Work Text:
Prologue
No one knew where the first grove grew.
No one knew when it all began.
Across the globe - since the dawn of time and thought and reason - humanity had been trying to comprehend this tangible incarnation of destiny. Humanity had tried to seize it - to make it bow to their will - to make it bend to the rules of logic and nature.
It had not surrendered. It never would - and there was much that humanity did not yet understand.
Perhaps they were not meant to.
But they did know this:
They knew that at the beating heart of each growing city, there was a grove of trees unlike any on the earth. It required neither water nor nourishment nor sunlight - sustained instead by the vitality of the city's people.
It was said to grow with the people - saplings blooming as the population boomed - a tree for every hundred thousand was what some people believed.
The land of the grove was protected - revered and carefully tended by an order devoted to the task. It was a calling, some said - to devote one's life to this conduit of the universe, and to apply oneself to its care. These chosen few lived on those very grounds - and in humanity's eyes, they were entrusted with the most essential task of all.
For from the fibers of those hallowed trees, paper gliders were brought to life.
I
San Sebastián, Spain
1981
Our story began one chilly December evening, in the Spanish city of San Sebastián. It was a coastal city - lying along the edge of the Bay of Biscay - with pristine, sandy beaches scattered along its border. On that night, the dunes of its coastline glittered in the starlight - the moon gazing over the sleeping city, as the waves came home to shore.
And on one of these shorelines - far more secluded than the rest - stood a mother and her young son.
"Do you see that, mijo?" Andrés heard his mother whisper, pointing carefully to the small light in the distance as it hovered over the water. The evening wind blew gently around the mother and child - carrying the woman's whisper as it brushed softly against their skin.
The young boy squinted for a clearer image of the glowing body - leaning as far forward as his balance would allow. It was not easy to steady himself on the shoreline dunes, nor was it easy to brave the midnight chill. The salty sea breeze had coaxed him into blinking far too many times already - and if it hadn't been for the sheer reverence in his mother's voice, Andrés would have been tempted to simply return to his bed. Six-year-old boys needed their sleep after all.
Smothering a yawn behind his palm, Andrés rubbed the drowsiness from his eyes as best he could, before focusing on the distant glow once more. It seemed smaller, somehow.
"What is that, mamá?"
Her mother smiled at him sadly, then - a deep melancholy shining in her eyes.
"It's a paper glider, mijo," she whispered - just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the waves. "A very special paper glider."
Andrés's brow furrowed at her words, confusion plain on his face.
Paper gliders?
Like the ones they made at school? The ones that he would fold during recess with sheets from his notebook?
"If it's a glider, why is it glowing?" he asked.
To this, his mother smiled almost mischievously.
"Because it has an important job to do, mijo."
Andrés frowned deeply at that - confused and impatient and still a tad sleepy - having no patience tonight for his mamá's playful secrecy. The young boy pouted, jutting out his chin.
"I don't see what makes it so important," he grumbled - eyeing the distant glow angrily, as if it was personally responsible for his current sleep deprivation. In a way, he supposed it was.
But his mother let his irritation roll off her shoulders - instead brushing a lock of hair from his face with an apologetic smile.
"Perdóname, mijo, I couldn't help but tease."
And then her smile shifted; something solemn and sad.
"Make no mistake, though, mijo: that glider is priceless. Valuable beyond measure, and worth more than mountains of gold."
Andrés tilted his head at that - his curiosity finally piqued.
"Why is it so important?"
His mother's smiled grew tender.
"Because it's a glider that leads bonded souls to one another."
Andrés's eyes widened almost comically at her words - after which he frantically began to search for the light in the distance. He was eager to catch a glimpse of it, now, knowing its value and true significance. To his mounting horror, he could see the light grow smaller and smaller - its lively glow now a faint flicker against the sky.
"Mamá, its light is going out!" Andrés yelled in distress, and he was already tempted to go after it had his mother not rubbed a soothing hand against his back.
"Tranquilo, mijo, tranquilo. Look carefully, see?"
Again, she pointed to the glow.
"It's not fading, Andrés. It's moving. Towards the horizon, like the ships we always see."
After heaving a calming breath, the young boy squinted at the glider as it steadily grew smaller. True to his mother's words, he could now see that it did seem to be moving - flying a few meters above the waves, as it moved farther and farther from shore.
"Where is it going?"
"To find its recipient, mijo."
Andrés turned to his mother with a confused tilt of his head, but her eyes remained on the glider - transfixed on the distant glow.
Her voice was quiet; a wistful whisper on the wind.
"Somewhere in this world, mijo, someone released that paper glider into the sky, bearing messages for the person known as their soulmate. That little glider you see will travel as far as it needs to, in order to reach that precious soulmate. The sun, the snow, the rain - none of it matters, mijo. Not to that little glider. It will see its journey through, and unite those lucky souls. And that... that is why it glows. So it doesn't lose its way in the dark. So its recipient can find it, even in the deepest night. That is what makes it so special."
Andrés could only breathe a sigh in wonder - a cloud of condensation passing from his lips, up into the chilly air.
"A soulmate," he whispered - eyes wide with reverent awe. "And the special glider... it knows where to go, even if those people don't know each other yet?"
His mother turned to him, then - her smile aching and bittersweet.
"That is how they find each other in the first place, mijo."
He hadn't known it then, but on that night - standing with his mother under the starlit sky - the course of Andrés's life had been changed forever.
"I'm going to get my glider one day," he declared solemnly, the dream taking root in his young, fragile heart. Ever so gently, the wind tangled his hair. "I'm going to get my glider, and I'm going to find my soulmate."
At his words, his mother's eyes filled with a sadness he would one day understand. Even then, she found the strength to gift her son one more smile, before she planted a gentle kiss on his brow.
In the distance, the glider vanished from view.
"Of course you will, mijo. Of course you will."
II
Madrid, Spain
1985-1993
Andrés was ten when his family moved to Madrid. It was for Sergio's sake, his parents explained - how the treatments he needed were found in the capital, and how the move would allow him more visits with his dear baby brother.
Andrés didn't put up much of a fuss; he could hardly imagine denying his hermanito anything - what more for something that would improve his ailing health? He had packed his clothes without a word of complaint - and after bidding his neighbors a polite goodbye - he set out with his family to this large new city.
Andrés was ten when his family moved to Madrid.
Andrés was also ten when he learned of the "Lotería del Viento".
The "Lottery of the Wind" was what they called it - a tradition as ancient as the gliders themselves; a spectacle held on the first day of the month, right in the heart of each growing city. It was a game of chance - a game of luck - a handful of names drawn from a pool, irrespective of the person's wealth or status.
A single person, a single entry. Month after month. Year after year.
One soul against a hundred thousand more - all for the prize that most everyone sought:
A single paper glider.
On that day, Andrés had learned another phrase: la tragedia de los planeadores de papel. The crowd's quiet whisper at the lottery's end.
Because what else could it be called but a tragedy, that each tree could produce but one glider a month?
What else could it be called but a tragedy, to face such disheartening odds?
And what else could it be called but a tragedy, to learn of the existence of a soulmate, but to never learn who they are? To go through life without knowing them, simply for a lack of luck?
The tragedy of the paper gliders.
Fitting, Andrés thought.
That night, Andrés had cried silently in his bedroom, the moonlight staining his tears silver as his heart cracked in two. He allowed himself time for his grief - for his feelings of mourning and terror, knowing his soulmate was not as promised as he believed.
And then - as he had long learned from watching his father in silence - Andrés wiped his tears with a steadied hand, and thought about what he had to do next.
He was not about to relinquish his dream so easily. Not after wanting it for almost half of his life - not without fighting tooth and nail at the very very least.
He knew he could not wrestle fate into submission; it had been explained to him clearly that the lotería had safeguards - stories of gliders never launching if acquired by falsity or finance or force.
No, he had to be smart about this. Artful. He would not challenge, he would charm - much like he did with his mother when there was something he desired. This time, however, he would charm the very universe until fate was in his corner; he would devote himself to its wonder, and be rewarded as its disciple. The universe would see, then: there would be no one in the world as prepared for a glider as he. No one would even come close.
And if that did not work, then he'd do the finding himself. He would be brilliant and beautiful - a beacon in the darkness - a lighthouse across the sea. 'Look at me!' he would tell his soulmate by presence alone. 'I'm here! It's me! Find me, I've been searching for you!'
Yes, it was quite clear now. That was what he had to do.
It didn't matter now, the tragedy of the paper gliders; Andrés would be the exception, not the rule - raging and defiant against his perilous odds.
He would get his glider - he would find his soulmate - and then...
...And then he would love them. With all of his being. With all that he was.
And he would be loved in turn.
On the morning of his eighteenth birthday - at the earliest hour of his eligibility - Andrés made his way to the heart of the city, and entered his name into the Lotería del Viento.
III
Madrid, Spain
1994
Martín Berrote did not trouble himself with the business of soulmates.
He was not wholly against the idea, you must understand. Quite the opposite, really - he enjoyed the notion of a soulmate. It was an exciting concept: the idea that there was someone out there who his heart was bound to - whose very soul and being was tied to his. There was someone who would understand him unlike any other; a person he was meant to be with - their bond woven into the fabric of fate.
That said, Martín was also pragmatic. More so than most nineteen-year-olds his age.
He wanted to meet his soulmate - of course - but realistically, he knew his odds were slim-to-none. One chance in a hundred thousand - who was he to compete against that?
After all, Martín Berrote knew it well: he had never stood a chance in the first place.
He simply wasn’t that kind of person - he wasn’t born with luck smiling down on him, as it seemed eager to do for most everyone else. Every bit of fortune always came with a condition - a price often steeper than the prize itself, leaving Martín at a pitiful loss.
Fate simply didn't see it fit to bless him; that was the truth of the matter at its core. He had made his peace with it after all these years (‘liar’, his hopes would say) - and he had banished his wish for a soulmate to a quiet corner of his heart, resolving to live his life outside of its shadow.
The bitter pill was unpleasant, but he'd swallowed it all the same.
(Funny how he could never seem to rinse the taste of it from his tongue.)
Regardless of his conviction, however, it seemed that the universe and its machinations were not done with Martín yet. It was as the great poets said, after all - an ancient wisdom, passed down through the ages.
Breathtakingly simple; a fact and a truth:
Fate, as they concluded, was a perpetually raging bitch.
Martín was reminded of this, yet again, when he entered his new dormitory and found half of his room covered in sketches.
But not just any sketches, no - that would have been kind. No, these were sketches upon sketches upon goddamn sketches of those paper. fucking. gliders.
‘Fucking unbelievable.’
“Ah! You must be Martín!”
The teen was pulled from his mental profanities by the joyful call of his name. As soon as Martín turned his head to the source, he - impressively - had six distinct thoughts in only a handful milliseconds.
They proceeded as follows:
The first: ‘Who the fuck are you?’
Second: ‘Ah, my new roommate.’
Third: ‘Hey, you’re cute.’
Fourth: ‘Shit, you’re cute.’
Fifth: ‘What’s with all these fucking gliders?’
And sixth, most emphatically: ‘I don’t see this ending well.’
From all these sentiments, Martín - ever eloquent - managed to say the following:
“Oh, hi.”
Sixth statement? Masterfully fulfilled.
Martín half-wanted to cry.
However, before Martín could conclude that tears would not improve his disastrous introduction (and that the introduction was, objectively, not that bad at all), his roommate started to chuckle happily - not a hint of mocking in the sound. The warmth of his laughter soothed something in Martín’s chest - drawing the Argentinian like a moth to a flame.
Astonishing, given he'd only just met the man.
‘Who are you?’ Martín thought, inching a step closer. ‘At least tell me your name.’
As if hearing his unspoken plea, the young man extended his hand with a charming smile - his eyes bright and twinkling.
“My name is Andrés,” he said - handshake firm when Martín took his hand. “Andrés de Fonollosa. We’re roommates, I believe.”
“Martín Berrote,” came the younger man’s reply, “I’m an engineering freshman."
"Engineering?" Andrés asked - tone curious as he raised an elegant brow. "That's quite a field you've chosen. I, myself, have a preference for the more visual arts-" he waved a hand in the vague direction of the sketches "-but engineering... that's quite interesting. You have a love for calculations?"
In turn, Martín's brow creased at the question - pondering the turn of phrase.
Well...
He didn't know if he loved calculations. Love was too strong a word. He enjoyed them to a degree; they were interesting to pick apart, after all. But to say he loved them? He didn't know.
They were fun, yes; almost always intriguing. They were exciting puzzles - frequent sources of joy. He found solace in them. He found happiness in them. They...
They—
"They're alright," Martín buckled, nearly wincing at his own vacillation.
But rather than being irritated at the lukewarm answer as Martín expected, Andrés fell silent instead - regarding the Argentinian with a curious tilt of his head.
Andrés's eyes narrowed at Martín, then - a hint of a smile playing on his lips, as if his roommate had just revealed himself to be a particularly fascinating riddle. A riddle that Andrés was now tempted to solve. He couldn't have been older than Martín was, but there was an intensity in his eyes that belied his years; a confidence from knowing - as if he'd caught Martín red-handed, right in the middle of an act.
It was almost as if... as if he was privy to Martín's turmoil at the simple question. As if somehow, he knew.
'There's no way in hell he could know,' Martín thought, but even his mind's voice sounded unsure. Was he really so transparent?
Under his roommate's continued scrutiny, Martín fought the urge to fidget. His fingers tapped restlessly against the fabric of his jeans - his toes curling and uncurling to expel the frenetic energy - the hairs practically raising on the back of his neck.
Martín felt exposed. Raw. As if Andrés was staring through his carefully-built defenses, and was contemplating the most efficient way to strike them down.
And what confused Martín most was that he wanted him to do it. Martin was not afraid of the prospect, he was excited. He was eager to see what Andres would do - to see how gloriously his ramparts would come crashing down.
He could not tell you why - for the life of him - but he did.
His heart pounding a wild rhythm in his chest, Martín met Andrés's gaze head-on - an eyebrow raised in challenge; a smirk growing on his lips. Distantly, he fought the wild urge to laugh.
He could see Andrés's smile widen the moment their eyes locked - could see the absolute glee in his gaze as Martín tipped his chin up, the gesture almost taunting.
'This will be interesting,' Andrés seemed to say. 'I believe we'll get along very very well.'
Martín, for his part, could not agree more.
IV
Madrid, Spain
1994
In Martín Berrote's not-so-humble opinion, Andrés was goddamn lucky to have a roommate like him.
No, really. He was.
Most of the time, Martín didn't even know how he managed it: living with the creative whirlwind that was the fine arts student, and dealing with all the eccentricities that came with him.
First of all, there was the issue of space. More specifically, the lack thereof.
In the Argentinian's defense, it started out innocently enough: a dramatic "Martín, oh, Martín - what ever shall I do? I've run out of storage on my side of the room and have nowhere to place my canvases." This was of course followed by the most mournful gaze Martín had ever seen.
Andrés's statement, however, still rang with truth. Every surface on his side seemed to be covered in supplies - from paintbrushes and palettes, to various sketches taped to the wall. This set of sketches failed to feature those gliders, and Martín was grateful to lose the reminder.
The art student's problem was remedied easily enough. Martín simply had to shift a few boxes under his bed to clear enough space - effectively creating a home for a number of Andrés's plates. He'd been rewarded for his generosity with an equally dramatic hug, followed by the declaration that the great masters of painting would grant him their favor.
Martín had taken it all in stride.
It wasn't that big of a deal, anyway. Even he couldn't deny that Andrés was a talented artist - and given that they were quickly becoming the best of friends, the younger man was more than happy to be of help.
That is, until he wasn't.
Not even a week later, Martín woke bright and early to the sun in his eyes, a chill in the air, and a terrifyingly realistic human head staring at him from his bedside table.
The engineering student's subsequent screech was unholy.
It had taken him a good two minutes to get his heart to stop racing - and once the shock had finally passed, any fear he may have felt quickly gave way to incandescent rage.
Scanning their quarters quickly, Martín found the subject of his irritation a little ways away, still seated at his study desk on the opposite side of the room. The fine arts student was sleeping soundly - his head pillowed on arms folded atop the table, and his cheek pressed against the wood. Even from where he was sitting, Martín could see that his roommate's fingers were stained with acrylics - occasional smatterings of blues and reds painting his cheeks and forehead.
On any other day, Martín would have been moved to sympathy at the sight of his roommate. Perhaps he would have even grabbed Andrés a coffee, before carefully nudging him awake for class.
Today, however? He wanted to punt his roommate into the sun.
Stomping towards the other side of their quarters - a few "la concha de tu madre"s muttered under his breath - Martín none-too-gently poked a sleeping Andrés on the shoulder, earning him a muffled grunt.
When no other response was forthcoming, Martín inhaled deeply and exhaled through clenched teeth, before plastering on the sweetest smile he could muster.
It would have been convincing had his left eye not twitched wildly.
"Andrés," Martín began, his voice light and saccharine. It was just the faintest bit unnerving. "Amigo querido de mi corazon... I hope you're having a pleasant morning, ¿no? It seems like you're very tired. How awful. Just a quick question..."
A deep inhale.
"WHY IN THE EVER LOVING FUCK IS YOUR PAPER MACHE SCULPTURE ON MY NIGHTSTAND, ANDRÉS?!"
It was a rather impressive eruption, if Martín did say so himself; he could've even sworn he got red in the face at the latter part too. Unfortunately, the only response he received from the art student was a quiet waking groan, followed by a pair of brown eyes blinking up at him blearily.
The Spaniard's brow furrowed in confusion, before his frown turned impatient.
"What d'you want, Martín, I'm sleep'ng."
The Argentinian was going to murder in his roommate.
However, before he could take a big enough breath to scream yet again in the art student's face, Andrés had plopped his head back atop his folded arms - returning to sleep with a quiet hum.
Martín sputtered indignantly at that - fuming like a particularly disgruntled tea kettle.
"You can't just- hey I'm- hey I'm talking to you, hijo de puta, we're not finished!"
At the persistent disruption, Andrés had the audacity to glare at Martín for a brief moment, before settling down to sleep once more.
"I didn' have space on m' desk for it," the art student mumbled, eyes still closed as he slurred drowsily. "It's jus' for a few days. Y' don't use y'r nightstand anyway."
Martín seethed.
"That doesn't mean I want to wake up to a disembodied head staring at me every morning, Andrés!"
"Then turn it around so it's n't staring at y'," Andrés groused tiredly, before burying his face deeper into the fold of his arms.
Martín was more than ready to continue their argument - a profanity-riddled response perched eagerly on his tongue - but just as he was about to cuss out his roommate, Andrés's quiet snore suddenly filled the air.
Un-fucking-believable.
What frustrated Martín most in that moment was not the sheer gall the art major possessed (though it came at a very close second) - it was the fact that he knew that these snores were genuine. He'd shared a room with Andrés long enough to know that, and he also knew Andrés only snored when he was incredibly fatigued.
Cursing the fact that he did still feel sympathy towards his obviously exhausted roommate, Martín stomped towards his nightstand and turned the statue the other way - setting down the artwork with a solid, angry *thunk*.
The statue stayed on his nightstand for the rest of the semester, and from there, Andrés's various artworks slowly encroached on Martín's side of the room.
The lack of space was the first issue; the second was the hours.
Martín strongly and firmly believed that his roommate had one of the shittiest work schedules a student could have. Given that Martín, himself, was up to his eyeballs in coursework, that was truly saying something.
Initially, the art student's late hours didn't bother Martín that much. Yes, there was the sound of brushstroke upon canvas until the wee hours of the night - and yes, there was the perpetually powered desk lamp that rested on Andrés's table - but those matters had been remedied by a purchase of earplugs and a snugly-fitting sleepmask.
The engineering student had slept peacefully those first few weeks - but all of that had changed two months into the freshman year.
Andrés had woken Martín up in the hours before dawn, looking very much like a student who had barely slept in a fortnight. Knowing the sheer volume of plates that Andrés had to work on, Martín had guessed that was probably the case. The art student had growled in frustration as he took a canvas into his hands, before gesticulating wildly at the unfinished work.
"It's terrible!" Andres had bemoaned, spinning dramatically in his swiveling chair. "I can't - for the life of me - pinpoint its flaw, but something is missing, Martín! I just know it!"
It was then that the young Berrote made his most fatal mistake: he'd offered Andrés his opinion.
He remembered squinting at the artwork that night - at the shades of blue, green, and gray scattered across the canvas - and then, rather sleepily, he'd just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"I don't know," he'd said, speaking around a yawn, "why don't you just add a little red?"
Martín knew next to nothing about art, but he'd hoped that his comment would appease his roommate enough to let him return to sleep.
He hadn't expected that he'd actually be right.
Whatever color-theory-symbolism was present in his suggestion was entirely lost on the younger student, but it seemed to be exactly what Andrés had needed.
"You're a genius, Martín! A genius!" Andrés had crowed as he got back to work - and yes, okay, maybe Martín did blush deeply at the words of praise. Sue him, he was happy. Andrés had called him a genius, after all.
Unfortunately, Martín hadn't anticipated that from then on, his so-called genius would be in very high demand. These days, the Argentinian was lucky if he could go a night without being woken twice or thrice - all so Andrés could get his oh-so-valuable opinion on his latest work.
"So what do you think?" was what he'd always ask - and Martín, like the fool that he was, gave him his insight every single time.
All of that said, one of the things that truly perplexed Martín about his roommate was neither the dramatics nor the work habits, it was the fact that Andrés always slept late. Even when deadlines weren't right around the bend, Martín had never seen Andrés catch up on sleep - opting instead to dance the night away at some college party or another. He was constantly on the social scene - like that time he came home from a shindig a few hours past midnight, even when Martín knew he'd had an all-nighter just the day before. It was as if Andrés was eager to socialize with most everyone on campus - jumping on each chance at revelry for reasons Martín couldn't explain.
And that wasn't even the worst of it. No - what Martín found most perplexing was that when he wasn't either working or partying, Andrés still spent his free time sketching and writing. Martín didn't know how he wasn't sick of it yet, given how the art major had to work on piece after piece on a near-daily basis. The younger man's confusion had only grown over time, until one day he'd decided to just ask outright.
He remembered that night clearly. Perfectly.
It had been a quiet Saturday evening - just a week or two shy of Christmas, with winter coming around the bend. It had been a peaceful evening, he remembered - the distinct lack of coursework granting a necessary reprieve - especially after the hell that was their final examinations.
Martín had been lounging with a book in his lap that night - his bedside lamp illuminating the text, painting the page a quiet straw yellow. He'd been sipping his tea slowly for the better part of the evening - and while he couldn't name either the blend or the brand (it was one of Andrés's loose-leafs, after all), he was thankful for the taste of its mellow floral flavor.
Whether it was from the gentle warmth of the mug in his hands, the fuzzy texture of the socks on his feet, or the comfortable silence that enveloped the room - Martín found himself breathing a quiet sigh, savoring the simple moment of peace.
It was close to midnight when sleep tugged at Martín's eyelids - prompting him to set aside his novel for the night. He'd switched off his night lamp, crawled under the covers, and was about to slip into Morpheus's embrace, when a sight in his periphery made him pause.
Unbidden, a soft smile found its way to his lips.
There - sitting at his desk with his back to the younger man - was Andrés.
He was dressed in a worn hoodie and his flannel pajama pants - his hair slightly disheveled, as it often was when he worked late into the night. The glow of the desk lamp gently haloed his silhouette - softening the edges of his profile, and painting the tips of his locks gold. There was the scratch of pencil upon paper - a sketch, not a painting - followed by the brush of the young man's fingers against grain.
'Charcoal, then,' Martín mused silently, 'His favorite. He's probably in a good mood.'
His suspicions were confirmed when - upon the tilt of Andrés's head - Martín glimpsed the artist's smile of contentment.
It was a sight that left him both curious and confused.
Martín had borne witness to his friend's sleepless nights - finishing painting upon sculpture upon oil pastel sketch. He'd seen the bags of exhaustion underneath his eyes - the weariness in his posture after a day hard at work. He'd been running on fumes - his tank nearly empty for almost a week - and yet his first agenda this break time was to find a moment to draw.
It confounded Martín enough to loosen his tongue.
"Andrés?" Martín asked - tentative and quiet, as if hesitant to break the hush.
The art major didn't look up from his sketching, but his head tipped sideways ever so slightly - indicating that he'd heard. That he was listening.
'Yes, Martín?' Andrés replied through the gesture. Distantly, Martín wondered when his roommate's silence became as clear to him as his voice.
The Argentinian breathed deeply; it was now or never, then.
"Don't you ever get tired of it?" Martín asked. The question made his roommate's hand still. "The sketching, I mean. All of this art. You've barely done anything else for the past few months - it has to get tiring at some point, doesn't it?"
Andrés paused as he considered his dearest friend's words - his pencil hovering over the paper, suspended mid-stroke. The artist stayed that way for a moment - frozen between one heartbeat and the next - before he finally turned to Martín with a curious tilt of his head.
He twirled the pencil in his hand - smiling.
"It does get tiring, amigo mio, I'm not going to lie," he admitted, huffing a small laugh. "Those days when ideas are in such scarce supply... I swear, painting without inspiration is Sisyphean, Martín. But this?"
The Spaniard gestured to the paper on his desk - his eyes softened in fondness.
"This is different."
"How so?" Martín asked, near-instantaneous. The younger man would have blushed at the eagerness in his voice, had he not seen Andrés's smile at his words. Martín's curiosity, it seemed, had pleased him very much.
The art student pursed his lips for a moment - deep in consideration - before he beckoned his friend forward with a wave of his hand.
"Come over here, Martín," he grinned. "Let me show you."
It was on that night that Martín finally understood.
"Those are—"
"The paper gliders, yes," Andrés whispered - his voice reverent as he traced the figure on the page. His fingers were careful as they brushed the soft charcoal - as if he was handling something fragile - something precious.
To him, perhaps it was.
"They were on the wall, your gliders," Martín recalled, "the day we both met. You hung them up in this room."
Those sketches had been gone for quite a while now - tucked away in some folder, hidden from view. What hung in their place was a myriad of studies: calligraphy and patterns and self-portraits alike - a few words of poetry scribbled in the margins.
He'd assumed that Andrés had grown tired of the gliders - that he simply had chosen to display something else.
But now? After seeing the value he held for them?
"Why did you take them down?"
Martín wouldn't have minded the sketches. Not if they mattered to Andrés.
In response to his question, Andrés only smiled wider - raising an eyebrow in confident challenge.
"My dearest Martín," he said, his eyes almost glittering as he gestured to the wall. "What makes you think this is not all for them?"
The realization knocked the wind from his lungs.
"You're saying all of this is–" Martín began - scanning the papers in awed disbelief. Surely he couldn't mean—
"They're all for my glider, yes. For practice - to perfect it. So I already know exactly what to place."
It was unheard of.
Martín had long given up on his dreams for a glider, and he knew that most people had chosen the same. There was the hope for one, yes - perhaps an idea of what one would write - but that was as far as most people went. The glider was made to bear a sender's message - and more often than not, it was a simple name, date, time, and place - scribbled in ink on the glider's surface.
There wasn't much expectation in terms of design; who could be expected to prepare diligently for that, when there was little to no chance of it coming to fruition?
Apparently, Andrés.
"So the calligraphy... the pattern work... the poetry..." Martín whispered - all to which the artist nodded his head.
"Why?" was all Martín could breathe. His roommate's smile turned wistful.
"My soulmate deserves the best, do they not?" came Andrés's reply - his eyes warm as honey as they gazed upon the sketches. "What soulmate would I be, if I wrote my words without care? If I sent them a glider devoid of all effort? It has to be beautiful, Martín, do you understand? The words that I write - the shape of the text - all of it matters, especially in this moment."
Andrés's eyes hardened, then - steely with resolve.
"We both would have waited our whole lives for this, Martín. I will give my soulmate nothing less."
At the conviction in the Spaniard's voice, Martín could only stare, speechless.
Then, a thought:
'How do you know this isn't all for nothing?'
Martín couldn't bring himself to voice the question in his mind. He already knew the answer, after all: that Andrés - just like anyone - had no way of knowing if he would ever find his soulmate. It was highly possible - highly probable - that all his efforts would be in vain; that Andrés was waiting for a glider that would simply never come.
But Martín couldn't say that now. He wouldn't.
Not when Andrés had just confided in him. Not when he'd given Martín a glimpse of the hope in his heart.
Not when the younger man could see that - beneath the confidence and steely resolve - there was a whisper of fear that lingered in Andrés's eyes.
Martín had no need to tell him. Andrés already knew.
So the Argentinian said this instead:
"And here I was thinking I was roommates with the next Rembrandt - what with all your self-portraits and all. Now I find out you just want to paint it on your glider!"
Martín couldn't help but grin victoriously at his roommate's subsequent chuckle - the traces of melancholy vanishing from his eyes. Encouraged by the sight, Martín continued - smiling mischievously.
"So does that mean you've had to practice your portrait for every new haircut? Every time you wanted to grow a beard?"
That earned the younger man another huff of laughter, before the art student turned to him with his own mischievous smirk.
"It's not too difficult for me, what with all the experience I've had," Andrés boasted - posturing in a mimic of a pompous snob. It would have been convincing had his lips not twitched at the corners. "It's a simple matter - truly. A well-honed skill I've already perfected. I've been practicing since I was six after all–"
"Since you were what—" came Martín's screech, broken only by the art student's laughter at his friend's incredulity. His farcical bravado slipped quickly from his face, replaced by an infinitely more genuine smile.
On that night - in the warmth of their laughter and their easy companionship - Martín had learned more about Andrés than he could have possibly imagined.
He learned about that chilly night in San Sebastián, when a six-year-old Andrés stood on the shore, hearing about the gliders for the very first time. He learned about the dream that was created that evening - how Andrés had imagined his glider's appearance, and how he began sketching the very next day. He learned of childish scribbles and doodles - of stick-figures and odd maps, all lacking in detail - and all of them written in a preschooler's scrawl.
Then came the years of practice, he learned; the afternoons after classes when Andrés sketched for hours - honing his abilities under the fading light of the sun. The art student had practiced on nearly every scrap of paper - from notebooks to post-its to the back of his receipts - until he could finally produce a recognizable likeness.
And he hadn't stopped there. After that came the calligraphy - the poetry - the studies in painting and pastel alike - years and years of dedication, all to grant his soulmate the gorgeous glider they deserved.
It was a source of comfort for him, Andrés eventually confessed, whispering the words to Martín who sat quietly by his side. It was the reason he had kept the sketches on the wall, rather than hanging up his works from class. The very canvases that lay quietly in the space under Martín's bed.
"I am sorry, Martín," Andrés said with an apologetic smile. "I've taken up quite a bit of your space to accommodate these sketches. I can take them all down if it's truly a bother."
Once upon a time, Martín would have likely taken Andrés up on that very offer. But now - knowing the significance they held for his friend - Martín could hardly imagine ever asking that of him.
So instead, he smiled reassuringly - regarding the paper mache head on his nightstand with a fond, gentle laugh - before telling his roommate that 'no, you don't have to worry - I genuinely don't mind'.
They talked for hours and hours and hours more - about childhoods and career goals and all that lay in between - the conversation flowing easily like the push-and-pull of a tide.
Martín wasn't sure how they returned to the gliders. He only knew that at one point, he mentioned the difficulty of drawing on its surface, and how it would be hard for Andrés to sketch patterns on a fold.
At that, the art student's eyes twinkled.
"You underestimate me, Martín," was all Andrés said, before he rummaged through his drawers and produced a large sheet of paper.
Without further ado, Andrés folded the paper into the appropriate shape, grabbed his trusty charcoal pencil, and drew.
Martín could only watch, mesmerized, as the swirling patterns took form - the pencil dipping and diving with a flourishing grace. Andrés sketched on the surface with impossible ease, and Martín could see the years of practice that guided his wrist.
The younger man could have watched his friend work forever - would have been perfectly content to do nothing else - but the moment he glimpsed his roommate's expression, he felt his breath catch in his chest.
Andrés looked... ethereal.
He was haloed by the lamplight - glowing radiantly in the darkness as he continued to sketch. His smile was warm with contentment - his posture relaxed - a faint little melody hummed softly beneath his breath. It was the happiest Martín had seen him; a most wondrous thing to behold.
And yet—
And yet, Martín could see it: the echoes of yearning that lingered in his eyes. There was fear beyond measure - both longing and pain - a terror born of knowing the world's harshest realities.
Martín ached for Andrés, then - for his makeshift glider and his wall of worn sketches - and when Martín saw the sorrow hidden just behind his gaze, he glimpsed the little boy on the beach who prayed for a soulmate, simply because he believed it was a promise of acceptance and love.
It lasted just a moment, but an eternity all the same.
When Martín looked up, the vision had vanished - returning to the image of Andrés as he was now.
"And here it is, amigo mio!" The artist held the paper between charcoal-stained fingers - presenting the finished artwork with a proud and pleased smile.
"So what do you think?" Andrés asked, just before a laugh left his lips at the words. The humor of his query wasn't lost on Martín, and he couldn't help his smile at the incredibly familiar line. It seemed that his 'genius' was in demand once again.
He could see the apology in the tilt of Andrés's smile - aware of the sleep deprivation his roommate had suffered. Martín was quick to assure him with a smile of his own - again, 'you don't have to worry - I genuinely don't mind'.
Andrés's grin widened at that before he gestured to his work - eager to hear what his dearest friend thought.
But Martín wasn't looking at the glider; he was looking at Andrés.
Andrés who was glowing softly in the gentle warm light. Andrés who was smiling with charcoal stains on his cheeks. Andrés who was looking at him - vulnerable and honest and hopeful and free - the mask of bravado nowhere in sight.
Martín gasped quietly; a sharp intake of breath.
It felt like he was seeing him for the very first time.
His answer came easily, then - the truth of the statement ringing deep in his bones:
"It's beautiful, Andrés."
And he meant it. Most sincerely.
Andrés had laughed happily at the praise - returning to his work to further tweak his design - but Martín was left staring, a jumble of emotions blooming in his chest.
There was an unusual sense of satisfaction there - a satisfaction from knowing, as if he'd just caught Andrés in an act. But more than that, there was warmth - one that nestled in the crevices just behind his chest - a steady, calm, and grounding thing, but exciting just the same.
It felt like the joy of solving an equation. It felt like the safety of a gentle embrace.
And if Martín were a braver man, he might have even called it love.
V
Madrid, Spain
1997
Martín had learned early in life that every blessing came with a curse. That was how his own fortune worked, at least.
It was a constant in his life: whenever Martín believed that his luck was improving, fate always made certain to put him back in his place. More often than not, fate took far more than it gave - always leaving Martín with less than he had.
He first learned it in math class.
When Martín was a tender six years of age, he'd come to the realization that he was good at mathematics. He had taken to the subject like a fish to water - grasping arithmetic with an unusual ease, and pulling ahead from the rest of his peers. He would finish his worksheets before the rest of the class, with scores often ranked at the top one or two spots. He couldn't explain his uncanny ability, but it had pleased both his parents and that had been enough.
He remembered feeling lucky, then - that the notoriously difficult subject was one he found fun. It was enjoyable to him - genuinely - a bonafide source of wonder and joy. He found comfort in the logic that equations could provide - he found unparalleled excitement in solving a problem on the board. It made him happy - it made him glad - he—
He—
He loved math. Truly, he did.
And voicing that had been one of his greatest mistakes.
It was his seatmate who'd asked him, just after their teacher handed out their tasks. Martín had been quietly solving his worksheet - humming happily to himself as he ran the numbers in his head - when his seatmate suddenly sneered at him with a disgusted scrunch of his nose.
"Why are you happy right now?" the boy hissed - surprising Martín who looked up from his work. "Math is terrible you know. Nothing about it is fun. All our classmates think so - everyone says the same."
And then he scowled at Martín - spitting his next words:
"Everyone except you."
To this very day, Martín remembered how he felt in that moment. He remembered the way his stomach had dropped - remembered the sob that rose in his throat. It was a bucket of cold water tipped over his head - a frozen, dreadful feeling he'd been too young to understand.
And all he could remember thinking was 'why?'
What was it that he had done wrong?
His mind had blanked, in that instant - struggling to form an appropriate response. He had simply blurted out what came to his mind, driven by emotion rather than logic.
"But I think math is fun," a young Martín insisted - his features scrunching in frustrated distress. "I love math. I'm enjoying it. What does it matter to you if I'm having fun?"
And that, apparently, had been the wrong thing to say.
As soon as the teacher went outside for a moment, his seatmate had announced - standing on his seat:
"Martín says he loves math! He says it's fun and we're just bad at it and that's why we don't like it!"
"I never said that!" Martín yelled - not once insulting his peers - but it was lost to the indignant shouts of the rest of his class.
He'd spent most of that school year sitting alone - listening to the angry whispers of his classmates, all for something he hadn't even said.
That was when it began; the day Martín realized that with a blessing came a curse. He had felt lucky for a time - lucky to be skilled in computing those numbers - but the reckoning had come swiftly, leaving him branded as an outcast.
Fortunate? Please. Martín was anything but.
And all because he'd admitted his quiet love for the field.
Martín had decided, then, as he wept silently at home: it was a dangerous thing, to admit feelings of love. At least to others, anyway. His outward expression of his passionate nature had led to his ostracism, and it was an error he was determined never to make again. For many, many years, he had been terribly successful - keeping his fervors close to his chest, with no one any the wiser.
Until he met Andrés de Fonollosa.
Andrés was a proverbial force of nature - barreling into Martín's life with the subtlety of a whirlwind - brimming with energy and creative zeal. He loved grandly and openly - loud and unafraid - his heart, a fiery, ferocious thing. He was not shy with his ardor; when he loved, he made it known - singing it from the rooftops and not caring who would hear.
It had sparked a fire inside Martín that he'd long thought snuffed out. He had long lived in fear of the world learning his heart - afraid to make his passion and enthusiasm known. But then he looked at Andrés who loved fiercely and free - and it made Martín wonder if he could do just the same.
It had been more than three years since he first met his roommate, and the Argentinian could see the change in his life.
And yet the pattern always remained.
Because he was lucky, he knew - lucky to be friends and roommates with Andrés.
Andrés had slowly coaxed out Martín's enthusiastic nature - encouraging him to express his passion and joy. Martín had been afraid to vocalize his ardor, but the Spaniard had insisted time and again - eager to hear what his friend had to say. And Martín obliged, if only to humor him.
With every discussion, his answers grew less hesitant; he was more willing to admit when he found something intriguing, or when something would pique his growing curiosity. He began talking about classes - about the problems his professors had posed for that lecture, and which ones he found were worthy of interest. Andrés would then ask him to explain and expound - granting Martín his undivided attention, as the Argentinian went on about formulas and figures.
Nothing bolstered his confidence more than seeing Andrés listening intently.
And now, three years later, Martín could see how much he'd changed. He would rave to Andrés about the simplest of things; he would bounce on his heels as he wrote equations on the board. He would catch himself smiling at the crisp autumn leaves, simply because his roommate had waxed poetic about them once. He felt happier and freer than he'd been for some time, and the world looked more beautiful than it ever had before.
There was no one in the world he trusted more than Andrés - and Martín was certain he'd earned his friend's trust as well.
He considered himself lucky for that too.
He was lucky to see a different side of Andrés - the one he kept hidden from the rest of the world. He saw the Andrés that called his brother near-weekly - his smile full of joy at the sound of his hermanito. He saw the Andrés that grew testy in Decembers - another year having passed without a glider of his own. He saw the Andrés who shook with anticipation, because "I finally have enough savings for the brush for my glider!" and, "It's of the highest quality, of course, and they say it works wonders against the grain."
And then there were the moments - few and far between - when Andrés's mask would inevitably slip.
There were days when the performance grew far too exhausting, and when his confidence and bravado would crumble away. He would find Andrés in those moments, slumped in his chair, a weariness and wariness shining in his gaze. His eyes would be cautious when they locked onto Martín's - as if expecting his roommate to detest what he saw.
'Look,' his eyes said, 'this is me without airs. Am I still someone you'd want by your side?'
And of course Martín's answer would always be 'yes'.
Andrés would smile, then - quiet and crooked - and he would look at Martín in both wonder and thanks. Martín would joke, Andrés would laugh, and the world would keep turning - much like it always had.
So yes, he was lucky to be friends with Andrés - but all of Martín's blessings came with a curse.
What made him unlucky this time around was that Martín was in love with his very best friend.
Perhaps that was not unfortunate in and of itself; rather, it was the knowledge that this love was unrequited. Andrés had never said it, but then again, he didn't have to.
Because how could Martín ever be worthy? What could Martín possibly offer Andrés? The engineering student kept drawing blanks, and he'd long since decided to let that dream die. (‘Liar’, again, his hopes quietly said - whispering every now and again.)
With all things considered, Martín was satisfied with the balance of fate. He was happy with Andrés - much, much happier than he had ever been before - and if those moments of longing was the price he had to pay, then he would be willing to pay his dues.
Every now and again, Martín still pondered on the idea of soulmates. Perhaps there was someone out there he was destined for - someone that the universe had chosen just for him. But on nights when he felt especially happy - when the pain of his longing was overwhelmed by his joy - Martín would think about withdrawing his name from the lottery, content to remain by his dearest friend's side.
And then the other shoe had finally dropped.
It was as the great poets said, after all - an ancient wisdom, passed down through the ages:
Fate, they concluded, was a perpetually raging bitch - and this, Martín thought, was its cruelest joke of all:
On the first of December - the year 1997 - Martín Berrote won the Lotería del Viento.
VI
Madrid, Spain
1997
Martín was dazed.
Numb.
Stunned beyond words and reason.
There was no way on earth— there was no possibility that any of this was happening. 'One chance in a hundred thousand', they said. In a lottery drawn only twelve times a year.
There was no chance in hell Martín was that lucky. Never in a million. fucking. years.
And yet, he was.
Dragging his gaze from the wall of his room - had he been staring into space for half an hour already? - Martín focused on the object lying quietly in his grasp.
The paper gliders were the things of legend; they had shaped human history by their presence alone - as much a catalyst for conflict as a broker for peace. Martín had grown up on stories of heroes, all of whom moved heaven and earth, just for the chance to receive their own. There were statues of these objects - immortalized in masterpieces all throughout the ages.
But looking at it now? It was... underwhelming.
It looked like any other glider that Martín had seen; slightly larger, perhaps - measuring about a foot in its length - and it certainly possessed deeply intricate folds. But other than that, there was not much more to it. It didn't hum with raw power or radiate a calm warmth; it sat silently in Martín's hands - quiet and unassuming.
All Martín could do was sit on his bed in a disoriented haze, pondering what his next step would be.
'Andrés would probably know what to do,' he thought - his mind drifting to his roommate, as it so often did.
Andrés had been in class when Martín learned of his fortune - still blissfully unaware of all that had transpired. He would find out soon enough, though. Any minute now he would come through the door - eager to rest after a day full of lectures - only to find Martín sitting there, in possession of the treasure of his dreams.
Martín carefully set aside the piece of paper, before he buried his face in his hands. Until now, the words of the person who'd given him his glider still rang in his mind.
He had been given instructions on what he should do: he had to launch the glider within a week, and he was free to design it however he chose - as long as he worked within the confines of the paper's permanent folds. He had been told not to worry - no one could interfere with the flight of his glider - safeguarded by some forces that Martín didn't really understand. It had something to do with its texture or somesuch, but he had honestly tuned it all out, dazed and shocked as he was. After a few more reminders and bits of information, Martín was told he was free to go - 'and may your humble glider guide you to the person bonded to your soul'.
It was a relatively simple process. Certainly less fanfare than he had anticipated.
But that wasn't what was weighing on the Argentinian's mind. The cause of his disquiet was the reminder he'd been given at the end:
"Oh, just one final thing," the person had said, "You are allowed to gift your glider. It's not something that's usually done, but in the event that you want to give it away, it is possible to do so."
He'd been told that there was a proper way of gifting the glider; that the glider would know if Martín had sold it, or if the recipient had utilized deception or force. In those instances, its glow would not light and it would simply refuse to fly - so Martín was told he needn't worry about that. They said that if Martín wanted to give it away, he simply had to do so voluntarily - gifting it to the recipient with the whole of his heart, with as much sincerity as he could muster.
He... He hadn't known about that final rule. He had no idea that gliders could be gifted.
And that was the cause of his present distress - because the moment he learned that they could be given away, only one thought had rang clearly in his mind:
'I could give the paper glider to Andrés.'
The thought caused enough turmoil to bring the young man to a standstill.
Because herein lay the issue: Martín Berrote was in love with Andrés.
He had been in love with his roommate for almost three years now, and the feeling only grew with each passing day. He had tried valiantly to temper it - to stop himself from falling deeper in love - but so far he'd been met with embarrassingly little success. It was always the little things that derailed his efforts - like the glee on Andrés's face at the sight of first snow, or the way he knew exactly how Martín ordered his coffee. It was the sound of his voice as he spoke about art - the way he listened to Martín's stories and committed details to memory. It was the way he fell asleep one night, snoring on Martín's shoulder - his expression, so trusting that it had made Martín want to weep.
He was in love with Andrés - there was no point denying it - and in any other circumstance, he'd have given next to anything to see his friend's dreams fulfilled.
But in this instance, the trouble wasn't Martín losing the chance to find his soulmate; that, he believed, he could afford to forego. The trouble was that the glider would lead Andrés to his. It would lead his best friend across the vast lands and seas, towards the person he was destined to be with.
It would lead Andrés away from Martín.
It was selfish, he knew, and he hated himself for it - but a part of him wanted nothing more than to indulge in his greed, even as it left a rotten taste on his tongue.
It was the click of the lock that pulled him out of his thoughts.
Martín's stomach dropped.
"Ah, amigo mio, you wouldn't believe the day I've had!" came Andrés's cheerful voice as he walked into the room. Martín could feel his fingers tremble as Andrés crossed the threshold, the entirety of the room coming into his view.
Any second now he would see it - and Martín would have to explain.
Andrés, for his part, was busy toeing off his shoes - blissfully unaware of the Argentinian's inner turmoil. He continued to ramble about 'the most divine sandwich I had for my lunch, we should visit the shop together, don't you think so, Martín?' - all as he slung the bag from his shoulder and shrugged off his coat.
And then he finally turned to his friend.
The smile slipped off the Spaniard's face the moment their eyes met, the joy in his gaze quickly morphing into worry. It seemed he was finally noticing his dear friend's distress - spying the tension in his posture and the restlessness in his hands.
"Is everything alright, Martín?" he asked, but the younger man couldn't bring himself to answer. All Martín could do was gaze at his friend in distress - his roommate's brow pinching in concern.
And then...
And then Andrés saw the glider.
Of all the reactions Martín had anticipated, he hadn't expected his friend to break out into a grin.
"Ah!" Andrés said, amusement in his eyes as he gestured towards the glider. "So you've decided to try folding a model of them, have you? Is it for an engineering class? I could teach you a few more designs, if you'd like."
At that, the knot in Martín's stomach tightened further - his lips trembling as he forced out a response.
"I didn't fold it," he said, managing a hoarse whisper.
"You had someone fold one for you?" Andrés asked, but the tension in the air and his roommate's distress only heightened his concern. "It's very intricate, I'll give them that. Who made it for you?"
Martín could do nothing but look at his friend helplessly - tears close to shining in his ocean-blue gaze. His eyes were pleading with Andrés - begging him, imploring him - but for what, even Martín didn't know.
There was a beat of confusion. A furrow of Andrés's brow.
And then Martín saw the very moment the realization dawned on him. The moment his eyes lost all humor, replaced by disbelieving shock. He saw the tears gather in the art student's eyes - saw the way he half-stumbled as he took a shaky step back. He saw the quiver in his lip and the tremble in his hands - heard the tremors in his breathing, as quiet as it was.
Andrés tried to compose himself long enough to speak.
"It's December the first," he whispered, trembling where he stood. "The day of the lotería."
The art student gulped, then, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He gestured shakily to the glider.
"And is that...?"
All Martín could do was nod, his expression pained and mournful.
'I'm sorry,' the younger man wept silently in his mind. 'I'm sorry I'm doing this to you. I know how much this hurts. To have something you've waited your entire life for - here, right in front of you, but still out of reach. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry.'
Martín saw Andrés raise his gaze to the ceiling - the tears glimmering in the light as they pooled in his eyes. His roommate spared a glance towards the glider, before he finally looked at Martín - his face a study of unfathomable pain and longing, and something else that Martín couldn't explain.
At the sight, the younger man could have sworn his heart cracked in two. It certainly felt like it.
When Martín heard Andrés heave a shuddering sigh - the inhale, deep and shaky, as if he was gathering a large breath - he readied himself for a number of possibilities. He expected a scream of some sort - perhaps a wail or a cry. Maybe Andrés would yell loudly in heartache, or maybe he would simply storm out of the room.
What Martín did not expect was for Andrés to dash forward in a blur of swift motion, followed by the warmth of two arms hugging him tightly.
Martín let out a tearful gasp - his gaze wet and unfocused as Andrés buried his face in the crook of his neck. He could feel his friend's tears as they slipped down his shoulder - silent, warm rivers that soaked into his shirt - and all he could do was sit frozen in shock. It was only Andrés's voice that shook him out of his daze.
"Congratulations, Martín," Andrés whispered - quiet and tearful and so painfully sincere. "Truly, I mean it. Felicidades, amigo mio, I'm—" a tremulous breath; a shaking smile against skin, "I'm so incredibly happy for you."
And Martín wept.
A strangled sob escaped his throat as he embraced Andrés tightly - his hug fierce and desperate as the tears finally fell. He wept for his friend and the cruelty of fate - for the love in his heart that grew stronger still. He wept for the kindness in his roommate's embrace, and he wept for the anger that bloomed in his chest - because even now he still hesitated to give his glider away.
How could he ever bear to lose Andrés?
He didn't know how long they stayed in that embrace. Minutes or hours - he didn't really care; all he knew was that when Andrés pulled away, the sun was already slipping under the horizon - warm rays fading into the afterglow.
Brushing away the remnants of his tears, Andrés fell heavily into the chair by his desk, before he swiveled the seat to face his roommate. His smile was the weariest Martín had ever seen it.
"You have to launch it within the week," the art student said, gesturing to the glider with a wave of his hand. "I assume they told you as much, ¿no?"
Even from where Martín was sitting, he could see the deep melancholy in the art major's gaze. He nodded in reply - not trusting himself to say more.
Taking the affirmative that Martín had given, Andrés turned to his desk and began rummaging in his drawers - seemingly in search of something in particular. The Argentinian watched with mild curiosity as his friend scoured the compartments, before he finally found the object he was seeking.
Martín's breath hitched when he recognized what it was.
'That's his brush,' Martín choked out quietly in his thoughts. 'That's the brush he was saving to use for his glider.'
Martín remembered that brush. How could he not? It was the one Andrés saved for, so long ago - the one he'd brimmed with excitement about, because "it's of the highest quality, of course" and "they say it works wonders against the grain".
It was a brush that was reputed to paint beautifully on gliders.
Martín bit back a sob.
'No, Andrés, please– Please, don't you dare—'
Holding the instrument almost in reverence, Andrés gazed at the brush with a bittersweet smile, before finally turning to his very best friend.
He held out the brush.
An offer; a gift.
"You only have a few days," Andrés whispered, his smile sad and aching. His eyes, however, were filled with quiet acceptance. "You better get to working on it, then."
It was in that moment that Martín finally made his choice.
It was suddenly so simple; he hadn't even had to think. All his considerations had faded into the background, until all that remained was what he knew he had to do.
Because what did greed matter, in the face of Andrés? In the face of that smile under the dying sun's light - somber and hurting but still lined with love - bleeding with affection for his very best friend. What did it matter in the face of that paintbrush, offered so freely and without hesitation?
For Andrés? He could do that too.
The answer was simple; the choice, obvious and clear.
'Every blessing comes with a curse.'
Taking the glider carefully in his hands, he couldn't help the happiness that bubbled in his chest; it seemed his friend's day had finally come.
Without a beat of hesitation, Martín held out the glider to a perplexed Andrés - a bright, bittersweet grin lighting the younger man's face.
"I think you better get to working on it, Andrés. You only have a few days, like you said."
The art student was stunned into impossible disbelief.
For a few seconds he could only stare at Martín - completely uncomprehending of the turn of events. Tears were slowly but surely building in his eyes, and his breath hitched and quivered as he began to understand. He regarded Martín with confusion and caution - fearful that this was trick - hardly daring to hope—
"Martín, I know we joke frequently, but this really isn't the time—" he began, his voice wet and shaking, but Martín swiftly replied.
"It's not a joke, Andrés," he said, words earnest and sincere. "I would never joke about this. Never to you. I want you to have it."
Martín held out the glider - smiling softly.
Lovingly.
"Take it, Andrés. Please. It's yours, after all."
For the second time that day, Martín found himself in the arms of his very best friend. He was barely able to set the glider aside before he was wrapped in the art student's embrace - Andrés sobbing into his shoulder, the sound muffled by his shirt. This time, Martín didn't hesitate to return the hug. He wrapped his arms around his friend as tight as he dared, before he buried his face into the crook of Andrés's neck. He inhaled, then - a deep breath that smelled of dried paint and cologne - a scent so fully and wonderfully Andrés, that Martín couldn't help the tears that sprung to his eyes.
He didn't know what would happen now.
There was nothing more that he could control. Who knew where the glider would lead Andrés? Who knew how far it would carry him from Martín? Andrés would start a new life with his soulmate - and what guarantee did Martín have that there was a place for him there?
There was none. They were college seniors already, and for all that he knew, the sun was already setting on the time that they shared.
At the thought, Martín felt tears quietly trek down his cheeks.
What if the two of them simply drifted apart? Would Martín be resigned to a corner of Andrés's mind - a dusty memory only surfacing perhaps once or twice a year? Martín's heart ached at the thought - at the possibility that he'd be nothing more than a familiar face in reunions - introduced simply as "Martín, my old roommate, and once my best friend - I haven't heard from you in so long, amigo mio, how have you been all these years?"
He hugged Andrés tighter, then - striving to conceal the desperation in his embrace, and failing rather spectacularly.
Martín tried— he tried to imprint the moment to memory - to capture each detail with as much clarity as he could. He needed this, he knew. If this was all he'd ever have left, then he would bend time itself - stretching these precious seconds into a thousand - hoarding enough memories to last him a lifetime.
And he would remember - no matter the ache.
He would remember the warmth of Andrés in his arms - remember the weight of his touch and the strength of his hold. He would immortalize the scent of dried paint and cologne - remember the whistle and the whoosh and the cadence of his breath. He would remember this moment - lock it deep in his heart, keep it safe and secure - and then he would breathe, and say, 'it's enough'.
Martín would let it be enough.
'Every blessing comes with a curse.'
He didn't know if he would regret his decision one day. Maybe he would - only time could reveal.
But in this very moment - as he felt the quiet thank you's whispered against his skin, tearful and filled with a hope so vast it could swallow the world and the sun and the stars - Martín truly could not fathom regretting his choice.
And so he smiled sadly - releasing a heavy, shuddering breath - before he burrowed himself deeper into his dearest friend's arms.
There, his heart settled, as he knew that it would.
VII
Madrid, Spain
1997
The night before the launch of his glider, Andrés found himself unable to sleep.
He lay silently under his covers - listening to the leaves that rustled just outside his window, their shadows shifting in the moonlight with each gentle breeze. The moon itself peeked almost timidly through the panes - soft beams of silver glowing gently in the dark.
Andrés sighed heavily.
He had waited a decade and a half to receive his glider. It was a long-held dream sixteen years in the making; a wish he'd devoted himself to for most of his life.
In less than twenty-four hours, it would come to fruition. His glider would fly - carried by those fateful winds across deserts and oceans - all towards the person he was destined to meet. After waiting for this moment for as long as he had, one would think he'd be excited and eager beyond words.
But he wasn't.
Instead - for the very first time in many, many years - Andrés de Fonollosa was terrified to his core.
It wasn't the fear one could easily shrug off, or combat with dogged optimism until it was banished from mind. This was a terror unlike any before. It was a terror that robbed warmth from his fingers and pooled sweat on his shirt. It was a fear that churned his stomach - that gripped his heart and chilled his bones - lodging in his throat and constricting each swallow. It was a terror beyond rational thought, and it filled his gut with despair for something that hadn't even come to pass.
It was what kept him awake tonight, robbing him of rest.
He'd been trying for hours to resolve the matter himself - but as he watched the clock inch ever closer to dawn, he knew it was time to finally seek help.
To him, there was only one recourse.
"Martín?" Andrés whispered softly into the dark - glancing at the sleeping form on the other side of the room.
There was no one in the world he trusted more than Martín.
Andrés still struggled to comprehend the choice Martín made. He just couldn't understand it; the idea of giving his glider away was next to unfathomable - and yet his dearest friend had gone and done just that.
He had done it for Andrés.
Nothing could articulate the depth of his gratitude; all the poetry in the world would never suffice. There was only one thing he could think of that could possibly come close, though he knew it was a paltry offering at best: he had asked Martín to share the moment of releasing the glider with him.
It was a moment he had dreamed of for as long he could dream, and it meant far more to him than any treasure on earth. With the smile he'd received when Martín had accepted, he knew that his dearest friend understood. When it came to Andrés, Martín always did.
Ever so fervently, Andrés prayed that Martín and his soulmate would get along. He couldn't imagine what life would be like without either of the two, and he prayed he would not have to choose between his soulmate and his best friend.
'You say that as if you're certain that you do have a soulmate.'
The malice-filled whisper came without warning, and Andrés flinched as the terror he'd momentarily forgotten reared its head once more.
Because that was the core of his fear, was it not? There were only a few proven historical accounts, but the mere possibility had shaken Andrés to the core. For years he had brushed this terror aside - focusing instead on his mission to obtain his own glider - but now that its flight loomed ever closer, he could no longer the ignore the question that steeped him in fear:
What if he didn't have a soulmate?
He was brought out of his thoughts by the sound of a sleepy groan. Despite everything, a smile found its way to Andrés's lips.
Martín.
"Hmnm... Andrés? Y' called?" his roommate mumbled drowsily, his voice heavy and thick with sleep. The engineering major pulled his covers tighter around himself - his eyes still closed as he continued to speak. "Wh't is it? If it's about y'r glider, I promise 't looks amazing. Y've shown me ev'ry bit of it, 't looks fantastic."
Andrés's couldn't help but grin at his dearest friend's words. For the past few days, he had pestered Martín incessantly for his opinion - presenting him each new design that he added to his glider. It was tradition at this point; Andrés would work on an art piece for one of his classes, and whenever he felt uninspired or unsure, he would nudge his friend awake and ask for his insight. Designing his glider hadn't been different, and there was no reason to break the tradition that the two of them valued.
Unfortunately, the joy brought about by those memories was incredibly short-lived. He had woken his roommate for a reason, after all, and the familiar feelings of fear and dread was enough to evaporate all mirth.
Andrés opened his mouth to speak. Hesitated.
Despite having been the one to wake up Martín, Andrés still found himself reluctant to talk of his terror - the silence stretching between the roommates as the wind whistled in the night.
It was dangerous, was it not? To admit vulnerability and weakness? Andrés had long since perfected his confident facade, always the self-assured gentleman he presented himself to be. He had polished his charm from a very young age - drawing people's attention like a beacon in the dark - all in the hopes that it would lead his soulmate to him.
'Look at me! I'm here! Find me, I've been searching for you!' Was that not what he wanted to tell his soulmate by presence alone?
It was an integral part of his identity now. Who would he be without his glamour and bravado?
Would anyone even bother to know?
"Andrés?" Martín asked, pulling the art student out of his thoughts. The younger man's voice was colored with worry - concerned at the Spaniard's lack of response.
Turning to face his dearest friend, Andrés saw that the Argentinian was now sitting up, rubbing his eyes of the last vestiges of sleep. Andrés mirrored the action as he sat up in bed, and soon enough, the two students sat face-to-face in the darkness - their profiles softly illuminated by the light of the moon.
Fondness swelled in Andrés's chest at the sight of his roommate. Martín was clearly still half-asleep, though he was trying quite valiantly to shake off his drowsiness. His hair stood up in an obvious bedhead, and his clothes were still rumpled after lying down for so long. Andrés watched his friend steady himself against the mattress, trying to keep from lilting sideways until sleep released its hold.
To Andrés, the sight was far more endearing than it had any right to be.
The art student took a fortifying breath. He could do this.
This was Martín, after all. This was his dearest friend who pulled himself from his slumber, all because he was concerned and worried for Andrés. There was no one he could count on quite like Martín; if he couldn't voice his fears to his closest companion, then there was no one in the world he was willing to tell.
Andrés sighed deeply, then began.
"Did you know, Martín," came his whisper, "that gliders shouldn't be thrown upon launch? Not like the paper planes you see children making, at least. You were told this when you received it, ¿no?"
Martín's brow furrowed deeply - confused by the unexpected question. Still, he nodded his head after a moment.
"I... think I vaguely remember being told that. Why?"
"There's no need for it," Andrés explained. "The glider will glow once its owner is ready, and the wind will come to carry it away. There's no need to throw it at all."
That was enough to make the younger man pause.
"The wind?" Martín asked - tilting his head ever so slightly. Andrés nodded; explained.
"Yes, the wind, Martín. That is what most people forget. It isn't just the glider alone - the winds of fate chart the glider's course, leading it to the person's soulmate."
At his roommate's words, the Argentinian's brow creased once again. There was a reason behind this story - with Andrés, there always was - but he still struggled to fully understand its purpose.
"Alright..." Martín said slowly. "Is there a problem with that? You told me you already picked a spot overlooking Madrid for the launch. I'm sure the wind can find your glider there."
To this, Andrés swallowed - trying to dislodge the fear that was wedged in his throat. He was unsuccessful.
Still, it was now or never.
"Did you know that in some instances... the wind never comes?"
There was a sharp intake of breath - an incredulous whisper.
"What?" Martín breathed, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared at Andrés.
The art student continued, his breath quivering with each word.
"For those rare few in the world who don't have a soulmate, the wind never comes. It never arrives to carry the glider away - because there's no one for the wind to guide it towards."
He laughed, then - and it was a broken, humorless thing.
"Can you imagine, Martín?"
No matter how valiant his efforts, Andrés couldn't conceal the tremor in his voice as he finished his explanation. He was shaking - he noted distantly - his fingers restless and his shoulders trembling as his heart hammered in his chest. He hadn't expected such a visceral reaction - but in the face of his fear, acknowledged and laid bare, he could do nothing to stop the hitch in his breaths, nor stop his lips from quavering as they did.
This glider... these winds...
They encompassed sixteen of his twenty-two years on this earth. They were the muse and motivation for each effort since. He had given his everything - his time and his treasure— his heart and his soul—
And soon he would learn if it had all been for nothing.
His terror loomed from the shadows - his mind roiling like the sea, cacophonous and chaotic as each doubt and regret— each whisper of uncertainty— each fear and insecurity he'd kept hidden for so long— they all rose to the forefront, louder and louder and why wouldn't they stop, he needed them to stop, to be quiet, shut up stop stop stopstopSTOPSTOPSTOP—
And then warmth.
Sudden, unexpected, anchoring warmth - piercing through the fog like a burst of sunlight.
It radiated from his hands - balmy and soothing as it crept up his veins, slowly but surely thawing the chill in his bones. When his gaze eventually came back into focus, Andrés finally came to find its source.
'Martín.'
Because of course it was.
There was his friend - kneeling before him in the light of the moon - cradling Andres's hands between his own palms. He was rubbing them gently - thumbs carefully massaging the back of each hand - a faint, grounding pressure that warmed the chilled skin.
And Martín was looking at Andrés.
He was gazing at him with enough kindness to steal the breath from Andrés's lungs - his smile, soft and understanding as he regarded his dearest friend.
Andrés didn't have the strength to hide the tremble in his sigh, nor fight the tears that began pooling in his eyes.
Martín squeezed his hands gently.
"That's not going to be you, Andrés," the younger man whispered, staring deeply into his friend's eyes, willing him to understand. His voice rang with quiet conviction - confident beyond all doubt. "Those people without a soulmate? Whose gliders never take flight?" Martín shook his head, "That's not going to be you, Andrés. ¿Me entiendes? That's never going to be you."
Andrés choked on a sob - tears finally spilling free.
"How do you know?"
If he were sitting before anyone else, Andrés would have balked at the sound of his own voice. It was the smallest he'd ever heard it - wet and waterlogged, even to his own ears - painfully vulnerable and almost desperate for comfort. If he were sitting before anyone else, he would have brushed it all off with a confident laugh - the mask of bravado slipping neatly into place.
But he wouldn't do that now. Not with Martín. Never with Martín.
Because Andrés knew - as clear and as certain as he knew his own name: Andrés knew without question that he was safe with Martín. He knew it in the compassion in his dearest friend's gaze - in the warmth of his hands and in the kindness of his touch.
There was no need to hide. Not with Martín.
And so when Andrés felt a pair of tears slip quietly from his eyes, there was nothing he did to stop them. He let them spill silently, marking his cheeks - thin lines of salt against the heat of his skin.
Ever so carefully, Martín raised his hands to cup Andrés's jaw, brushing away the moisture with the pads of his thumbs. His touch was as gentle as butterfly kisses; as kind and as soothing as a warm summer breeze.
Andrés met Martín's gaze - silently asking– entreating– imploring once more:
'How do you know?'
And of course Martín heard it, like Andrés knew that he would.
His answer came easily then, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
He smiled.
"Because it's you, Andrés."
In that very moment, nothing else mattered.
Not the glider, not the winds - not his fear, and not his pride. All that was left in the world was Martín - shining in the moon glow above the darkness of the room - his smile, tender and gentle and infinitely sincere. All that remained was the warmth of his palms, and the way that the starlight would catch in his hair. There was only the impossible blue of his eyes - beautiful and ethereal and precious beyond words.
Andrés gasped quietly; a sharp hitch of his breath.
It felt like he was seeing him for the very first time.
Andrés tried to speak, then - more a breath than a whisper.
"Martín, I—" he began, but the words died in his throat. What more could he say? What could possibly suffice? He didn't know what to do– what to think– what to speak–
But it was Martín who saved him, as he'd done many times before.
His friend simply smiled with a nod of understanding - as if comprehending the thoughts Andrés struggled to grasp. Martín took his hands, then - a gentle squeeze of his palms.
"Get some sleep, alright?" he whispered, "You have a big day ahead."
And when Martín retreated - his touch slipping away - Andrés fought the strong urge to chase after his hands. He felt lost and bereft at the absence of warmth - the depth of the emotion, confusing him further.
Martín carefully crawled back into the nest of his covers, his back turned to the art student as he fell asleep once again.
But the same could not be said for Andrés.
Under the light of the moon, Andrés was left staring at his dearest friend's form - a jumble of feelings in his chest that he didn't dare name.
VIII
Madrid, Spain
1997
On a chilly December evening - long after the sun had set on the city of Madrid - two young men drove silently along the highway. Already, the stars glittered against the inky night sky - the streetlights glowing softly in a river of warm light. They were driving towards the outskirts of the capital - quietly watching the world pass beyond the windows of their car.
In the driver's seat was Martín.
The Argentinian navigated the car through the long, winding roads - his forefingers drumming against the plastic of the wheel. He hummed a soft melody just under his breath, and on any other day, he would have put on his music or at least turned on the radio.
The sight in his periphery, however, had made him reconsider.
There in the passenger seat, sitting quietly, was Andrés. The young art student was unusually quiet - having not said a word since their journey began. Most of the time, he would spend long drives talking to Martín non-stop - engaging his roommate about literature and art and how 'this view would make a nice painting, don't you think so, Martín?'
But tonight was different.
Tonight, he sat in silence - staring out the window with an unfocused gaze, as his fingers brushed restlessly against the glider in his lap.
It was the latter action that clued Martín in on the depth of his friend's distress. For as long as he'd known him, Martín knew that Andrés cared deeply about appearances. He had always maintained a veneer of calm confidence - careful to conceal all hints of fear or tension. For the art student to be so visibly restless, Martín knew that a maelstrom of worry must have been brewing within.
Martín knew the root of his fear well enough; they had discussed it just last night after all. But Andrés didn't seem eager to talk at the moment - and quite frankly - the younger man had no idea what to say.
And so Martín kept driving - even as the asphalt gave way to dirt roads and gravel paths, and the lampposts transformed into bushes and treelines.
They were heading to an overlook, Andrés had said - one he'd found years ago when deciding the site of the launch. It was secluded, apparently - just a little ways from the main road, beyond a large copse of trees - reputed to offer a stunning view of Madrid.
And they were nearly there.
After a few more minutes of driving in silence, they finally arrived at the start of the path; they'd have to make the rest of the way on foot.
Martín shut off the ignition with a twist of the key, but as he was about to exit the car, he spared a glance at his dearest friend. Andrés was still in the passenger's seat - sitting comfortably with his seatbelt still buckled - making no move to get out of the vehicle. He was staring outside the window with an unfocused gaze, his fingers still rubbing against the folds of the glider.
Martín's brow creased in concern.
"Andrés?" he called out, before gently nudging his friend's shoulder. "Andrés, we're here."
That seemed to jostle the Spaniard out of his reverie, and Andrés's head snapped to Martín in surprise.
Worry gnawed unpleasantly at the younger man's stomach; if Andrés was distracted to this degree, he was in far more distress than Martín had thought. Smiling at his roommate as comfortingly as he could, the engineering student tipped his head towards the door of the car, before saying again, "We're here, Andrés."
It took a moment for the art major to process his surroundings. Once he did, he huffed out a nervous laugh before grinning an equally nervous smile.
"I see," came his whisper - his fingers tightening around the glider. He then turned to Martín, his smile relaxing into a more genuine grin. "Thank you for driving us all this way, amigo mio."
At the sight of that smile, the knot in Martín's stomach loosened slightly.
He grinned.
"Of course, Andrés."
A few moments later, both Andrés and Martín found themselves at the small clearing - overlooking Madrid as it glittered in the night. The gravel and dirt crunched under their shoes, and there was no other sound save the occasional rustle of leaves.
Andrés sighed heavily.
"Martín," he whispered, quiet and solemn - earning the younger man's attention. Martín turned to Andrés, then, but the Spaniard kept his gaze on the city below - his face gently tinted by the glow of its lights.
Andrés swallowed, before continuing.
"I've dreamed of this moment since I was a boy. Since my mother told me of the gliders in San Sebastián. All my life, I've waited for this - prayed for this - hoped for this - and now we're here and it's—" he sighed shakily before turning to Martín, eyes watery and smile wobbling, "—it's all thanks to you."
Freeing a hand from where it cradled the glider, Andrés clasped Martín's shoulder before holding his gaze - voice thick with emotion and impossibly sincere.
"Thank you, Martín."
In the face of such overwhelming honesty, it was all Martín could do to swallow his tears. He clasped the art student's shoulder in turn - his trembling lips forming a warm, tender smile - before he finally choked out:
"Of course, Andrés."
Then, he glanced at the glider Andrés held in his palm, before carefully covering his friend's hand with his own. He had seen those hands tremble from the moment they arrived, and so he did what he could to steady them now. He met Andrés's eyes and nodded encouragingly.
'You can do it. I know you can.'
At the unspoken message, Martín saw his dear friend gather his courage - returning the nod despite the fear in his gaze.
Taking the glider into both of his hands - the sounds of the night fading into the silence - Andrés closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts, and breathed.
And the glider glowed.
It glowed bright and golden - illuminating the clearing as it bathed the pair in its light. It pulsed with raw energy against the skin of Andrés's palms - warm to the touch and as strong as a heartbeat. Andrés could hear it sing in the night - a glorious aria that rose up to the heavens - a song as old and as wondrous as the universe itself.
This was fate and destiny incarnate, and they both had the honor to bask in its light. The breath died in Andrés's lungs as he gasped in pure awe - incapable of stopping the spill of his tears.
He knew this glow - he knew this wonder - this familiar warm weight that burrowed deep in his bones. He was back on that shoreline - overlooking that bay - the chill of the night fading in the warmth of that glow.
There was only one thing to do now: he had to wait for the wind.
Martín strained his ears as he listened for the breeze - for any rustle of foliage or the whistle of a gale. When a minute or two passed and the glider remained, the Argentinian couldn't help the dread that slowly pooled in his gut. He glanced worriedly at Andrés who stood inches away - the shaking of his hands growing stronger with each second that passed. A lump formed in Martín's throat when he saw his friend's eyes grow emptier - five minutes elapsing without the hint of a breeze.
When fifteen minutes had ultimately passed - the glider, still glowing in Andrés's trembling grip - Martín could not help but move restlessly where he stood. His head swiveled back and forth as he glanced worriedly around the clearing - trying to find an explanation for the lack of a gale.
Were the trees too dense in the area? Was there something blocking the wind? There had to be. There had to be something that could explain this.
He refused to consider any other possibility; there was no way on earth that Andrés's deepest fears had been realized. Hadn't Martín assured him that his fears were unfounded? That the scenario that terrified him would never come to pass?
Hadn't he promised Andrés that there was a soulmate waiting for him?
There had to be an explanation. There had to be something that Martín could do. There had to be a way he could fix this— a way he could somehow help Andrés– por favor—
The sound of a humorless chuckle cut sharply through his thoughts.
Martín's heart clenched.
Holding the glider in both of his hands, Andrés was smiling mirthlessly - his eyes the emptiest Martín had ever seen them. The Spaniard was rooted to where he stood - his frame quivering and trembling with the force of his grief - the hitch in his breaths, unmistakable to hear. Andrés's tears shone golden in the glider's light.
"You know what this means, Martín," he whispered, his voice hollow; devoid of hope.
The younger man shook his head in frantic denial.
"No, Andrés, that's not what this is—"
"All my life," Andrés interrupted, ignoring Martín's words - gazing instead at the paper glider. "All my life I've waited for this moment. For years and years I dreamt of it - imagining what it would be like to see my—" his voice splintered, "—to see my glider fly into the sky, all towards the person I was destined to meet."
He tipped his gaze to the heavens; heaved a shuddering breath.
"Is this it, then? Is this how my dream ends? I tried so hard to find them - to find opportunities to meet them even without the glider's help—"
Martín choked on his breath, the realization dawning—
The college parties— the events— the ones he attended despite his exhaustion—
Andrés laughed brokenly, a sob breaking free.
"—But there's no one out there for me at all."
It felt like someone had punched Martín in the chest. He whined painfully, then - like a hurt, wounded thing - his eyes begging Andrés to give the glider more time.
"Andrés, no," he said desperately. "No - it isn't too late. There has to be someone out there— someone waiting for you—"
This couldn't be happening. There was no way. Surely the universe could not be this cruel? This heartless? Not to Andrés. Not to his dearest friend who'd waited for years and years and years and years. Who wished for a soulmate more than anyone in the world?
This couldn't be happening.
This couldn't be happening.
"Take it, Martín."
His thoughts ground to a halt. Martín gasped sharply, horrified.
"What?"
"Take it," Andrés whispered through his tears - holding the glider out shakily to his friend. "I can't bear to hold it anymore."
Martín wanted to scream.
"No, Andrés, please, we can think of something, I swear—"
"Martín just take it, por favor!"
And Martín froze then - stunned into silence.
Because Andrés... Andrés never begged. Not when he was tired - not when he was weary—
Not even for the glider when Martín won the lotería.
But he was begging now.
There was nothing Martín could do but to take the glider helplessly from Andrés's hands. The moment the glider was out of his grasp, Andrés walked away in a hurried rush - back towards the car; not once looking back.
And Martín was left alone in that clearing, the glider glowing softly in his palms.
There was a beat of silence before Martín saw red.
"H-How?"
Martín didn't even recognize the sound of his own voice - hardly louder than the panting of his trembling breaths, and quavering mightily with barely-contained fury. He was shaking, he realized - the anger pumping hot in his veins - his body quivering wildly like a bow pulled too taut - his lips curling into a snarl as his jaw clenched and his teeth gnashed and the rage burned his tongue—
At the sight of the glider still held in his grasp - the glider that killed Andrés's dreams like they weren't the most important thing in the whole fucking world - Martín's chest filled with impossible hatred.
So he screamed.
"HOW?!" he demanded - creasing the glider where he fisted it in his grip. "How the fuck could you do this to him? What sick, twisted game do you think you're playing here, huh?!"
Martín's voice echoed loudly, but he didn't fucking care.
"You don't know him, do you hear me?!" the Argentinian roared, "Don't act like you fucking know him - you don't know shit! You have no idea— no fucking idea how long he's wished for this— how long he's prepared for this— how long he's dreamt of this, you hijo de puta, you don't get to kill his hopes and dreams like this! Just who the fuck do you think you are?! How dare you, hijo de puta, how dare you— HOW DARE YOU—"
With a guttural scream of unrepressed rage, Martín hurled the glider into the dirt, before taking off in a sprint towards the only thing that actually mattered right now:
Andrés.
The Spaniard had made it halfway down the path when he heard the sound of thundering footfalls. He barely had time to turn around towards its source, before his roommate nearly barreled right into his arms.
In the sparse light of the moon that lit the worn gravel path, Martín could see the tears that lined his friend's cheeks. He mentally cursed himself, then, because why hadn't he arrived sooner? - before he shook his head and grabbed Andrés by the shoulders.
Panting, sweating, and with a near-frantic gaze, the words tumbled out of Martín's mouth in a desperate stream:
"This isn't the end, alright, Andrés? I'm telling you it's not. Don't let your dream end like this. It's not going to end here - ¿me entiendes? There has be a way around this, so you can't lose hope yet, alright? It's not the end. It's not - it's not."
Andrés stared at Martín in undisguised shock - the tears slipping silently from the corners of his eyes.
"But you saw it yourself—" Andrés managed to say. "The glider– the wind—"
"Then the wind is wrong!" Martin cried, imploring his friend to believe him. "It's wrong, Andrés! Don't believe it for a second! Your soulmate is out there, and we are going to find them."
At the sight of hope slowly flickering in Andrés's eyes, Martín fought the urge to weep with joy.
"We?" Andrés whispered - vulnerable and raw. Through a watery sob, Martín choked out a laugh.
"Yes, 'we'!" he exclaimed, his face crumpling at the fact that Andrés even had to ask. His voice dropped to a plea - begging his friend to understand, "Of course, 'we', Andrés. Por supuesto. There's no question. I don't care if I have to call up everyone in the world and ask them one-by-one - we're going to find your soulmate, Andrés. If the glider won't do it for you, then I will."
And what could Andrés ever hope to say to that?
It was all he could do to stop himself from stumbling - from staggering at the sheer force of Martín's will and devotion. He could only stare - awestruck - at the blue of his friend's eyes; could only focus on his touch and the grounding heat of his palms.
"Martín," Andrés breathed - not a name, but a prayer - spoken with reverence and wondrous acclaim.
There was something he was missing - Andrés knew it in his bones. The Spaniard struggled to string all the fragments together - three years worth of memories flashing before his mind's eye. Every glance - every touch - every late night and laugh—
He was a whisper away– a hair's breadth from the answer– just a step short of grasping the truth—
Nearly there— he was nearly there—
And then he felt it.
He heard it.
They both did, at the same time—
It was the wind.
Martín felt the breeze tickle the back of his neck - felt the way the gale carded its fingers through his hair. He saw the trees and the gravel grow brighter and brighter, and saw the way Andrés gazed just over his shoulder - his eyes almost honeyed in the soft golden light.
Martín turned around - hardly daring to breathe - and—
And there it was.
The paper glider.
Hovering a few feet behind them as it glowed gently in the night.
As Martín watched the glider slowly float towards Andrés - approaching his friend timidly like a recently chastised pet - Martín couldn't help but huff a small laugh of amusement.
"Well, would you look at that," Martín said - carefully plucking the glider from the air, before holding it out to his friend. He smiled gently. "It came back for you, Andrés."
And it was in that very moment – at the sight of Martín holding his glider in his hands –
With his face glowing golden in the warm, gentle light –
With his smile full of kindness –
With his gaze full of love –
– that Andrés finally - finally - understood.
It didn't feel like the rapture of a sudden epiphany. It didn't feel like the world suddenly turned on its head. More than anything, it simply felt right - like the final piece of a puzzle, slotting neatly into place.
And in the midst of this realization that meant all of the world, all he could think was, 'how had he not seen it before?'
Taking a step towards Martín, Andrés couldn't help but smile as the tears poured down his cheeks, before he took Martín's hands in both of his own.
He shook his head, then - a negative.
"I don't think it came back for me, Martín..." he said, pressing gently against the Argentinian's fingers until they closed around the glider.
He smiled softly.
Lovingly.
It had taken him some time, but he finally understood.
And he knew now:
"...I think it came for you."
For a handful of moments, all Martín could hear was the thudding of his heart. He could feel the way his breath trembled in his lungs - the way the tears began to pool rapidly in his eyes.
He knew exactly what those six words implied.
He knew exactly what Andrés was trying to say.
But it couldn't be. It couldn't be.
There was no way on earth he could ever be that lucky. Not him. Not Martín. Never Martín.
That was not how the world worked– that was not how life went– Every blessing came with a curse, there was no way he was this lucky— he couldn't possibly be so fortunate– he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't—
And then warmth.
Sudden, unexpected, anchoring warmth - piercing through the night like a burst of starlight.
He felt strong, gentle arms wrap him in an embrace. He felt a face burrow deeply into the crook of his neck - the glad, teary laughter that was breathed against his skin.
He knew the weight of this touch– the scent of dried paint and cologne—
'Andrés.'
Martín returned the embrace desperately - the glider slipping from his fingers - the sobs in his chest finally breaking free. He buried his face against the art student's shoulder - praying to anyone who would listen that this wasn't all a dream.
'Please let me be this lucky,' Martín cried in his heart, his breaths hiccuping loudly against the skin of Andrés's neck. 'Just this once, please let me have this.'
Ever so gently, Andrés ran his hand through the strands of Martín's hair - murmuring assurances with each shaking breath.
"Of course it's you," Andrés whispered, his own tears spilling free. "Of course it's you, Martín. I'm so glad that it's you."
And as the wind softly whistled through the leaves of the trees - the moon glowing gently as the world fell away - Andrés burrowed himself deeper into the safety of Martín's arms; his heart finally settling in his soulmate's embrace.
Found, at long last.