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Fandom: Once Upon a Time In Mexico
Title: Sands Sense Drabble Set
Rating: General
Notes: Five senses, five hundred words. It seemed like a good match.


Losing his sight didn't really matter. That was what he kept telling himself each time he walked into a corner (at full speed, because being blind was never going to slow him down). Each time he tripped on the unevenness of the pavement. Whenever he burned himself with the lighter trying to light a cigarette. When he found himself looking in the direction of a mirror. He told himself over and over again each time he was reminded of how much he'd depended on his eyes.

He had lost the whole world. What could sight possibly be next to that?


Now the world was a jungle full of sound. The bright, harsh notes of a car horn squawking at him. The chatter of children underfoot. The slow smooth slide of footsteps behind him. A rustle as fabric was moved aside. The click-chunk of the gun being cocked. The jingle of bells... or was it something else? The soft thud of a body hitting the ground.

Before now, he'd thought of Mexico as being full of space and of silence. Now the place just would not shut up. He couldn't get the silence back no matter how hard he tried.


The world was a mixture of smells. Towns were spices and chilli and shit in the streets. Fideo was tequila, harsh and tearing the back out of his throat. Lorenzo was cheap aftershave, overlying piss-warm Chango and second-hand perfume. El was dust and desert dryness, flat earth and no trees, just the cheap pine of that guitar. Ramirez smelled like that damn dog he was always carrying these days.

He couldn't smell himself. Did this mean he didn't exist? Not able to be seen, not able to be smelled. Maybe that explained why he talked so much now.


The air had flavour. The sounds and the smells of the world around him had gained a way of conveying their deeper textures. Gunshots dried out his throat with their saltiness; the metallic overlay of blood tainted a lot of his food now. The tartness of the lime, the sharpness of tequila; these were almost overpowering now. Being near a car was nauseating. Leather came through too - an oily taste which accompanied the smell of boots, of holsters, of belts. There was so much more than he'd ever imagined.

However, he was willing to pass on soap in his mouth.


The linen of his jacket, harsh under his fingertips. Blood, slick then sticky and finally gritty. The weight of the gun, the texture of the grip, the smooth coolness of the trigger. Smooth plastic, his sunglasses. Glass is cold, always cold. Wood is warm, and if it's been kept right, he can feel the grain, the story it's telling under his fingertips.

His hands can tell him stories now. He finds himself curious about the stories he can get them to tell. What kinds of stories would another person's skin hold? How can he learn this greatest story of all?

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