchen, he wasn’t surprised to hear the sound of a chair being pushed back behind him. Follows me around whenever he can get away with it, he thought as he opened the fridge. It was stacked with Modelos for the night, a state that, earlier that afternoon, had made Amber sigh in disappointment at each of her bi-hourly visits to the kitchen. Nacho grabbed a few and, turning around, found Domingo standing behind him, ostensibly waiting to help him carry.
He bit back a derisive remark. Domingo didn’t deserve it, and it would probably further damage whatever was left between them, but his patience for Domingo’s attempts to endear himself to him was wearing thin. It was high time for Domingo to get over that day at El Mich’s. A mistake had been made, a lesson taught, and the bruises on Domingo’s skin had long since disappeared. And yet here he was, trying to redeem himself for something Nacho wanted nothing more than to forget, that hopeful look in his eyes, eyes that since that day didn’t dare meet his for more than a second –
A stab of guilt and remorse that turned Nacho’s stomach every time. A useless regret, when Domingo knew damn well that he hadn’t had a choice in the matter.
He shoved the bottles at Domingo, turning to get more.
“Where are Amber and Jo?”
Smalltalk. Domingo held the fridge open while Nacho collected another Modelo and the mate for Carlos.
“At a rave downtown.”
Nacho listened to his own voice, feeling like a piece of glass was stuck in his throat, an imagined pain he was speaking past. Somehow, it had become the norm for him when speaking with Domingo.
“Ah, lucky,” Domingo muttered, eyes flicking up, skirting quickly past Nacho and around the kitchen.
“Yeah.” Nacho cast about for something to say. “Jo was talking about it all day. You know how she gets.”
“Yeah,” Domingo echoed, clearly at a loss for what to respond, too. For a moment, an uncomfortable silence stretched between them, then -
“That one follows you around like a sick puppy, Nachito!” Lalo called from the dining room and Domingo ducked as if something had been thrown at him. Nacho looked at Domingo, hesitating, then brushed past him and headed back. As he set the bottles down, he threw Lalo a dirty look from behind Blingy and Carlos, but really, there was nothing he could say, not here. If Lalo wanted to be an ass to Domingo, it was his prerogative, though Nacho couldn’t help but liken his behavior to that of a jealous lover, disparaging anyone he deemed too close to Nacho. It was ridiculous and childish and spoke of a possessiveness that made Nacho’s skin crawl. One of these days, he’d tell Lalo to cut it out.
Lalo tapped the newly dealt set of cards lying face down in front of Nacho’s place at the table. “You joining us, or going to make out some more in the kitchen?” He threw a smirk Domingo’s way, who glanced uncertainly at Nacho before he retook his seat.
Nacho carefully schooled his face into a blank mask. “Not really my thing,” he said nonchalantly as he sat and picked up the cards. Spade queen and club ten. Not great, not bad, either.
“Raise.” Lalo threw a couple chips in the middle of the table, Nacho following suit without comment. Below the table, Lalo’s leg once again inched towards his.
“I’m out.” Domingo pushed his cards away and folded his arms, looking down at the table.
Lalo snorted derisively. “Ése nomás prefiere mirar,*” he said, then grimaced when Nacho kicked him in the shin. He recovered quickly enough, hiding the expression, but kept his leg where it belonged, for once.
Blingy dealt three cards to the board. A four, eight and nine. One card missing Nacho for a straight, too small a chance. Lalo raised again and leaned back in a relaxed, self-assured manner, ostensibly paying the table no mind as he asked Blingy about his new Chevy. Nacho was about to fold when a hand dropped onto his knee beneath the table, thumb stroking lazy circles over the joint. Scowling, he raised over Lalo, who only smirked and continued talking cars. His fingertips moved up a few inches, dragging teasingly over the inseams of Nacho’s pants.
Blingy dropped out, but Carlos and Lalo called, Carlos looking carefully optimistic until the turn. Queen of spades. His face an open book as usual, he folded and took a consoling drink from his mate. Just Nacho and Lalo left now.
Lalo’s hand wandered higher, a light touch. Nacho shifted, trying to act casual, but the fingers tracing patterns on his thigh distracted him despite his best efforts. He wanted to shove Lalo off, but where one hand under the table might go unnoticed by the guys, two might draw attention.
When Lalo raised, Nacho looked at his cards just to buy time while he tried to form a thought other than I’ll kill him, I’ll fucking strangle him for this. Then, a light brush of Lalo’s hand against his crotch almost made him jump, and he shoved a few chips from his pile towards the pot just to have an excuse to move. Lalo, still engrossed in his conversation with Blingy, kept a straight face.
Another round of bets set and done, Blingy dealt the last card.
Jack of hearts.
Jackpot. Not a royal flush, sure, but…
“Quinientos.” Lalo tossed a black chip in the middle.
“Thousand.” Nacho chucked in two.
Instead of following suit, Lalo’s gaze fixated on Nacho, finally dropping the act of not paying attention. “You have a tell, Nachito,” he began, grabbing a chip from his pile and turning it around in his hand.
Nacho gritted his teeth at the pet name. Third fucking time.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Sì. You go all quiet, and you look like you want to murder someone. Like now.” Lalo cocked an eyebrow at him, then broke out in a grin. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding! You always look like that.” He laughed, Blingy and Carlos joining awkwardly, and matched Nacho’s bet before rapping his knuckles against the table. “A ver.”
Nacho tossed his queen and ten down next to Lalo’s queen and four. Straight beats two pair. The smugness over his win trumped his annoyance at Lalo, and he swept his considerable winnings towards himself.
“Better luck next time, Lalito.”
The word had barely crossed his lips when he knew he’d fucked up as. The room fell silent, no laughter, no casual conversation, not even the rustle of clothes. Nacho sat stunned, a sinking feeling in his stomach as his mind raced. Had he really just said that? Was he fucking crazy??? Lalo was his boss, enforcer for the biggest cartel south of the border, de-facto head of the Salamanca family, and Nacho, who usually kept his mouth shut just fine, had dared calling him Lalito?
There was no taking it back, no unsaying it. He felt all eyes in the room on him, was sure of Lalo’s icy glare assaulting him from the side. But when he looked around, impulsive in his need to stare back at the predator, all that greeted him was a toothy smile and a clap on the back.
“I’ll hold you to that,” Lalo declared, no sign of his usual animated demeanor slipping. The hand on Nacho’s thigh, however, was gone, the spot cold in contrast.