Work Text:
Martín doesn't sob, when he sees Andrés. Radiant, expressive Andrés, wearing one of his fancy suits; Martín wraps his arms around him, breathes him in.
Andrés sighs.
“I'm quite upset with you, Martín,” he says. His voice sounds just how Martín remembers it – it's the same voice that broke his heart. That's his Andrés, right there. Martín loved this man, once, with all he was.
When he was something, still. When being was an option to him.
“You're upset with me?” Martín huffs, irritation helping him with finding his voice, “Give me a break. Also, what is this place?”
There's nothing at all around them. Nothing; just endless emptiness.
Andrés shrugs, or it's more like his shoulders just slump, in a vague gesture. “It's mine. And now you're here.”
Andrés lives here.
But Andrés can't live anywhere, he's–
“You're dead— and I– then I am, too,” Martín says, once the thought hits him. Oh, he's dead. That's why he's here, with Andrés. Is he here? Is here even anywhere?
It doesn't fucking matter. He's here, with Andrés. His broken mind, once so rational, is willing to make any leaps in logic to accept that. Maybe he's dead; it doesn't matter.
“You did,” Andrés says, and his anger flares up again. “You– you blew your brains out. You did that to yourself, how–”
“How do you– how do you know that?”
Is it so obvious? Martín hates to think that Andrés sees right through him, now, and knows exactly what he's become. A ruinous, ruined man, nothing left to him but his gaping flaws.
Andrés glares at him. “I watched over you, that's why. Every single day, ever since I died. I never could go anywhere else; I was there.”
Martín doesn't feel a thing, hearing that. He ought to feel something. Violated, happy, disgusted, pleased. He just feels nothing, the very same way he's felt for years.
“Oh,” he says, so toneless that it's cruel even to his own untrained ears. “Did you like what you saw?”
He doesn't look at Andrés. All he used to want, for so long, was to see him again, for a moment, for a second.
But he wouldn't have ended his own life, if his will hadn't finally broken. If his very soul hadn't snapped in half, unable to bear the thought of one more day of the fucking nothing of his life.
“I can't believe you did that,” Andrés says, hurt still painting his voice, and he should consider himself lucky, to feel hurt, he got to die while he was still somebody, “You were doing so well. You were doing better. You–”
“I wasn't,” Martín snaps. “I didn't care about shit, any longer.”
“But you made our dreams come true,” Andrés says.
Martín barks a laugh. Or, he's not sure if that's what the sound is; the years have robbed him of his laughter, and it rings hollow.
“I did our suicidal plan alright. I thought I'd – I don't fucking know. Maybe I thought I'd do right by you, right by myself maybe, or maybe I thought I'd feel better. But it had nothing to do with the heist of our dreams. It was an empty shell, an ugly abomination. Because you weren't there.”
“I was, though,” Andrés mutters, even though he must know that's a lie. “I watched over you.”
“Oh, so you were my guardian angel, were you?”
Why's he being so fucking mean? He's with Andrés, he wants to fall into his embrace and let Andrés murmur more beautiful lies into his ear, but every part of him is broken and ugly and he just wants to lash out and destroy everything he gets his hands on.
He wants to hurt Andrés. Wants to pay back for all the hurt he was given.
“You did a shit job at it,” he continues, “Look at me: I'm fucking dead. I'm so dead, and I did this myself. You made me hate my life so badly I ended it.”
Or, not hate. You have to care, to hate.
“You made me disinterested in living,” he amends, “You made my very existence lose its meaning. Happy now?”
You used to say I was radiant, he wants to say, you used to call me a genius. You used to tell me I was full of passion, full of life. Look at how expertly you stripped me of everything you ever found worthwhile.
But it clings to his tongue like a prayer that he knows won't be heard.
“I never–” Andrés starts, but Martín cuts him off.
“Andrés…” he says, already tired of afterlife the same way he used to be tired of life. “Let's not do this. Okay? Everything got… It wasn't… Neither of us got the life we wanted.”
“I did, though,” Andrés insists, just when Martín thinks that this man can't hurt him any more than he has.
Andrés must read it from the look on his face, because he reaches to touch Martín's shoulder, but thinks better of it.
“I didn't mean it like that,” Andrés says.
“I don't care how you– I'm glad you got to play with your pretty wives like little dolls, before you got bored of them, but–”
“It wasn't–”
“–I wanted– or I used to want, I used to want more from my–”
“Martín,” Andrés says, “Martín. Stop this. What are you doing? Stop. Martín. Calm down.”
His hand finally lands on Martín's shoulder, and Martín flinches away, violently. He takes a step back, but his leg doesn't hold his weight, and he falls, only for Andrés to catch him by the arm and pull him upright.
“Hey,” Andrés says, his arms wrapping loosely around Martín, who's shaking like a leaf and close to hyperventilating.
“This isn't what I wanted, at all,” Martín says, hiccuping.
“I know,” Andrés says, “What I said was callous. It didn't come out right. I meant to say, you and I… What we had was beautiful. I don't regret my life. The years I spent with you.”
“You destroyed me,” Martín mumbles, too weak to keep fighting. That's the story of his life – of his death, too. How nice to know that this is his fate – he wasn't ever meant for greatness, for happiness; he was meant to suffer in an endless loop, the person who always loved him the most hurting him over and over again.
If this is hell, then so was his life.
“I never meant to,” Andrés says, quietly, “I never wanted to.”
Martín doesn't believe that.
“I think you did,” he says, withdrawing from him, watching Andrés's face and feeling pretty fucking impassive about this again, all of a sudden. “You liked it. You left me, but I wasn't free. You quit me, but I could never, ever quit you. And I think you liked that. Did you even remember me? Did you ever even think of–”
“Martín–”
“No, stop. Don't talk to me,” Martín says, his tone still warbled, “There's nothing you can say that can fix what you broke. I don't want to hear your excuses, you fucking bastard. You left me to die, while you got a few years of happiness. I talked to your son, you know.”
“I know; I was there,” Andrés says, curtly.
“Yeah? He told me, about the viking gold. I'm not glad you had a good time, while I was trying to drink myself to death. You can't do shit like that, and claim you didn't mean to do that to me.”
“I–”
“You're hardly ever going to earn my forgiveness,” Martín tells him, “But if you care to have a sliver of a chance, you will shut up, now. And let me go.”
There's nowhere to go, of course. He eats and he sleeps and he wonders the emptiness of hell or heaven, sometimes thinking about crafting a hallway or a portico, and then giving it up, because creativity is borne from the same well as life; he has neither, any longer.
“I never wanted to print money, anyway,” he mutters, mostly to himself.
He's lived through hyperinflation and he's lived through political instability, and all of it was miserable.
But most importantly: money isn't real. Martín isn't an artist, but he can still appreciate what is beautiful, and what isn't. What he offered to Andrés, with so much hopeful sincerity it's embarrassing to think back to – that was real. He offered Andrés a poetic, yet tangible expression of his devotion. Melt gold with me. What could possibly be more beautiful than that?
“I know,” Andrés responds, even though he wasn't being addressed.
“It's ugly and soulless. Artless. You used to agree with me.”
“I still agree with you.”
“Mm. Well. Didn't stop you from destroying me, did it now?”
Andrés frowns at him. “You know that wasn't…”
“Wasn't what you wanted? Wasn't your intention, perhaps? Well, I don't give a fuck, because it's what you did. And whatever noble fucking aims you had – you put me on those scales and decided I didn't weigh enough.”
Andrés doesn't have a quick response for that, and Martín sighs. Yeah. Figures.
“You know, I've been– I've been here,” Andrés says. “All this time. And I've imagined what I'd say to you, if I could. But I didn't think it'd be so soon.”
There's a slight tremor to his voice, as his fingertips brush over Martín's face. Martín can read the gesture like not a single day has passed: what have you done, it asks, feeling remorse that Martín himself cannot summon.
“Surely you didn't think I'd, I don't know. Marry Mirko, and get a dog together? Fuck right off.”
Andrés grimaces at the idea. Martín almost likes that. It almost lights up some joy within his soul. Almost.
“No,” Andrés admits, “But it was so rash, the way you… Couldn't you have tried?”
For a moment, Martín imagines punching him, in the gut, digging in to where it would hurt. He swallows most of his anger.
This really isn't going well.
“I tried alright,” he says, his own voice betraying venom and resentment that the years – or death – haven't been able to erase. “You say you've watched me? Then you've seen me, not only with the hundreds of men I've fucked to feel something, but also with a gun to my head, a knife to my wrist. You've seen me standing on narrow bridges and tall buildings. You've seen me wrap several nooses around my own neck. Did I not find reasons to get up from bed for years? I ran out, Andrés. But don't you fucking tell me I didn't try, when you're the coward who gave up.”
“I was–”
“Ill, yeah, I know. You chose a quick death over a slow one. Guess what? So did I.”
Andrés wraps his arms around Martín. “Stop talking,” he says, like a child that can just wish a monster out of existence.
“No,” Martín hisses, clawing his way out of the embrace, even though for years and years, this was all he ever wanted. “You fucking died. You left me behind. And you know what? Dying is easy. It's the pathetic way out, where you don't have to live with the consequences. You can't take it, and then tell me I didn't fucking try.”
Andrés glares at him. “I've lived with the consequences alright. All I've done, since the day I died, is live with them. Do you know where we are, Martin? Because I know. This is literally Hell. Here, I've watched you ruin yourself over and over again.”
“I didn't ruin shit; you did that for me.”
“Oh, because you have no free will, do you? What are you, a weak-minded worm? A pathetic little thing, you can't even exist if I'm not there to tell you to?”
It sounds so ugly, when Andrés puts it like that. He breaks Martín's love into corrosive pieces, rotten.
“It wasn't– I chose you,” Martín insists.
“Well, you have me now. Am I not as good as you thought? Do you no longer adore me, now that I'm standing in front of you? Now that I'm no longer your dead ideal, do I fail to measure up? Can you not love me, when I'm right here?”
Really, it's the opposite. He's so beautiful, Martín is afraid to go anywhere near him. What if his radiance burns Martín to ash? He's already so broken, how much worse can it get? He's terrified to find the true depths his suffering might unravel.
He tries to put that into words, but he can't actually make a sound, after all.
And what does it matter, in the end?
He's broken in ways they can't hope to fix.
The candles are lit, and there's a desk Martín recognises. A bottle of wine under it, to be sure. Martín's notebook, his pen, two glasses of wine. Piles of books on the floor, the suit of armor in the corner.
Well, this is not fun. This is not kind. What the fuck was Andrés thinking?
“Do you like it?” his old friend breathes. Always with the rhetorical questions. Martín doesn't need to look at him to see what he's wearing.
“You made an exact replica of the room where you tore my life to shreds. That's real fucking nice, Andrés.”
“I made an exact replica of the room where I last saw you,” Andrés insists. “You were standing there, and I–”
“Yeah, I know. You pressed me against this wall. I haven't had the privilege of forgetting, you know.”
Andrés steps closer to him, and Martín's heart lurches, positively sickening, and he steps aside.
“Don't come anywhere near me,” he says, his voice rising with a terror.
Andrés frowns. “But I–”
“Nowhere near me,” Martín repeats, his arm slightly raised, in an attempt to shield himself. “I've relived this moment enough times. I can't fucking do this, anymore. If you come closer, I'm gonna find another corner of– this fucking place, and–”
“I don't think you can,” Andrés says, level. If anything, Martín would say that he's comforted by the idea. Martín has forged his own hell, with his suicide, and now there's nowhere to run and hide.
“Leave me be, Andrés,” he says, and his voice breaks, halfway through.
“I want to– I want to try this again,” Andrés says, sounding confused. Like Martín is the problem here, for failing to get it.
“You don't get redos in life.”
“Yes, I do. Look at us; just the way we were, that night. Offer me the wine.”
“No.”
“I'd love to share it with you,” Andrés says, anyway, and gestures for it, as if Martín will just obey him, after all.
“We're not doing that. We're not replaying and roleplaying the worst mistakes of my life, Andrés. Be serious, now.”
“I am serious,” Andrés insists, “Offer me the wine. Say I look good. Poderoso, bello. Say it, so we can move on.”
“No,” Martín says again. He truly wonders how Andrés plans for this to go. Does he really believe that Martín will tell him he looks good, and then they can go through the rest of the script, to kiss and be lovers, this time around? Yeah, fucking grand. Martín loves nothing more than the awareness that he's just a piece on Andrés's chess board, a pawn to be captured, a tower to be sacrificed. Something to advance his own goals; the worst night of Martín's life – though that title is becoming something a few more nights could contest – is just a backdrop for his showmanship.
“What we have is extra–”
“Andrés,” Martín says, his patience snapping, “What we had was beautiful and extraordinary and it was fucking everything, to me. You stomped all over it, and you don't get to just come back when it's convenient for you, demanding I return to you my eternal loyalty. It does not fucking work like that.”
“I'm not here because it's convenient,” Andrés says coolly, “I'm here, and I've been waiting all these years for us to be reunited. But you–”
“I'm broken goods,” Martín says, dispassionate, “I'm not what you wanted. This isn't the grand love story of your dreams, Andrés. Go craft it somewhere else.”
Even as he says it, a part of him – not a small part, either – worries that maybe Andrés will truly take him up on that. That he'll just disappear, and go find someone else to complete him. Someone else to be his lover, his soulmate, his other half, someone who isn't bleeding veins and suicidal idolatry.
Andrés offers him a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
“It doesn't work like that, corazón,” he says, and his fingertips brush at thin air, like he's afraid to actually try and touch Martín, after all his outbursts.
“Bet you wish it would,” Martín offers.
“No, I don't. I'll be here, Martín,” he says, “Every forever it takes. I'll be here.”
Martín is so pathetically relieved, and maybe that means something, after all.
“We deserved better, you and I," Andrés continues, "I wish I could have given you everything you wanted in life.”
“Yeah? Maybe I could've come along on one of your honeymoons. The one in Canada, maybe, I think…”
He trails off. The joke isn't particularly funny; all he's done is hurt himself, terribly, painfully. He wants to fucking die. Maybe this is hell, after all.
“Martín,” Andrés says, disconcertingly gentle. “I'm sorry I never married you.”
Martín shrugs. “Doesn't matter. You treated your wives like shit, anyway.”
It does matter, though. Because there was a part of him that always wanted… Always dreamt of walking down the aisle with him. Back when he still had hopes and dreams, Martín used to sometimes imagine it. It's so stupid; he was a lovesick little thing, pathetically far gone, a teenage girl making a wedding scrapbook, he used to imagine that Andrés would want him in a white suit, while he'd wear black, a reversal of their usual style, and Martín would of course do it, he'd have a bouquet of red roses and he'd even throw it, he'd be so in love that he would mind showing it.
What he really got was second fiddle; third, at times. What he got was drinking himself to unconsciousness so as not to hear his beloved make passionate love to another. What he built his life on was Andrés's breakups, his divorces, when true love made him spiteful and jaded, and he wanted to dedicate himself to a crime, just him and Martín, once more.
“You say that, but you–” Andrés starts, at the same time as Martín says,
“I guess you saw–”
They stare at each other, for a moment. Martín laughs, but it's more like a sob.
“They were beautiful, Martín,” Andrés says, gently.
“Thanks,” Martín mutters, taking the rings out of his pocket. They've been there since he died; maybe it's real, maybe it isn't, what does it matter? In his suicide note, he did ask Sergio to be buried with them, so maybe that counts for something. “Wasn't sure if it's ethical, to want to…”
“Necrogamy,” Andrés supplies. “That's what it's called; posthumous marriage.”
Martín huffs a laugh. “Right. That.”
“I don't much care if it's ethical,” Andrés says, predictably. “I'm consenting, aren't I? If you still…”
Martín blinks at him.
Andrés offers his hand.
“The fuck am I meant to do with that?” Martín breathes, for lack of anything at all to say.
Andrés laughs. “Right. You never got married, after all. You're meant to put the ring on my finger, and say something nice. Suppose we can skip ‘til death do us part.”
Martín stares at him, still.
“You can't just… you can't just do this,” he says, finally.
“And why not? Did you have these rings made for sport? Out of our gold? You wanted to be buried with them, next to me. Did I somehow misunderstand what you meant by that?”
“You didn't misunderstand,” Martín says, “But I–”
“But you what?”
“Didn't think I'd… follow through,” Martín mumbles.
Andrés's face falls, and he looks like Martín slapped him.
“Right,” he says, coolly, dropping his hand.
Martín doesn't offer him apologies, in that moment, because he knows they won't cut it – but also because he isn't truly sorry. He wants this to hurt. Andrés was the love of his fucking life, but Martín is dead, now, and the only thing that makes him feel mildly vindicated is hurting him.
“He proposed to you.”
Martín turns his head slightly, to look at Andrés. He's too exhausted by his anger to properly feel it, right now.
“I know,” Martín says, “I was there.”
He remembers, of course he does. The only man to ever even come close to proposing to him; sweet, caring Mirko. He always had such a saviour complex, thinking that he could fix Martín, if only he loved him kind and gentle.
Martín didn't want to be fixed. He carried Andrés in his broken heart, and that ache kept him tethered; kept them together, even when they weren't. Martín hurt himself, every single day, so that he might keep Andrés alive.
So no, obviously he could not marry Mirko, or anyone else, for that matter.
“He wanted you to be happy. You were cruel, to not settle for that.”
“I've always been cruel, Andrés. Maybe I get that from you, hm? Maybe we've been two mirrors, reflecting each other, all these years. And Mirko? He deserves better than a man who'd much rather be dead than with him.”
Something about his words makes Andrés jump a little, like he's been stabbed.
“And anyway,” Martín continues, “I think I was kind, to leave him. Now he won't be the one to find my body. I didn't kill myself in his home.”
Andrés trembles. He's still hurt, somehow, that Martín is dead. Is this not what he wanted? Even though they're reunited. Martín can't make sense of it.
“Just tell me what the fuck you want,” Martín screeches. He's starting to feel like he'll lose his entire fucking mind, any minute now – if he hasn't already.
“I already told you,” Andrés yells back, “I don't fucking care!”
He throws a porcelain plate at the wall they're currently arguing about. It shatters into a thousand pieces, and Martín already knows they won't be discussing kintsugi, this time.
“Of course you care!” he yells, “You've always wanted all the pretty fucking things to fill your halls! What's it this time? A pretty blonde, a Barbie doll? A chandelier? All of van Gogh’s paintings, the fucking man himself? The fuck do you want?”
“I don't want any of that,” Andrés says, his voice lower, more dangerous, he looks a little mad and maybe Martín should fear him, “I never wanted any of that.”
“You– tell me what colour you want this fucking wall, Andrés,” Martín says, blinking rapidly to keep tears from falling from his eyes. He envisions the wall in different shades and colours in quick succession, and watches it flick through them.
“I don't care,” Andrés says, “I never fucking cared. What are we doing, playing house, if we can't even stand each other?”
“We're not playing house, we're–”
Martín tries to put words to what he was trying to do, but he isn't able to grasp at them quick enough, not before the tears start falling from his eyes, and once they start falling, they quickly start flowing.
“Apologise to me,” Andrés says, because yeah, it's not about the fucking wall.
“For what?” Martín mumbles, all his energy seeping from him.
“For hurting yourself. Apologise to me.”
“I'm not going to.”
“Say you're sorry.”
“I'm not. I didn't hurt myself; you did that. I only killed myself. And it wasn't the right choice; it was the only choice I had left. The only fucking thing I could do, Andrés.”
“I'm so tired of–”
“Me?” Martín hisses, “Tough fucking luck, because–”
“–you being like this. Why do you want to be so fucking miserable, all the time? I'm here, now. We're together.”
Andrés's fingers wrap around his throat, loosely, like he intends to shake Martín into his senses, since nothing else seems to work.
“Wanna kill me again, is that it?” Martín says, his voice wheezing slightly.
“Martín,” Andrés says, his voice angry, “Stop doing this. Stop hurting yourself. Stop hurting us both. Just… stop.”
“You think I don't want to?” Martín yells at him, shrill, “I want to stop hurting, Andrés. But I'm torn into a million shreds, and this fucking pain– this is all I am.”
Andrés takes his face in his hands. “It's not,” he insists, “You're a brilliant man, Martín. I still see echoes of that, within you.”
“I was brilliant,” Martín agrees, “I was a genius. Now I'm right where you left me. I'm still shattered into a thousand pieces on the floor of our beloved home. Yeah, I'm fucking hurt. Just go away, if you can't handle it.”
He knows, even as he says it, that that won't ever happen. He couldn't let Andrés go a second time, now that he can't even kill himself in response.
“Dont touch me,” Martín says, fresh panic to his voice. What a novel emotion that is.
Andrés blinks in surprise, his hand still paused over Martín's lower abdomen, and Martín shoves it away.
“Don't you fucking touch me,” he hisses again, panic making way to panic to panic to panic once more, he remembers how little Andrés wanted him, how he wasn't what Andrés craved and needed. How his one fucking per cent was enough to bring it all crashing down, and Martín knows it was just an excuse, but if Andrés wants to play this game, then they're going to fucking play; if Andrés doesn't want him, then he doesn't get to start now.
“But…” Andrés starts, clearly expecting and maybe even hoping to get interrupted, but Martín isn't feeling kind, so he doesn't. “But I… I want to… make you feel… good,” Andrés says, and he must realise how ridiculous and childish he sounds. Oh, I wanted to give you a friendly little orgasm, to cheer you up. To make you feel better after you fucking killed yourself!!!!!!!!!!!!!
“Wow, thanks,” Martín spits out, “Thank you ever so much! But I don't actually want your fucking pity. I don't want you to make me feel better. Hell, I don't want you anywhere near my body.”
The mere thought makes his skin crawl. He used to want this, so fucking much. He used to want Andrés in a way that was sensual and sexual and erotic and carnal and loving and desperate and passionate and burned him alive.
That was before, though. Before Andrés decided that his desire was wrong and impure, before he chose to insist that what was standing between them and happiness was one dick and one tiny mitochondria.
“We aren't soulmates,” Martín says, feeling fatalistic about these truths. He knows them by heart, now, in a way that stops them from hurting so fucking much, “Just ninety-nine per cent.”
Andrés's face falls, and then twists in anger.
“You know that's not what I said,” he insists, “And you know that's not what I meant, Martín.”
“Oh, I know what you meant,” Martín says, “You meant that I was your radiant partner. Your faithful companion, the other half of your fucking soul. But that I had this one issue; this problem, this… deficiency. I wasn't perfect, after all. I just couldn't stop desiring you. I just had to ruin it with my fucking feelings, didn't I? Me and my stupid dick. Well, now I'm saying I don't want you, any longer. I don't want you anywhere near me. Happy? Are you happy now, Andrés?”
He's a little shrill and a lot angry. But it needs to be said; Andrés could have been a bit more thoughtful, in how he chose to break Martín's heart.
“I'm sorry I said that,” Andrés says, “I'm sorry I did that to you. But–”
“No. Either you're sorry, and you're very fucking sorry, or you're not. There's no I'm sorry, but.”
Andrés opens his mouth, and closes it.
“I'm sorry,” he says again.
“You're not forgiven.”
“I know. Can I speak, anyway?”
“Go right fucking ahead.”
“I shouldn't have said that to you. I liked it when you desired me. It made me feel good. I used you, and I liked it. And then I turned around and told you you were wrong to feel that way. That was cruel, and I realise that now.”
It's like a…
“Rehearsed that speech, did you?” Martín huffs.
“I have had a lot of time,” Andrés admits, “To plan things I wanted to say to you. And I wanted to pleasure you, as well. Maybe to make up for what I did, but also because I–”
“Yeah, you can just stop talking, now.”
“Because I love you,” Andrés says, “And I think I could love you… like that, too. If you let me.”
“No,” Martín says, not willing to spend even a second thinking about that. “I'm not going to be your… straight man's plaything.”
“My what?”
“You heard me. You're not going to– experiment with me,” Martín says, wanting to throw up from just the thought, “That ship has well since sailed. I don't… not anymore.”
“That's not what I meant,” Andrés says again. Was there really once a time when Martin knew him, understood him?
“Then what do you–”
“I want to make you happy. I want to make you feel good. Is that really so impossible to imagine?”
“Yeah,” Martín mutters, “Quite.”
“Just tell me what I can do,” Andrés sighs. “No sex, I got that. But I could probably create something you could steal? I could build a vault. A museum. An art gallery. A jewellery shop. Elaborate security system, a complicated vault… Would that please you?”
“No.”
Andrés doesn't seem to understand that the thrill of being a thief well and truly died with his will to live; that is to say, years ago now. Nothing brings him joy, any longer. Nothing.
“Alright. What about… I'll cook for you?”
“No.”
“Okay. Uh. A hug?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Right. Alcohol?”
Martín sighs. “Believe I lost my taste for it. You know. When.”
It wasn't when he almost killed himself with alcohol poisoning. Worse yet, he failed to actually fucking die, and was made to rot in involuntary treatment until he was able to lie his way to freedom.
That time wasn't the problem. The problem was the night Andrés, bottle of wine, no, I won't think of you, blah blah blah. No amount of alcohol can alter the bottle Andrés wouldn't share with him, that night.
“Just tell me what I can do,” Andrés sighs, defeated.
“Why don't you go back in time,” Martín says, coldly, “To the night we met. Remember the bar?”
It makes Andrés smile. “Always.”
“Right. Go back to the moment you walked up to that door. Only this time, you walk past it, instead. You're not up for a drink, after all. Walk away. That's what you can do for me.”
Andrés doesn't look as hurt as Martín expected him to be.
“You think you want to make all of this undone? You're just being childish, now. I get it, I hurt your feelings. Maybe I broke your heart, even. But you seem to think it's beyond fixing, and that's where we differ. You're still angry, and that's because you care. You haven't given up on me. You wouldn't be talking circles around me, if you truly wanted me gone.”
Martín grits his teeth, annoyed as ever to have the flaws in his plan pointed out to him.
“I created you,” Andrés continues, “We created each other. The man I met that night wasn't the brilliant man you became, in my care.”
“Some fucking care that was,” Martín says.
“And I too was directionless, before I met you. I had no one to see the world as I did, to complement and complete me.”
“We were so bad for each other,” Martín sighs, “Two suicidal men with huge egos.”
“We were art together, and you know it.”
Andrés brings his hand to Martín's cheek, and Martín doesn't have the energy to shove him away again.
“We were art,” he sighs, “I was a ruined man, the night I met you.”
“I was, too,” Andrés tells him, “Ruined, and recreated. Never again free to roam like I had been; my life tethered to yours. Even in death, I couldn't have peace. I've been yearning for you, and now you're here, and…”
It's not how it was meant to be. Martín knows that; he doesn't need to be told that. He feels the same way, after all.
“What did you feel?” he asks, “When you died?”
Andrés doesn't stop to think, but he does swallow, thickly. “Regret,” he says, in the end.
“Hm,” Martín hums, “I didn't.”
“I know you didn't.”
“I felt relief.”
“I didn't ask.”
“I felt happy,” Martín adds, because Andrés needs to hear this. They messed things up so badly, Martín was happy to kill himself.
“Don't say that.”
“Do you know what they say? About how suicidal people often seem like they're getting better, just before they kill themselves? It's because they've committed to the act. That's what I felt.”
He remembers his parting words to Mirko.
Oh, yeah. Next week's great. I'm free on Tuesday.
It was so carefree, and he could see the hopefulness in Mirko’s eyes. Only because he killed himself, Sunday night.
By Tuesday, he was, indeed, free.
“He tried to get me to see a shrink. Mirko, I mean. Wanted me to go to therapy, a support group. Something, anything.”
Mirko was so worried about him. Poor guy; a good man, trying to save someone so determined to drown in his grief.
And even though Mirko really did love him, probably, Martín thinks it was mostly out of obligation. Martín was damaged goods, and Mirko wanted to see him restored to his glory. Martín was to him a painting.
But Andrés was an artist.
“I know,” Andrés says, and he looks sad.
And Martín did go to therapy, once. Just to please Mirko; just to say he tried. The woman told him he needs to let go of his grief and live.
He was prescribed antidepressants.
He flushed them down the toilet.
He self-sabotaged everything he could. He knows now, and maybe he always knew, that he could have healed, if he truly wanted to. If he was truly willing to let go and move on, he could have done it. He could have.
“I didn't want to be fixed,” Martín says, “Not by him, not by a fucking shrink, not by myself, either. I could not allow that to happen. No one could take you away from me.”
Andrés sighs, like a disappointed parent.
Four months after the heist of their dreams, Martín had decided that there really was nothing left for him to live for. He'd tried, he'd fucking tried, he had sex and went on dates and tried to make nice with Sergio and his gang, tried to be a tío to Paula and Cincinnati, tried to accept Mirko’s affections, but he couldn't live with his own life, anymore. Not when he'd still wake up, and for a blissful moment, he'd forget that his soulmate was long gone. He'd wake up and look forward to the scraps of happiness that had always been just shy of enough, when he'd had them. He'd wake up and want to burn himself alive, or worse, he'd wake up and feel the cold dread of nothing at all.
So Martín trusted his last wish in the hands of the man who had ruined his life and taken from him any reason to go on.
He told Sergio where he wanted to be buried. Next to Andrés, with the rings.
“Your brother refused to tell me,” Martín says, “What they did with your body.”
He must have been worried, about what Martín would do with that knowledge.
He needn't have; Martín was going to kill himself, no matter what. He didn't find a place to go, but the setting didn't matter, in the end.
“If it helps, I don't know, either. San Sebastian, if I had to guess.”
Martín shrugs. “Hope mine’s wherever yours is.”
He really hopes so. The thought of his corpse rotting and decaying for weeks in his flat– no, someone must've heard the gunshots. Those were loud fucking shots, there's no way that would go unnoted. They'll have found him. They'll find him, and his letter, and maybe Sergio will even–
“They'll find you,” Andrés says. Martín hates him, for following his trail of thought. Actually, Martín hates him for everything he's ever done.
“Do you think he'll cry for me?”
Andrés looks at him sternly. “You know he'll blame himself.”
Martín shrugs. Yeah, Sergio should fucking blame himself. In letting Andrés die, he took everything from Martín. Air they weren't both breathing was so quick to become poisoned for him.
“How's he doing?” Martín asks.
Andrés frowns, flexing his fingers in thought. “I don't know,” he admits, “I think you were the only thing keeping me tethered. I can't go back there, anymore.”
Martín considers that. “Do you wish you could?”
“No. Nothing there for me, anymore. Sergio has his own life; he'll be fine.”
The undercurrent is there, and it's loud: you didn't; you weren't. Martín isn't offended by the truth.
“You're so romantic,” Martín says. It's not necessarily praise, but that doesn't mean he's not grateful.
“I know,” Andrés scoffs, “You did not deserve the way I've yearned for you. You couldn't just shoot yourself, could you?”
Despite everything, Martín grins. He's had so few strokes of genuine inspiration, lately. “That was an elaborate set-up. Took me–”
“Three days, yeah. I was watching.”
“Wish you could've communicated that to me. I would've flirted.” He sighs. “It was imperfect, though: one of the guns jammed.”
“I jammed it,” Andrés says, “What you did was so ugly. How could you?”
Martín scoffs. It was a thing of beauty, something ritualistic. He'd recreated Andrés's death to perfection, except that when he set the guns off, one of them wouldn't fire.
That was the last thing he remembers, of his life. The fleeting disappointment of an imperfect sin.
“Can't believe you couldn't even let me have that,” he complains, “The death I chose for myself; yours.”
He wishes he could've done it right, wishes he might've done himself justice, if only once.
“I tried. I tried so hard. I wanted you to live. I wanted you to live with a desperation.”
“Well, I didn't care to. Fuck you, I suppose.”
“You should have lived for us both.”
“You're a fucking bastard,” Martín says, “I should have lived, you say. Oh, you were ill, were you? You were sick, slowly withering away? We both were, and you didn't let me go with you. You left me to eat myself alive. You always said you loved how passionate I was; so devoted; so completely yours, and then you told me to cut it out and become my own person. Too fucking late for that. You made decisions for us both, and you wouldn't even have let me die.”
“Maybe we weren't together, but I was with you. I got to be with you.”
“What I did – that was a statement. Time fucking brought us together, is that not what you wanted?”
“Not like this,” Andrés says, mournfully. Martín wishes he'd stop mourning a man standing right in front of him. “I didn't want it like this.”
Martín sighs. He's too tired to argue about whether he was allowed his suicide any more than they already have. It's done, now. If he got to go back in time, he'd make all the same choices again.
All of them.
“We need to talk.”
Oh, not this again. Not again. Hasn't Martín suffered enough? Objectively, has he not suffered too much, already? He fucking ended his own life. Is that still not enough suffering? How much more does the world want from him? How much more does Andrés still want from him, and are those two things any different, in the end?
“You can't fix this with words.”
“I broke this with words,” Andrés says, slow, decisive, “And I can fix it, too. We can fix it. I know you want this. You're just scared. And I don't blame you; you've been left to hurt so long, all alone… I did that to you. But I'm the one who can fix it, too. You and I; we were always beautiful together. And we can be that, once more.”
Martín feels his breathing grow more shallow, and he has to put all his efforts into not sinking yet again into a vicious panic attack.
“Hey,” he says, his voice weak, “Maybe let's not go there.”
“The way you spoke,” Andrés starts, choosing his words carefully, “With the pump–”
“You were dead,” Martín cuts in, clipping. He wouldn't have said all that, if Andrés had really been there. It was his fucking love letter to dead man, and he can't handle having to actually discuss it, now. He didn't–
“You meant it,” Andrés insists, “That day, I felt it. I felt how much you loved me, when you fulfilled our dreams.”
“You were dead,” Martín repeats, more forcefully, bristling from Andrés's words.
“You need to have a little faith,” Andrés says, gently. “And a little love. I still love you, corazón. And I still believe in us.”
It hurts so bad, almost as violently as it did that night. Almost as cruelly as when he learned of Andrés's death – on the fucking world news, on TV.
“I never once stopped,” Andrés continues, cruel and relentless, “I told you, didn't I? That time would bring us together. One way, or another… I never intended for us to part for good. I always intended to have you back. By my side, where you belong.”
“Andrés, don't–” Martín pleads, a wounded animal, his heart torn to shreds twice too many times.
“Shut the fuck up, Martín. For once in your life, you will listen to me. It wasn't a mistake, and it wasn't an illusion. All those nights we spent on that plan, our plan,” He takes Martín's hand in both of his, moves it to his chest, rests it over his heart, “Those were the best times of my life, too.”
Martín can't see him, anymore, tears blurring his vision. It burns almost like it did when Gandía blinded him, but it's like something has opened inside of him, like Andrés has reached within his heart and found him.
It's been months, since he said those words. That grand gesture of his love, and Andrés has carried them within his heart, ever since then.
Just to tell him it wasn't an illusion.
What they had – it was real. They both felt it.
Still feel it.
Martín still loves him, with all his heart. He never stopped… he's never going to.
“Andrés,” Martín says – sobs, really. His Andrés. His radiant, beautiful Andrés; the love of his life. They're together, once more. No one is going to take Andrés away from him, ever again. His heart breaks into a thousand pieces, but this time Andrés is there to hold them in his hands.
Andrés's arms wrap around him, fingers digging into the fabric of his clothes.
“Oh, Martín,” he says, soft and mourning, “I wish you'd taken your time, but I'm so happy you're here. You're here. With me. You're really here– I've missed you so much. I know you've suffered, mi amor, but I've suffered, too.”
“It was– I couldn't do it anymore,” Martín's hiccuping sobs make it hard to speak, “It– I fucking–”
“I know,” Andrés hushes him, “But you made me proud. You made me so proud, Martín. You melted gold for me. For us – for our love. That plan was our child, and we both know it. And you made it come to life.”
Te quiero, Martín says, he never got the chance, when Andrés's lips press to his, estoy acá por vos, solamente, para siempre, va por vos, por vos, para vos, por vos, the only reason he was able to live for as long as he did, and now he's here, Andrés's body trapping him with adoration to a needlessly soft mattress that Andrés imagined into being.
Te amo, Andrés says, te quiero, mi corazón, somos almas gemelas, eres el amor de mi vida, todas las razones, eres tú, sos vos, eres tú, he presses these words to his lips, breathes them on his collarbone, imprints them in his soul and inside his makeshift body and makes Martín feel, for the first time in years, like he's whole again.
Like he's finally alive again, now that he's died.
“I love you,” Martín breathes, Andrés sliding inside him almost tenderly, lovingly, maybe sex is better in heaven, or maybe it's because he's finally getting to become one with his other half.
“I know,” Andrés says, equally soft.
Martín snorts. “You conceited little–”
Andrés laughs. “I didn't mean it like that,” he amends, “I meant… Wasn't that what you wanted? For me to know. I heard what Nairobi said to you, but I did know. I know, Martín. I know you love me, and I feel the same. Everything you feel for me is reciprocated.”
Martín sighs into it, finally able to accept that. Finally, something has been altered within him, like their souls have entwined anew.
“Also,” Andrés continues, “I hate to say it, but you may have had a point, all along. About gay sex – this is really good.”
“Have you considered that– ah– maybe it's just good because it's heaven?”
“Oh, absolutely not. This place was hellish, until you came. I know it's because of you. Everything in my life is because of you.”
“What about your five–”
“Are we really going to talk about women? Martín. We're having sex. Shut up.”
“Ugh,” Martín groans, “Good point.”
“No one else means a thing to me. Nothing else matters. Just you. The love of my life. And, death. What fucking ever, actually. Anything I ever will be; yours.”
It feels good. Emotionally, physically. It feels good in ways things have long since ceased to be, and Martín gives himself away to this happiness that is finally his to feel.
“You're here,” Martín breathes on Andrés's bare shoulder. He doesn't remember having fallen asleep, but clearly he did.
“Always will be,” Andrés responds easily, stroking his hair, “Go back to sleep. I was just getting reacquainted with the way you breathe.”
“I– the ring,” Martín says, because it's urgent, and can't wait any longer.
Andrés's hand stops moving.
“It's– it's yours. Still yours. Always yours. Tuyo. I'm sorry I– turned you down, if that's what I did, but if you want it–”
“If I'm still interested in necrogamy?” Andrés teases, and Martín is surprised by the sound of his own laughter – is that what his happiness sounds like?
“Yes,” Andrés continues, “I am. Very interested. I want it. How about you slide it on my finger, and then go back to sleep? We can have a proper conversation about it, when you wake.”
“And more sex?” Martín prompts.
Andrés laughs. “And more sex,” he agrees, “I'll bake you a cake.”
Martín smiles. “Alright,” he says.
And it is. Everything is, once more.
He raises enough to fish the ring from his pocket, and watches Andrés's content expression, as Martín slides it on his finger.
Andrés doesn't say anything else, just exists there, with him. One soul made whole, once more.
“I love you,” Martín says, wanting to hear his own words once more, “Andrés de Fonollosa.”
Andrés grins at him. “I love you too. But I want your last name, actually.”
“I want yours,” Martín drawls, just to be contrary, because he's so happy.
“No, no,” Andrés hums, “I want yours. I've waited long enough to have it. Andrés Berrote. You must admit, it sounds fated.”
It does. But Martín isn't a quitter: “Martín de Fonollosa,” he insists, “That's beautiful, too.”
Hearing that makes Andrés smile. “You take mine, I'll take yours?” he offers, caressing Martín's back, letting gold brush against his skin and making him shiver with pleasure, “We can be entwined, like that.”
Martín likes that idea.
Heaven is beautiful, after all.