Chapter Text
Martín thought the hardest thing he’d have to go through in his life would be Andrés’s confession. And truly it was a hard night.
His dream had become reality, then it had become his worst nightmare. He was so close to a life he dreamed of. He was so ready for more. He wanted so much, and he thought he finally had the chance of getting it. But he was an idiot.
He didn’t get what he wanted because when has he ever? No, of course not. The love of his life told him they were soulmates. He told him he loved him. He told him he’d loved him more than he had any woman, but he could never just have a good thing. They were soulmates," he said, “but only 99 percent.” He loved him, but he left him. No one ever compared to his Martín, yet he didn’t stay for him.
Of course Andrés walked out on him. Of course this was his fate, wallowing in his depression thinking of nothing but him. He’d cried more than he ever had before that night, and it didn’t stop. Of course, no matter how much he drank, no matter how much he danced, no matter how much he strummed away at his guitar until his fingers bled, his heart wouldn’t stop breaking.
He felt the cracks spread across his body, he felt weak, he had no appetite, and he could barely get out of bed, let alone leave his apartment. His mind was filled with nothing but thoughts of his love and how he lost it; he couldn’t do anything without imagining his beloved Andrés talking him through it. He was insane, he was lost, he was falling apart, and he couldn’t care less.
Well, that was until one day the news was filled with news on a heist, a heist of the mint of Spain. The plan he’d heard proposed to him long ago by that pretentious little nerd so fucking obsessed with his father’s legacy he couldn’t see the flaws in his ideas. All of it really did have Sergio written all over it. And would you look at that, Andrés was on screen too. His beautiful face taunting him, his gorgeous voice haunting his every waking moment and keeping him from any resting ones. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, he ould barely do anything but watch the TV, waiting for more, waiting for Andrés, waiting to see him one more time. God, if only that time wasn’t the worst thing he could possibly hear from him.
Andrés was dying. His Andrés was dying. His dear sweet artist was due to live only a few more mere months, and his stupid brother had dragged him into that photocopying hell, destined to die in that cold mint alone and bullet-ridden before the damn disease could.
But then he got a call. Maybe it was crazy to pick up the phone, maybe it was crazy to let Sergio talk him into what he did, maybe it was flat-out insane to sneak his way into that godforsaken building and scoop his Andrés up into his arms and plop him down into a truck despite his protesting, but Martín would rather die than do nothing when he could be the reason Andrés got out alive. Once he heard Sergio tell him Andrés needed him and they needed a way out, Martín said yes. Not for Sergio or his stupid plan or any of the other members of his little club, but for Andrés. For the man he loved more than anything, for the man he’d lay down his life for, for the man he just needed to see one last time. Just needed to save.
Yet all of that was not the hardest experience of his life. No, not by a long shot, because this was so much worse. He was living in a beautiful home in the Philippines; a gorgeous beach decorated his view, trees swayed softly in the wind, and the sky was decorated with luscious clouds, and yet he was more tortured than he had ever been cooped up in that little apartment in Palermo. Why? Well, he was living with Sergio, the man who ruined his life, and Sergio’s precious new girlfriend, the woman who spread lies and accusations about Andrés, the man he’s in love with, with no evidence, ruining his reputation before, luckily, Andrés had saved himself. Not to mention her annoying-ass daughter was there too, always pestering him like he was her uncle or some shit.
But most importantly, he was living with Andrés. So no matter how beautiful the beach was, all he wanted to do was feel the waves that met Andrés’s forehead, not the ones that met the sand. He didn’t care for swaying trees or luscious clouds when he’d much rather sway with Andrés in his arms and sleep on pillows soft as clouds, holding him to his heart, resting his head on his, letting him hear the beating of his heart while he folded his fingers into his hair. And yet the only time he had touched those waves that he yearned for for so long was when he carried him out to the truck himself from the loud shots of bullets and tears rushing down his face, and not since then.
Since then, despite them both taking up space in that house (that may as well have been a prison), he couldn’t feel farther away from him. He barely saw him; Andrés barely left his room, and when he did, he gave Martín nothing more than a sideways glance. Maybe a “please” or “thank you” at dinner, maybe a “pardon me” when he was passing through, but nothing more. He wouldn’t even fucking look at him. He felt like Medusa, like his eyes would turn this man to stone if he dared look his way. He really did feel like such a monster since the second Martín stepped into a room, the walls, or floor, or ceiling seemed to be the most interesting thing around, to Andrés and that smile faltered. It was cruel, especially when he knew what the alternative was like. He knew what it was like to be adored by Andrés, to be loved and showered with praises, and he had gotten addicted to it. He remembered a time when Martín’s eyes were all that Andrés would stare at for hours. Telling him how gorgeous his eyes were and going on and on about the gemstones he could compare them to. Yet now, despite Andrés’s status as a jewel thief, he wouldn’t look at the eyes he claimed were more stunning than sapphires or diamonds if his life depended on it. He just passed by him, not admiring him, not even making simple conversation.
It was like he didn’t even know him, like he hadn’t spent 10 years by his side holding him close, wiping tears off his face, driving him everywhere, dining out together every night, being the only one who was allowed to fix his bow tie, and being so important he’d stab a man in a bathroom for even daring to laugh at their display of affection. It was as if they never bought those records together, danced like lovers, made each other meals when the other was exhausted, and drank together on long nights when nothing seemed to make sense. Now nothing truly did make any sense. And it was turning Martín into a madman.
He was getting withdrawals from his delicious addiction that was Andrés, and he couldn’t fucking take it anymore. Another thing he couldn’t take was these fucking dishes. They were easy as fuck to break (even if he may have been a little rough putting them away), and now he was delicately putting his plate into the sink, washing off the excess mess because he’s a fucking gentleman who doesn’t want Andrés putting away all the dishes like he saw him doing the other night. He swore Andrés was trying to make sure no one could even tell he lived there, keeping it so clean no one could spot his presence. Well, Martín didn’t fucking want his presence to be undetectable; he’d much rather prefer it to be impossible to not notice him. He missed the decorations, he missed the paintings, and he missed the books splayed across rooms and paintings hung all over. He missed the monastery and their papers pinned around the walls, unorganized and messy, yet somehow the puzzle of it all wasn’t a mystery to Andrés; he always knew where everything was and always knew how to find anything he needed. That wasn’t how it was here; here Andrés had to search for a fork and ask where the salt was. Raquel handed Andrés the shaker as she spoke,
“Oh, here, Ber—”
Berlin.
She was going to say Berlin.
Yah, Martín is really not surprised. Raquel Morrillo saying that? Yeah, it seemed like something she would do even though she very well knew his real name. Something she would say despite knowing this man isn’t just a criminal; he’s her boyfriend’s brother (not that she cared). Fucking pig.
He couldn’t help that the plate came down from his hands a little harder than he intended. He was infuriated and frankly didn’t care if he broke one of Sergio’s precious plates. Although by the stare he felt piercing the back of his head, he had a feeling Sergio cared. Well what fucking ever. Sergio can go cry a goddamn river about it.
“He’s not very delicate. I’m sorry.”
Martín heard a whisper escape from Sergio, a little too loudly for that girlfriend of his. He was talking shit about Martín right in front of him as if the engineer didn’t have ears. How fucking lovely.
God, he was so sick of him.
And he just kept getting sicker as Sergio went on and on practically bragging about himself and his accomplishments and, of course, about his precious photocopying endeavors.
“And that’s why it’s not really a robbery, because we’re making new money,” he rambled on, trying to intrigue those at the table as if he were telling a fantastical story. “It’s not a crime to make new money; we’re practically Robin Hood trying to do good for the people.” Of fucking course he thought that; of course he thought himself better than other thieves, better than other people in general; he thought he was so above it all. And he just kept going. “And really it’s not as flashy as some other heists; that’s why I told them it was a better idea than the bank—”
Martín couldn’t explain what he felt then, how his brain reacted when he heard those words. It was indescribable, his rage, his sadness, his urge to throw something at Sergio for what he just said, what he just tried. Yet Martín couldn’t speak; he couldn’t do anything in that moment but let the plate fall from his hands. It hit the floor instantly. His rage was on clear display from the action alone. He didn’t feel the need to even look at Sergio. He didn’t feel the need to show him his rage, his flared nostrils breathing in and out at a breakneck pace as if he were about to jump that nerd. He didn’t feel the need to let him see his scowl, his disgusted expression, his look that could kill because, really, he should kill him for daring to bring up the bank. To mention their dream, the perfect heist, the gold, the bank, the thing he spent years putting work and love into. The thing that brought him and Andrés together the elaborate ways in which they told each other ‘I love you.’ No, no Sergio shouldn’t be allowed to utter a word about Martín’s broken dream Sergio stole from him.
But he wouldn’t dare say a word to Sergio, not in front of Andrés, because Andrés didn’t need a screaming match right now; he didn’t need Martín’s yelling. He didn’t need Martín. No, he didn’t. So he wouldn’t make a scene, he’d go; he’d leave them be. He’d retreat to his room and scream at the wall instead.
His feet dragged against the ground as he disappeared from the kitchen. His hands grazed up against the cold walls in the hallway nearby when he heard a soft voice, a voice he knew, a voice he loved.
“He has a right to be angry.”
It was Andrés.
“Hermanito, you can’t taunt him talking about our plan,”
He felt a silence wash over the room, and he worried Andrés wouldn’t have more to say, but no, no, he did.
“It’s not fair.” Andrés’s breath settled in the room, the silence suffocating until he spoke once more. “To anyone here.”
Martín really tried to control his heart, but nothing could stop the relentless beating when he heard Andrés speak of him for the first time in so long. He was brought back to days when Martín’s name was one of the most spoken phrases of Andrés’s days, and that warm feeling in his chest from such a memory was worth cherishing. He felt hope rise his chest, meeting that feeling, and his heart pound and pound more and more with want, with need—need for connection, need to have his partner back, a need to have Andrés back. And after hearing that, he said he thought maybe he had a chance after all. Andrés was defending him against Sergio, something Martín thought unthinkable at this point, but no, it was happening; he was standing up for him and making Sergio know his place, and frankly, after all the silence he’d been getting since they got here, that made his cheeks warm like a fool, as if Andrés had declared his love to him right at that dinner table. It was all so much, and that hope spread through him as he ran to his room, his mind being overwhelmed like his heart on planning how he’d get Andrés talking not just about him but to him once again.