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Martín didn’t know which of his masters was cruelest— fate or Andrés. He wasn’t quite sure there was much of a difference between the two.
Each person holds within themself a multitude of selves, and infinities within them. In this life, Andrés and Martíns’ selves intertwined tightly yet all too briefly, chasing each other like comets before shooting off into space. For each heartbreak experienced, however, Martín firmly believes that an infinite number of passionate, joyous moments sprouted and exist somewhere within the multiverse.
It doesn’t hurt to imagine.
—
For instance: their final conversation in the monastery could have gone several different ways.
The first is the most idealistic, a fantastical piece of imagination. Andrés would have kissed him again, and again, and again and again and again until they were both breathless. The mitochondria would be proved irrelevant as pure pragma overtook them both. Martín would confess his love into Andrés’ mouth, who would respond by kissing him again. Their love would course between them until they couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended inside their alcove, rest of the world be damned.
Martín contemplates this parallel reality the most.
The second is more primal. Similar to the first, Andrés would kiss Martín again and againagainagain until the both of them were positively alight with desire. Lust would overtake them as they bonded in the most primitive of ways, raw and rough and real. Martín finds humor in the sacrilegious nature of this particular fantasy, and he knows Andrés would as well.
A multitude of alternate scenarios of just this one conversation exist within Martín’s mind. Ones of passion, desire, love and ones of even further humiliation.
He thinks he likes the first one the best.
—
Out of the two, Andrés was the artist. He was able to transfer his emotions onto paper, to translate his passion into song. Martín was always more pragmatic, preferring the meticulous planning and precise nature of mathematics to the chaos of art. This did not mean he lacked passion, however; Martín felt as deeply and intrinsically as he breathed air.
Their opposing sensibilities yet similar nature is what made them the perfect match. They balanced each other out aesthetically while only encouraging each others’ ardor.
But he’s getting sidetracked.
The point— Despite Martín lacking Andrés’ artistic nature, he’s taken to particular paintings of the two within his mind. Idyllic, blissful scenes of things they should have done or places they should have been, united as one.
Martín wishes he could have taken Andrés to Argentina. The man’s libertine tastes would have adored the European influence and artistry of Buenos Aires, not to mention the nightlife. A vibrant city chock full of color and culture. He’s desperate for Andrés to try his first mate.
Further, though, he would take him across Argentina, to places even he had never visited. To the sunny beaches of Mar del Plata and frigid mountains of Patagonia; exploring history in Rosario and roaming the streets of Córdoba; wine-tasting in San Jose and conversing with gauchos in La Pampa. He wants to explore it all with Andrés by his side.
He has flashes of mental images with him. The two of them, side by side in a disgustingly flashy convertible, Andrés as sophisticated as ever and Martín just as carefree. They drive and drive and drive, Martín singing along to the shitty eighties Eurotrash he likes and Andrés going along with it because he likes Martín. A few times they stop for food and gas, but they just keep driving.
Their nationwide journey ends with them together at Tierra del Fuego. Martín knows Andrés would enjoy the romantic symbolism of it: the two of them, hand in hand, at the literal edge of the Earth (or their Earth, at least).
Ideally, they would stay there forever, suspended eternally at the edge of the world with nobody but each other.
Martín thinks he doesn’t need to try for realism in his fantasies.
—
Some, however, are more real than others. Not by his own volition, of course— if it were up to Martín, he would remain in their fantasy paradise forever— but as a form of deranged masochism where a voice inside of him feels the need to poison his optimism.
He’d never love you like that and he never has, it says, venomous and stinging. You self-loathing, deluded fool. He’s gone and even if he wasn’t none of that would ever happen and you’re pathetic and dependent and needy and look how fucking lost you are without him to guide you?
Martín swears that the more he hears that voice, the more it turns into that of Andrés.
The reality of it isn’t difficult for him to understand, really. Andrés was nothing if not sadistic, an omnipotent cat tormenting all the little mice who dared cross his path. He knows this, because he knows Andrés, and he knows that he was more than happy to be his servant. Tripping over his own feet eager in fact.
This Andrés, however, this unusually vicious vision of Andrés, kicks him while he’s down in the most violent of ways.
Martín envisions yet another alternate reality of their final meeting, one where rather than confess his affection, Andrés instead turned around and left after telling him of his date with Tatiana. In another, Andrés spews vile words at him, biting and harsh and so very unlike any way Andrés had ever treated him. He becomes violent in some of them, leaving Martín dead or closely approaching it.
He thinks that, if real, this Andrés might have hurt less.
—
A common scenario Martín plays out in his mind is the what-if had he been present at the Royal Mint heist. This particular scenario has been played out countless times, rolled up and pulled apart like a spool of thread until it becomes endless.
The good: Andrés has an almost supernatural revelation of his affection for Martín and manages to break through his seven-foot wall of psychological problems in about an hour. He confesses his undying love and Martín confesses his back and they kiss and kiss and— well.
Together, the two of them become the Río and Tokyo of the group (sans excessive horniness and fighting), the Heist Husband power couple running the show and keeping everyone in line.
It’s not their plan, but they make it theirs and it’s beautiful.
Andrés never dies, of course. Martín knows, knows that Andrés knows, that in no possible universe, not once in infinity, would he abandon him as the rest of them had. He would run back through the tunnel and never leave his side.
In some fantasies, they manage to get away, shooting down cops and kissing in glee and running off like giddy schoolchildren. In some more mawkish ones, Martín is rained down on by the hail of bullets meant for Andrés and dies heroically while cradled in his arms. Gross.
The bad: He can only watch. The others have filled him in on the details of the Mint heist almost gratuitously, so he can picture every moment that went wrong almost exactly. Ariadna, Tokyo playing Russian Roulette with Andrés, his medicine being crushed, his leadership being undermined, and— well.
Narcissism be damned, Martín fucking told him so. The plan wasn’t right because it wasn’t theirs, it wasn’t the ingenious creation that they had worked in seclusion on for years. Nobody else understood, and how could they? It was sacred and it was beautiful and it belonged to nobody but them.
He should have been there. Andrés shouldn’t have been there in the first place, but reckless and independent as he is, Martín should have followed. Part of him wants to kick himself for being Andrés’ lapdog even posthumously. Part of him stopped caring a long time ago, if he ever truly did.
—
As much as Martín seems to enjoy torturing himself, he appreciates his fantasy much more than reality, thank you very much. It’s why his favorite fantasies are complete fiction, existing only within the confines of his mind.
Like this— The two of them together all across the world. Both of them completed their beautiful heist as partners, as one, and are now basking in the glory. Enjoying their post-robbery honeymoon, if you will.
While Martín adores his home country, Argentina is a separate fantasy. This one entails them exploring places unexplored by either of them for the first time. Foreign, far away places they’d talked of visiting.
He likes the idea of them alone on their own little island (thanks, Tokyo and Río) somewhere overseas. A hut in La Désirade, perhaps, or La Isla de Mona. Life there is simple and quiet and they are perfectly alone with each other.
Their days are spent in leisure, sometimes separate but always close. Andrés draws everything from the ocean to the cows to Martín himself, which is drawn the most frequently. Martín roams the island, exploring and basking in the peace. Exploring and swimming and hunting is how they spend their days in their own Garden of Eden.
Of course, just like reality, the island lifestyle has its downsides. Most notably the other inhabitants and Europol constantly breathing down their neck. Fuck, this is why Martín prefers fantasy.
—
Not all realism is bad, though. Martín realized this through a particular set of fantasies that he had developed long before Andrés’ demise.
These fantasies are the most primal of their kind. Raw, real, and dark, they’re all Martín and Andrés and their desire. Some are kind, some are not, some are tame, and some are nothing of the sort.
The common factor: their passion. It’s what brought the two of them together so many years ago and what has kept them tethered ever since. In his fantasies, of course, he experiences all of Andrés adoration unbridled, more than any of his five fucking wives had ever felt.
Yes, it’s carnal and wet and downright filthy, but that’s what makes it real. No matter how rough or or perverted, it’s always them at heart. Their mutual desire is a knife that cuts the both of them and leaves them impaled, embracing for eternity.
—
Love’s a bitch.
Inevitable, yes, but bites nonetheless, especially when you love someone like Andrés. It’s like nothing Martín has ever felt— like nothing anybody has ever felt, probably— and he knows that it’s the same for Andrés.
Neither of them are stupid. They knew that they were both headed down, down, down, the second that they met and decided to keep meeting, but who cares when you’re falling into oblivion hand in hand?
Mutually assured destruction is love, really. Two cars speeding at each other, knowing the collision will come headfirst and death will be instantaneous for both.
If only they had dived in deeper.
If only things— something, anything— had been different.
If only they’d had more time. If only they’d been better people. If only they’d been stronger.
If, if, if.