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A half-moon bar and stools so tall they could inspire acrophobia in lesser men, all of them listing slightly.
Old bartenders who resemble sailors, right down to the tattoos and the leering.
Drinks that could at best be described as watery, if one's feeling particularly generous.
Generosity has never been Martín's specialty, fortunately, so he's free to admit: it's a shithole.
But it's the bar closest to his apartment, and for that simple reason he comes here every week, orders one of those watery drinks and observes everyone but himself, takes an hour-long vacation from the dullness of his life to explore the dullness of others.
Today, a man who hasn't got the memo slides into the chair next to him.
Martín looks at the guy, and feels nothing but contempt.
(Truthfully nothing but that, he insists.)
He's wearing a dark suit - in a place like this?
A tie - a man who's straight and proper during the day and comes here to ogle during the night. Martín has had his fair share.
Shoes that have been shined very recently - wealth he doesn't care to hide, or maybe wealth he needs to show.
"Can I buy you a drink?" the man says, and Martín doesn't realise for a few long, albeit tense, seconds that he's being addressed, and then it's the Castellano he hears every day that's somehow throwing him off.
Martín isn't particularly interested in these ancient pick-up lines.
He gives his new companion a lazy once-over instead of a response. The quickly formed first impression wasn't a lie, but the man's body language is more at ease than most. Open, on show, up for grabs. He doesn't long to be somewhere else, and his entire attention is fixed on Martín in a way that could almost be earnest.
Martín decides to accept the offer (the drink, only the drink), having always enjoyed the power of taking a bargain and only choosing afterwards if he intends to keep his end.
He chooses the most expensive whiskey - they only go up to sixty euros, but it's the principle of the thing - and is pleased to see no reaction, no acknowledgment, simply the slide of a credit card across the bar.
Martín doesn't care to reward this with small talk, rather staring ahead and playing with the glass that still houses some of his five-euro lager. He decides to pour the whiskey into it.
The man ignores this, too. "Should we go to yours?" he says coolly.
"Not sure I enjoy having strangers in my apartment," Martín says, even though there's no way he's going anywhere else, either. His apartment is only a block away. That's the whole point.
"I could get us a hotel room, but I'd rather not bother. Your flat's just fine. And I'm not a stranger, Martín."
“What makes you think I’m going to sleep with you?” Martín asks, like the casual use of his name hasn't just sent a shiver down his spine, a little surprised he still remembers it.
“Absolutely nothing,” the man concedes, turning his stool so that his back is to the bar. Martín watches, unwillingly, as he leans back and fixes his tie. He knows exactly what he's doing, and in that moment Martín hates him with every fiber of his being. “Other than how good it was last time.”
Martín scoffs into his drink, even as his cock stirs treacherously at the words. The flesh is weak, and his clearly remembers Andrés in bed: simultaneously eager and harsh. He did not fuck like a straight man.
Martín hadn't expected to see him again, but maybe the carnal pleasures were simply too much to resist.
"Not interested," he bites out regardless.
"Is that so?" Andrés says, clearly not buying it. "Then why are you even here?"
Martín glances around the bar, grasping for purchase. There's nothing worth his time here: there never was. And he's hardly going to admit to relishing the dull mediocrity of everyone around him. "I was rather thinking of going home with someone who's not locked up in the closet."
"Is this about the wedding ring?" Andrés inquires. It's a poor imitation of bashfulness, because his cadence is mean and amused. "Was that a turn-off for you?"
It's not about the ring, it's about the woman it implies. And it's not about her, it's about him. It's about how Andrés fucks her during the week, and Martín on Saturday. Martín would bet good money that on Sundays he goes to church and gains an indulgence for his sins, and then does it all over again the next week, without a care in the world.
Martín doesn't long to be a straight man's little gay plaything.
He doesn't respond, sipping his self-made and absolutely vile cocktail and fighting the reflexive grimace.
Andrés gives the ring a glance, slides it off his finger. There's a tan line. "Suppose it was rude of me to wear it, with my hands around another man's dick."
He's emboldened. Last time he wouldn't speak like this even as he fucked Martín, let alone as some kind of fucked-up public foreplay.
He puts the ring away. Left breast pocket, Martín notes, in case he wants to steal it later.
"Well?" Andrés prompts, already standing up and shrugging his coat on again, clearly expecting the ring to have been the only thing keeping Martín from agreeing.
(The coat is black. The colour means nothing yet.)
Martín eyes the disgusting concoction of a drink he's made. He leaves it there and stands up, too. He doesn't have a coat. He hates that he's going along with this, but he's proud enough to do what he wants, regardless.
Andrés smirks.
There's no small talk.
Only growing anticipation, so thick in the air that by the time Martín is opening the front door, he chooses the wrong key three times in good old-fashioned statistical improbability.
He flips on the lights and flips them off again, because they are too bright and ruin any atmosphere. If he's going to bring a straight-or-at-best-questioning man to his bed, it's much better to do so in hazy lighting conditions.
Last time, Andrés had stood for a needlessly long time in the corner of the room. Businesslike, impassive, waiting for a transaction to go through.
Today, he moves with Martín, not quite in sync but close enough. He snorts at the changes in lighting, takes his shoes off without comment, and leads the way to Martín's bedroom like it's his own.
When he was last here, he was stiff and mechanical until his cock was buried in Martín, and then, only then, he seemed to come to life. Just as Martín was starting to suspect he might not be any good after all, just a pretty face with nothing to offer, he had started moving just right and drawn a keening moan from Martín's lips.
Today, he resembles a real person, complete with thoughts and perhaps even emotions as his eyes sweep the floor of Martín's bedroom. Nothing is different from last time, except for the bedsheets. Andrés's cologne had stuck to them and Martín had been unable to sleep until he resigned to replacing them and throwing them straight in the laundry. Now, it seems, he'll have to go through that ordeal again.
It had better be worth it, because his laundry machine has been making a strange clanging sound for weeks now.
"Home sweet home," Andrés says, derisive.
"You're the one who insisted on coming," Martín responds.
"Oh, I'm very happy to be here," Andrés says, smiling in a way that probably works on his wife. He's still for a moment, taking in the fucking nothingness of the place, and then his arms are on Martín's sides, concupiscence drawing them closer. Even though he should be helping, his interference makes it more difficult for Martín to get rid of his clothes, with Andrés's hands constantly getting in his way as he tries to open the buttons.
Andrés slides both hands under Martín's shirt and finds his nipples, flicks them while looking at Martín for his reaction.
"You're doing this on purpose," Martín complains, even as his voice sounds strained to his own ears. He has never had to work so hard to get a man undressed.
Andrés laughs, and makes no effort to distance himself. "We're not in any hurry," he says. That is not the impression Martín got from him last time, by the way, when he had seemed rather uninterested in any type of foreplay. Martín had taken him for more of a boom boom ciao -type.
(Martín is that type, himself, or at least he thinks he was, but Andrés's hands are currently clouding his memory, judgment and everything else.)
When Martín finally manages to get rid of his own shirt, Andrés is instantly on his neck, kissing, nipping, licking.
Martín groans and brings one hand to the back of his neck, trying to fiddle with the stupid fucking buttons with the other one.
It's a hopeless task, so he gives up on it and flops down on his bed instead. This earns another chuckle from Andrés, who towers over him, flushed, amused, half of his buttons pulled open by Martín's prying fingers.
Andrés gets the hint though, and opens Martín's belt, slides off his pants, and then his boxers. "Eager," he murmurs happily at the sight of Martín's cock. He licks his thumb and rubs the tip of it, as if Martín needs the encouragement.
Martín bites back whatever snarky comment he wants to make, because he doesn't want Andrés to stop. He has been thinking about this on and off since he last saw Andrés, and he melts into the touch with irritating ease.
He wishes he could have this with someone else, someone available, but he's tried with a couple of men after sleeping with Andrés and hated the experience, suddenly unwilling to settle for the mediocrity that sleeping with strangers so often results in. He found himself longing for the instinctive understanding their bodies seemed to share.
It's fucking unfair that Andrés is so good in bed.
Andrés goes to take off his own trousers, and the sight of his cock, hard and leaking precum, might make Martín wonder, not for the first time, how he could possibly have a wife.
But that's a thought that comes to him much later. Now, he looks at Andrés and only thinks about what a great fuck it'll be. Raw, rash, relentless. Fucking yes.
Martín preps himself, because he has no trust in any man. He rummages his bedside cabinet for lube (his fingers brush a fucking Bible, he should burn either it or himself) and coats his fingers. Andrés watches, interested, invested, as he presses them inside and spreads them.
Martín feels uncomfortable under his examination, so he deflects.
“Get a fucking condom," he says.
“Why?" Andrés says, playing at cluelessness. "You didn’t mind last time.”
“I sure fucking minded,” Martín says, even though he hadn't protested, hadn't even mentioned it, had by then been completely devoid of any thought. Regardless, he doesn't care to have diseases from his fucking wife.
Andrés makes no move to reach back into the bedside cabinet, so Martín does so for him, grabbing a condom and throwing it at his head.
Andrés manages to duck, and it lands on the bed. He rolls his eyes but picks it up. All the better, because Martín's spine isn't currently straight enough to keep fighting the matter. Arguing over safe sex practices is far from his favourite type of foreplay.
Andrés rips the packet open and rolls it on with a straight man's practice. He gives Martín a pensive look, which Martín does not bother acknowledging.
"Happy now?" he asks.
"Reasonably," Martín replies. He takes the lube and lathers it on Andrés's cock. He takes his time, because he is able to, and because Andrés's gaze burns him with thick appreciation.
It's a little awkward, this second meeting of near-strangers, just a little too much to be nothing at all, and Martín wishes he'd finished his drink after all.
He lies down anyway, on his back to keep an eye on Andrés, awkwardness be damned.
Andrés, for his part, does not wait around. He takes his cues from Martín's body like a well-trained musician, doesn't need to be told what to do, settles himself in between Martín's legs, lines himself up, pushes in s l o w l y–
Martín makes no sound, even though he wants to. He wants to sigh, because it feels so good, his whole body feels electric, but his mind is able to relax, it's like he's back–
He doesn't finish that thought, because it's fucking stupid, the feverish ramblings of a lost mind.
But when Andrés finishes that slow slide into his body, leans over Martín, and starts moving, without checking if it's okay to do so, Martín knows that this was worth his time after all.
He allows himself this moment, allows his mind to let go of itself, of himself, allows for nothing but the way their bodies meet, argue and match, the way they're at war with one another, but that war is also a poem.
And when he comes, with a flash of lightning coursing through his body, his eyes roll back in his head, and he closes them, wanting to chase that brief moment of bliss before it all inevitably comes crashing down.
It always does. No sex, no matter how good, is ever able to keep at bay the empty feeling that follows. The insistent 'and now what?' which gnaws at his insides, tells him he's not truly happy, taunts him with the certainty that his life isn't good enough. Like he's somehow destined for something better, and he's wasting his only chance to seize it.
Afterwards, Andrés loiters in his kitchen, for reasons Martín doesn't (care to) understand.
He is currently surveying the contents of Martín's wallet, holding up his bank card.
"Berrote," he reads, Martín's name becoming a stranger's with his accent.
"Planning identity theft?"
"I'm planning mutually assured destruction. You go to my wife, and I will ruin your life." His eyes are dark, and the threat seems serious.
Martín doesn't care.
"You could've given me a fake name, if you were so worried."
Andrés scoffs, like the mere idea offends him. "I didn't want to."
Of course he didn't want to, he's so fucking haughty he'd want to draw his own name from Martín's lips, not some second-rate impostor's. No matter the cost.
"Don't worry, I'm not interested in her," Martín says, instead of the more obvious what do you think you can do?
Get him fired, perhaps? Oh, how terrible, Martín can hardly imagine a life without stable employment.
Or maybe force him to come out to some cousins back in Argentina who may or may not even be alive anymore? What a horrifying thought, Martín might simply throw himself off a bridge.
Andrés's thoughts do walk along those tracks, clearly, because the next thing he inquires is, "What do you do with your days, anyway?"
"I'm an engineer," Martín says, sees no reason to lie about it. If Andrés wants to ruin him, he can go right ahead. Two could play at that game, and it would amuse Martín, to see just how far they could take it. How much of the world could they burn before inevitably meeting each other at the Equator?
"I'm an art thief," Andrés offers easily. Martín feels nothing at this revelation, if it even was one in the first place. It registers like a confirmation of something he already suspected, though he's not sure why.
(It's the clothes.)
"Also," Andrés continues, putting the bank card back and tossing the wallet to Martín. "You have nothing in your fridge."
He catches it, checking the contents just to be sure. "That's your call to leave, then. I'm not interested in feeding you."
Andrés clicks his tongue at that. "Go shopping, next time."
"Why, are you planning on a standing arrangement?"
"This already is one. I'll see you next Saturday. Or do you really want to play pretend at that dreadful bar of yours?"
Andrés is already out the door before Martín decides on his answer.
(No, yes and no, respectively.)
"There's someone out there, said they have a meeting with you," Julia says. If it had been anyone but her, Martín would have yelled at them, because it's one of those days, but Julia has the honor of being his least hated coworker. Therefore, he's willing to hear what she has to say before yelling. "Since when do you have meetings?"
"What's his name?" Martín asks, even though a part of him already knows. Has a meeting with him, he thinks, who even says that?
"Alfredo something, fuck if I remember." Julia doesn't need to say it, it's all over her face: I'm not your fucking secretary. And that's exactly why she's the least hated, in Martín's books.
Martín sighs. "Just have someone send him here."
And lo and behold, not two minutes later, this fucking Alfredo is standing in Martín's office, just as self-assured as ever, kitted with a full suit and tie. He looks exactly like he has left his dull six-figure salary investment banker job with the sole intention of blowing his brains out during lunch.
Or…
He closes the door behind himself, and locks it for good measure. Alfredo doesn't wear a wedding ring.
"What's this?" Martín asks him, standing up from his desk chair. "A little roleplay to brighten up your afternoon?"
Andrés smiles serenely. "Thought I'd come take a look at your job, see if your story checks out."
"Happy now?"
"Reasonably. Lovely to see you have your own office, too. Although I did come a long way… I live on the other side of the city, if you'd believe that."
"Have a safe journey back," Martín says, even though Andrés is already crossing the room to his desk, and this resistance is mere pretense.
"Have you ever been bent over this desk?" he asks, his voice casual but his eyes already darkening.
Martín's doubtlessly brilliant response, filled with references to ancient Babylonian literature or other such fucking things, drowns in said eyes, and he ends up just shaking his head.
"About time, wouldn't you say?"
"It's…" Martín starts to say, because he's certain there is some reason why this isn't a part of his daily routine, no matter how good the proposition sounds right now.
"You mean to tell me you don't keep lube in your desk cabinets? How disappointing."
Oh. That's probably the reason. In his defense, nothing about this room has ever inspired sex, until Andrés walked in through the door.
(Is it too late to cancel that thought? It's too late, isn't it? Fuck his life.)
Andrés smirks at him.
"Luckily for you, I have the capability of planning ahead."
He draws a small bottle from his trouser pocket, and the movement draws Martín's eyes to the outline of his cock.
"Didn't have enough foresight to bring a condom?" Martín guesses, as the absurdity of the situation gives him back some of his faculties. He drags his eyes back to Andrés's face.
"Absolutely not. Take it or leave it," Andrés says, even as he rubs his erection against Martín's side in a way that definitely says take it.
"Fucking fine," Martín says, because he doesn't have the patience for pretending any longer. They both want the same thing, so why bother? He swipes a pile of papers off his desk, and they flutter and flit like dying moths. He hopes they were important, enjoys the masochism of imagining himself hopelessly trying to make sense of them, later.
Andrés laughs at his dramatics. "Wonderful," he says, and he sounds quite genuine about it, not that Martín knows what that would sound like.
Martín prepares himself, of course. He doesn't take his time with it, because they're about to fuck in his fucking office.
Andrés watches him for a moment, not appreciating as much as analysing, and Martín feels like he's meant to make something of it.
Then Andrés's gaze starts to wander across the room. There's nothing much for him to see there - no personality, no family photos, just stacks of papers and folders and computer screens. Martín is happy to have an office, a place to do his work without the need for conversation, but that's the extent of it. He doesn't care about the place.
When he's done with the sloppy prep work, he leans over the desk–
And that's when he learns that its edges are sharp and pointed and definitely designed to discourage exactly this type of behaviour.
"Who the fuck made this thing," he groans, looking for something to sandwich between himself and the fucking desk. He's not going to let this stop him. If he's not meant to get fucked in his office, they shouldn't have given him his own fucking office.
"Take my coat," Andrés says, with some amusement in his voice, and Martín accepts the offer, because the thought is enticing. He - they're going to make this thing so filthy, and Andrés is doubtlessly going to shrug it back on like nothing happened. He has enough audacity to ensure no one ever asks about the very obvious stains.
Martín rumples the coat up and puts it in place. It feels soft and expensive and he's quite pleased to ruin it.
"I doubt your office is soundproof," Andrés says, but Martín feels like it's a warning. Andrés doesn't want to be found out, because it stands to ruin his picture-perfect relationship, his straight little life of lies. He wants to come here and flirt with danger, but he's in no way willing to pay the price that may come from the act.
Thing is– it is fairly soundproof, actually. That's the whole reason he has an office - phone calls, proprietary information. God knows he's done nothing to warrant having it otherwise.
Martín doesn't tell him that, though, if only so that they can cut to the chase. He wants Andrés (in, and then) out before anyone chooses to ask questions he does not care to answer, and before the tension becomes too much.
"Ever so certain of yourself," he says instead, an easy and obvious bait, and Andrés accepts it with pleasure.
"Warranted, I'm sure you'll agree."
Martín watches as Andrés unzips his pants and lubes himself up. When Andrés meets his eyes, he stops watching and leans over the desk again.
Andrés brings his cock to Martín's entrance, prods it just so.
"Go ahead," Martín breathes, even though he's not sure if it's permission that Andrés is waiting for, or if he's simply enjoying the building anticipation.
Andrés chuckles, low, and pushes in, agonisingly slow. Martín grips the edge of the desk, attempts to melt into Andrés's fucking coat, which is, like Andrés, rather great at its job.
He allows his eyes to close, and it's a mistake because he's unprepared when Andrés starts thrusting, and he yelps.
He expects something from Andrés - something with the intent of shutting him up, but there's no such thing.
(He should stop thinking he knows things, because he keeps being wrong.)
"You've been looking forward to this," Andrés says, when he's all the way inside again, and there's no question in his tone.
"Yes," Martín says, anyway, because it's the only thought in his head now, the only thought since Andrés walked into the room, the only thought he's had since Saturday. He feels so fucking ruined, and he wants more.
Andrés seems happy with that. He sets a pace and hits his prostate effortlessly. Martín's gasp tells him what he needs to know, and he starts angling his thrusts away from where Martín needs them.
"You're awful," Martín breathes against the wooden top of his desk, even though Andrés surely isn't listening. At least he can say it, put it out there into the universe. Andrés is so fucking awful, and Martín scrapes at the desk with his nails, and he feels so good he thinks he–
No, he doesn't think, he paws at the desk like a vengeful spirit and shivers in Andrés's hands like a migratory bird too far from home.
He tries to jerk himself off, but Andrés swats his hand away.
"I want you to come like this," he says, and it sounds so fucking loud in the quiet room, Martín might worry about the soundproofing if he could.
"I can't," he whines, halting and a little desperate, because he doesn't need much, he's so close but this isn't enough, it's– "You–"
"Of course you can," Andrés insists. He vehemently refuses to understand that Martín has never–
A please comes to his lips, shallow and needy, but he swallows it down.
And of course, Andrés manages to be right. He pushes the limits of Martín's body and has it his way.
Andrés draws his orgasm out of him with relentless precision, and it seeps onto that fucking coat, and Martín bites into his own tongue with a strangled cry, his whole body shaking from the strain of it all.
Andrés presses him flat against the desk so that his legs can't even cave in, and with a few more thrusts he's filling Martín up like something that's his, fingers burrowing into his hips.
There's a moment of faux-quiet, penetrated only by their heavy breathing.
Then Andrés draws away, gingerly, and hisses as he separates their bodies. He turns Martín around so they're looking at each other, and grins, so effortlessly bright he could have easily whatever he wanted.
All throughout watching Andrés press a kiss to the side of his neck, shrug his coat back on and zip up his pants, Martín has no conscious thought. There's fucking nothing going on in his head, and perhaps that was once the whole point, but it's unsettling when it actually comes to pass.
"Saturday," Andrés announces, cheerily. He's sewn himself back together so effortlessly, while Martín remains a loosened, senseless mess. "Have a good week, Martín."
"Yeah," he croons weakly, finally remembering to sort himself back into his pants, making a very feeble effort at wiping some of the cum off the floor with the toe of his shoe.
Something brews in his subconscious, something so ugly and gentle that he'll be desperate to drown it by the time it's Christmas.
It's September, now, and none of that is particularly important.
"What did he want?" Julia asks, later, as Martín loiters by the coffee maker, because he can't do much but stand around, now. He's going to get fuck-all done today, but he's decided to do that on company dime.
At least he managed to clean himself up. In this state, that should be considered a goddamn miracle.
"Who want?" he replies, completely incomprehensible. The fuck?
She raises an eyebrow at him, pours herself a cup. "The Alfredo guy?"
"Oh." Is she serious in asking, or is she about to report Martín for inappropriate conduct? He pours himself a cup too, for show, before remembering he already has one, waiting around by his elbow and looking rather scorned.
Martín suspects he seems exactly like someone who's just been bent over his desk for some wonderful office sex: distracted, flushed, disinterested.
He finds he really doesn't care. His body feels like burned cotton, and his mind isn't faring much better. That was a fuck worth losing his job over.
"He had a rather lucrative offer," Martín hears himself saying, nonsense spilling from his lips the same way as it had when Andrés fucked him. "I turned it down, of course."
The days of the week have a new meaning, and Martín loathes it. Previously they've meant either work or lack thereof, now one of them means something and the rest mean nothing.
He gets fuck-all done at work that week - he could swear there's a small dent on his desk that wasn't there before, and also, Andrés definitely stole his pen - and he gets fuck-all done when it's Saturday. It's like he's become some kind of a restless animal, pacing its cage and playing a waiting game.
It's great sex, though. That's the one good thing about it, because Martín can fixate on the sex and not have to consider how this arrangement could, in theory, become a problem some day.
(Surely not. He's got everything under control.)
When Andrés is at his door, grinning at him like he's just won the World Cup and carrying a paper bag, Martín finds a matching smile tugging at his own lips.
"Evening, Martín. I brought you tomatoes."
"Why?"
"Empty fridge," Andrés shrugs. "And opportunity makes a thief."
"I'm not going to ask."
"That's a shame," Andrés says very seriously, "Because I would have told you everything."
"I don't doubt that."
"About my house in Salamanca and the old woman who lives next door, whose tomatoes I stole. Are you sure you don't want to hear it?"
"I am." Martín doesn't want to hear a single thing, not about Andrés's house or about his life. He would much rather keep this, all of this, separate from everything else. It doesn't need to become anything more, so that it doesn't need to become a problem.
They have a good thing going, so why ruin it?
"I think she has dementia, wretched thing, because–"
"Stop that," Martín says, but it's not in jest this time. He means it, and even Andrés can tell. There's something in his eyes that has the power to make Martín backtrack. It's like an oil slick.
"Let's just fuck," he continues, looking away from Andrés, "That's what we're here for."
And they do, because they are.
Andrés drops his whole act of caring, and making conversation, and instead he just fucks Martín with very little in the way of words.
It's great sex, but it makes Martín feel worse as opposed to better, and he cannot seem to understand why.
Another week passes by, but Martín couldn't recollect a single thing that happened, in hindsight.
He speaks inconsequential words to meaningless people. He's so fucking bored of each and every one of them, and they're beginning to seem like carbon copies of the exact same thing.
He comes back from the office, goes to the office, couldn't care less. He gets praised for his work - mechanical as all hell, but apparently also efficient - and he finds that amusing.
Imagines telling Andrés.
Unimagines it.
On Friday, he finally allows himself to regret being so curt with Andrés. It had made things uncomfortable, and he had - well, he hadn't missed all the talking, per se, but it had been–
And so, when the man himself is at his door, slightly less breezy than he has been in the past, it's a little bit like a peace offering when Martín offers him a smile and says,
"Surprised to see you here."
And it resembles acceptance, when Andrés returns his smile with a grin, steps inside, and responds,
"Liar."
(But he's not.)
Martín scrapes Andrés's cock with his teeth, and Andrés doesn't do anything about it. He trusts Martín's skill, as he should. Martín holds so much power in that moment, and he loves it.
"You're so good at this," Andrés says, in what starts out a compliment and ends in a low groan. "Practiced…" that one word spreads over needlessly many syllables.
Martín hums in assent. It's true, all of it - he is good at this, because he is practiced, in both giving and receiving.
It's a craft he once decided to perfect, because he enjoys being good at things. He knows exactly how it feels, when he laps at the length with his tongue, knows what it does when he closes his lips around it. Even the teeth, he's honed in his skill of walking the exact line between pleasure and misery.
"You're wasted at your job," Andrés continues, "I doubt they appreciate your talents like I do."
When Andrés tries to breach his throat, Martín doesn't let him. He forces himself to gag, imitates the way so many men cower in such a situation, suddenly distressed and feeling like they're drowning. He wants to reveal his tricks slowly. He wants Andrés to marvel at his talent, at his power, without knowing the extent of it.
Andrés hums in response, digs his fingers in Martín's hair, tugs. Martín isn't sure if his act is in any way believable, but Andrés doesn't push it, continues praising this blowjob even though it's far from the best Martín could do.
Bruised knees and strained ankles aside, that's what makes Martín feel powerful.
"Do you trust me?"
It's an hour later, an hour Andrés spent here, in his flat, drinking lukewarm white wine and talking, and Martín hasn't asked him to explain why he's still here. He allowed it to happen, out of fatal curiosity, out of a strange obligation to fix whatever mistakes he made a week ago that had left him reeling and irritated ever since.
He's continued to let it happen, which is why he's now having to suffer through this.
"Of course I don't, I don't even–"
Andrés stops him with a hand splayed on his back, with considerable pressure, with the resounding crack his spine makes.
"Hijo de puta," Martín groans. He pulls himself up on his hands and knees, so he can at least feel less like a fucking massage table.
"Because here I am thinking - you have to trust me," Andrés says, so gleeful it crosses over to joyous, "To let me fuck you like this, when you can't see me."
"This is my apartment and I have a good selection of kni— you fucking bastard."
Andrés laughs, breathless but melodious, having waited for the optimal moment to bury his cock deep inside Martín.
"You were saying?"
Martín has to take a moment to remind himself how to breathe, because this fucker–
"I was saying–" He's rudely cut off again, and he knows it's a losing game, that he'd better shut up and enjoy the ride.
He can't accept that, obviously.
"Knives," he hisses.
"Whatever for?"
"If you lay a hand on me–"
"Certainly too late for that," Andrés muses.
Martín groans. What a time for Andrés to develop a sense of humor, with his cock buried to the hilt in Martín's body. He wishes he'd insisted on being on his back after all.
"Done with talking already?" Andrés asks, in between thrusts that are languid, almost lazy. "You're always so… opinionated."
"If you want me to talk–" this time he successfully anticipates Andrés's movements, and pauses of his own accord. It's a small victory, but at least it's not a hollow one. "Then I obviously won't."
Andrés laughs again, runs his hands down Martín's sides, drawing a shiver from him. "You're wonderful," he says, and sounds like he means it, in that moment.
Martín isn't sure if he's ever heard that one before. With a qualifier, sure: you're wonderful at this, you're wonderful like that. He doesn't think he's ever been wonderful in isolation.
And he's never felt like it, either. But when Andrés moves like this, and talks like that, he can't help but be a little charmed. Hesitantly, unwillingly charmed.
Andrés brings his hands around Martín, wraps one of them around his cock, plays with the tip.
When he starts timing his strokes with his thrusts, deep, angled just right, it's all over for Martín. He mutters incomprehensible nonsense he doubts Andrés is listening to, moves in time with Andrés, feels like he's drowning, wants it more than anything, takes it for himself. He cranes his neck and chases his orgasm with the help of Andrés's body.
Martín comes with a loud whine of Andrés's name, in his hand and on the bedsheets, but Andrés doesn't even slow down. He keeps thrusting into Martín, first dragging out his orgasm and then more yet, until Martín can barely stand the overstimulation, his body threatening to combust from the inside.
"Andrés—" he pleads, loud and desperate.
And then Andrés comes, too, with a groan and a heavy weight on his back that makes Martín's arms betray him, even though he'd thought himself prepared.
They fall onto the bed in a pile of mismatched limbs.
Martín's eyes are watering and he feels like he cannot breathe, yet he doesn't make an attempt to move.
In that moment, it's like everything about Andrés was made for him and him alone. Like he was crafted in a workshop with the specific intent of having someone complement Martín in whatever way he'll have it.
(It's really rather unfortunate that he's married. There must have been a miscommunication, somewhere.)
Andrés pants on his shoulder blade, equally spent but similarly unwilling to make the effort to even pull out.
When he does, his cum spills over Martín's ass, hot and sticky and disgusting and certainly nothing else. He settles down next to Martín, and on what seems like a whim, wraps his arms around Martín, turning him to his side and bringing their bodies flush together again.
Martín whimpers from the way their spent cocks brush against one another. Everything is so fucking sticky and it's so good he can't even complain.
He would still say something contemptible, if he had the brain power. As it is, he simply sighs and closes his eyes. He doesn't want to ruin this moment by having too many thoughts.
"Don't," Andrés mutters into his hair.
Martín laughs, and is startled by the fondness.
"I have a brother," Andrés says, after some time or perhaps none. Martín's body is cooling down, but his mind remains encased in pleasure. That's the only reason he entertains the conversation.
For the record, Martín has heard this pick-up line so many times. He has never found himself pleased by the outcome - the resulting brother is always a duller, less imaginative and worst of all, softer version of the one he wanted.
"A gay brother?"
Andrés laughs, an unnerving sound, almost violent in its calm.
"A straight brother. His name is Sergio."
"Okay," Martín says, not sure what to do with this.
"And you?"
"Only child."
"Of course." He says this like there's something inherently alone about Martín, and he's not wrong. "Parents?" he prompts, like he's playing twenty questions all by himself.
"Dead."
"Sorry."
Martín snorts: he doubts Andrés has ever felt sorry in his life. He should have just made something up and dodged this bullet of falsified empathy.
"You're not. Yours?"
Andrés closes his eyes in imitation of a headache.
"Complicated. And dead."
"Unfortunate."
"Not really."
Martín closes his eyes in a yawn.
When he opens them, he finds Andrés grinning at him.
Martín feels - or only imagines, perhaps - that some kind of a silent understanding passes between them.
Martín finds himself declining weekend plans, weeks ahead still, without a second thought, and instantly wishes he could somehow unlearn this information about himself.
He could easily walk it back, say he got confused about the dates and laugh it off, or he could make other plans for his other weekends, but it wouldn't change anything. What matters is that he knows, and will always know, the stupid decisions he was once willing to make for the promise of some more wonderful, inconsequential sex.
So he does nothing, just suffers in the quiet knowledge that theirs is an agreement with very little agreeance, and that there's no way Andrés would choose time with him over his beloved wife.
The next time Andrés is at his door, Martín is running a fever so high he sways on his feet.
Sees double.
Wants to die.
It's very possible that it's the very universe conspiring against him. He was never the favourite son, after all.
The sight of Andrés - put together, effortlessly handsome Andrés who probably has a shitty immune system and catches every single cold and is actually a real person, but Martín wouldn't know that now would he, he'll never see Andrés as anything but a carefully designed paper cut-out now will he? - only makes him angry.
"Leave," Martín croaks miserably. He feels awful enough without the company.
He slams the door on Andrés after this display of eloquence, because he's unable and unwilling to speak another word.
Andrés's fucking foot stops him, and he yanks the door open before Martín's sluggish mind has caught on.
"Fuck off," Martín grits out, and dissolves into a coughing fit for his efforts.
"Just a moment," Andrés says, closing the door behind himself and going through the cupboards with angry precision.
He's a whirlwind.
Martín is just desert sand.
"What is all this," Andrés scoffs, shaking a half-empty bottle of aspirin, unlucky thing, collateral damage. "Over-the-counter? No wonder you're ill."
"Why," Martín groans, hoping that the rest can be inferred.
"I can't let you die," Andrés says blankly, like it's obvious that Martín would indeed perish without his intervention, like it's 1918. "I don't want to have to sleep with someone else and be irritated the whole way through."
Martín snorts (the only sound effect he can currently make without considerable pain). He gets it, though - he too hates sleeping with people who fail to understand what he wants from them. It's akin to trying to fuck a cheese grater, only more aggravating.
"Well, I'm going to the pharmacy," Andrés says, "Be seeing you."
He grabs Martín's keys from their hook by the door, and slams the door as he goes. It rattles inside Martín's head.
Martín… doesn't have the energy. He goes back to bed.
At some point, Andrés is back.
He pops four pills in Martín's mouth, each of them a different shape, closes his jaw with his whole hand and strokes his throat with the fingers of the other, once, twice, three times, following the curve of his Adam's apple.
"Swallow," he prompts.
He doesn't offer Martín water, but Martín's in no position to argue.
He swallows, and the pills go down just as smoothly as one might expect, scraping at his irritated throat like rusty nails.
It's very obvious, when Martín comes to, that he had passed out. His fever is gone, Andrés is gone, and his phone informs him that 22 hours of his life are also gone.
(He'd be a fool not to take stock of his few valuable belongings - none of them are gone.)
There's a piece of paper on his kitchen counter. A phone number, slanted, and under it:
Call me the next time you're dying.
When Andrés is back, four days later (on a Wednesday), he looks very pleased with himself, having drawn Martín back from the brink of ruin, or whatever he tells himself.
It's easy to forget, sometimes, because Martín keeps himself preoccupied by being rude, just how handsome Andrés is. He's dramatic, and self-serious, and Martín would absolutely bring him home from any night out, and when he stands at Martín's doorway like this, calm and self-assured in the knowledge of what's to come…
Martín does not say any of the things that have been resting on his tongue for days - what the fuck did you give me, what are you doing here, never do that again and most pressing, more urgent now through repetition: why - but rather swallows them all, like the pills.
"I see you're better," Andrés greets him, when it becomes evident that Martín isn't going to do it.
Martín ignores that - the answer should be obvious. "Having a dull week?"
"Quite the opposite," Andrés muses, launching into a charming little anecdote about a painting he stole, about avoiding the police, about the mediocre engineer he worked with on the job.
Some of those details will be burned to Martín's memory rather vividly, while others will be lost to the crashing seas of time. Take your pick, take your guess.
After he finishes talking, probably having realized Martín was never fully there, Andrés wraps an arm around his waist, pulls him close.
"Also, I left my favourite pen here, last time," he explains, using his free hand to demonstrate holding a pen, in case Martín doesn't know what one is, and it's the least believable thing Martín has ever heard. "So I had to come and recover it."
"You mean the pen you stole from my office?" Martín had, in fact, spotted it on his kitchen counter while discarding snotty tissues.
"So you noticed," Andrés says, doing a complete spiritual 180 with a smile on his face, bringing the pantomime hand to caress Martín's cheek.
Martín's body wants to melt into it, while his mind wants to flinch, so he compromises and does nothing.
"Sounds like you could do well in my line of work, hm?" Andrés coos. "I could use your skills, you know."
"Compelling idea," Martín deadpans, because there's no way he'd actually consider entering life of crime with his semi-occasional fairly-straight rarely-tolerable great-in-bed fuck-buddy.
"Think about it," Andrés hums. He brushes his erection against Martín's side, just briefly, feather-light but with the implication of something harsh, before drawing away.
Martín… is interested, and his cock is half-hard from the proposition. He marvels at being wanted, conspicuously and without shame, by a man like this, though he doesn't say it. His body puts it into words so much better, anyway, the way it chases after Andrés's touch in micromovements.
"I'm filthy," Andrés complains, even though he looks just as pristine and put together as every other time Martín has ever seen him, in fact offensively so. "I want to have a shower."
"Go ahead, then," Martín says, even though it sounds strange and feels stranger. He doesn't actually want Andrés here, spending time in his flat and using his things. Surely something about the spirit of their agreement forbids this sort of behaviour.
He expects Andrés to walk off, stalk off, make like the trees, but when he raises his gaze again, he finds Andrés still standing there.
Andrés laughs at the look on his face–
(whatever he finds, Martín didn't mean to put there)
–and leaves the room.
This is in the spirit of the agreement after all, Martín muses, as he holds his hand under the water to find the right temperature, both of Andrés's hands on his body. Even though he's obviously touched Martín before, he's always been set on a goal. Now it's like he's seeing Martín for the first time, and he's taking notes with the palms of his hands and the tips of his fingers.
They chart his body like Leviathan, preparing for the end of everything, and Martín wants nothing more than to let it happen. He wants to let go of himself and watch the wreckage.
And he will.
He has just gotten the water to where he wants it - tepid - when Andrés places himself under it, backs Martín into the corner, brings both hands to his hips.
Martín looks at him. What's next? his eyes ask, because they're stupid and at times like this they're also disbelieving.
Andrés takes Martín's cock in his hand in a singular move that's calm and unafraid, and Martín does not moan, but he does whine. Andrés has developed an understanding of his body that Martín has given willingly, and yet sometimes he wishes he could take it back.
Like when Andrés gives a pleased hum, snaking his other arm between Martín and the wall, fingers spread across his lower back, and pushes their bodies closer. Andrés's body feels scalding against him in every spot where they touch, and his face is so close now that it would be so easy to kiss him. Martín is good at that, he could make it fragmented and mean, he could make it worthwhile. He could take what he wants and leave all the rest.
He never truly considers it, though. It's a fleeting amusement, and then he rejects it. He has always known Andrés to be one of those men - I will only kiss my wife, because I only love her. You think this means something? Because it doesn't.
It's depressing, this thought of being second-best, if even that, so Martín distracts - presses himself against Andrés more tightly, grinds their hips together, draws a strangled sound from him, something he hadn't realised was in his power.
Andrés's lips draw the shapes of words he doesn't say as he works his way through Martín's body. One hand around his cock, the other on his balls, it's like all of Martín is his for the taking and he's taking.
Martín can't stand the sight of his lips, feverish, moving, cruel and inviting, so he rests his head on Andrés's shoulder, mouths at it, bites at it, draws no protest.
He comes far too soon, with the likeness of a sin, all over Andrés's hand, his stomach, his cock, and when he draws back and watches through half-lidded eyes as Andrés licks it off his hand, slow and performative, Martín seems to go down on his knees without any conscious thought.
He wants to do this so badly that his own orgasm suddenly seems like prolonged foreplay, lovely (lovely) but already faraway, in the past, when there's other things he should be doing.
He takes Andrés into his mouth without a thought, without a question, without a moment's hesitation, the salty taste of his own cum be damned.
And this time, when Andrés goes to breach his throat, he allows it. Andrés makes a foreign, surprised sound, and Martín wishes he could hear it better, decides to make it a point to coax it out of him again some day.
(Foolish, hopeful, misguided–)
The water is pouring down on him, so much so he has to close his eyes, and Andrés is so deep in his throat he can't do anything else, either. He grasps Andrés's ass with both of his hands, and it's permission, even though he doubts Andrés was waiting for one.
It only takes seconds for Andrés to catch on and start fucking his throat. Martín takes it well, he takes it with ease even as it makes the corner of his eyes water.
Andrés brings a hand to his hair, and he's speaking, but Martín can't hear him over the water, can only make out the low, appreciative tone. He doesn't care about the words anyway. He's focused on giving himself away, and he enjoys it. Andrés plays his part well - is just the right shade of appreciative of his efforts without making it feel overbearing.
Andrés pulls out suddenly, leaving Martín reeling, just to come all over Martín's face. It's hot and sticky and Martín considers himself lucky he's already used to not being able to breathe.
He'd probably yell at any other man for doing this, and that's just another fact he has to live with knowing.
Martín has to rinse his eyes before opening them. When he does, he sees Andrés above him, his cock spent, an enraptured look on his face. His hand is still in Martín's hair - cum-coated, now - massaging slow circles.
He turns the flow of the water off, and helps Martín up.
His legs are a world of pain, but he's pleased with himself, doesn't even try to contain the grin that spreads over his face.
Andrés brings the hand from his hair down to his chin, stroking his face appreciatively. "You're a marvel," he says, in a way that suggests it's not the first time, that it's a phrase that had perhaps already fallen from his lips while Martín was on his knees, "And a vision."
It was to be expected, really.
It's Saturday, and Andrés fucks him slow. He gives and he takes in shockingly equal measure, calculated so that neither of them is owed a thing, and every cell in Martín recognises this feeling he's never before been subject to, in a false sense of déjà vu.
It's a tender, sadistic, torturous goodbye.
He knows this long before Andrés tells him as much, and yet, when it happens–
Well, it doesn't happen yet.
First, Martín moves with him, gives it as good as he gets.
Then, Andrés groans, low, deep (so deep).
And finally, Andrés takes Martín's cock in his hand and draws out his orgasm. It's almost against his will, because Martín is trying to prolong his time in the flames of purgatory, make the most of this moment, when he knows but doesn't yet know.
Andrés pulls out, draws away. There's cum all over them both, but he doesn't make a move to wipe it off before slipping back into his clothes.
The moment Martín raises himself off the bed, just an inch, that's when it happens.
"I'm going to end this," Andrés says, sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from him, buttoning up his shirt with stern motions.
"I see," Martín responds, standing up, gathering his own clothes, pulling them on as quickly as he can, because his skin feels scalding and he wants to rip it off.
"I love my wife too much," Andrés says. It has the sharp quality of lies, the way people offer too many details when telling them. One looks at a liar and thinks no one speaks like that - and that's what Martín does.
He doesn't call Andrés out on it, though. Let him lie, if he wants to. It's no longer Martín's problem, if it ever was.
He's now dressed and yet again uncertain regarding what he'll do with his entire fucking life, or its pathetic little scraps, anyway. "Glad I'm not you, then."
Andrés doesn't seem pleased with his dispassionate responses. He stands up, scoffs. "Do you think she has ever made me feel the way you do?" he asks, slowly, his eyes never leaving Martín's, as though their heavy gaze could convince him in a way his words cannot.
"But I love her," Andrés continues, like he needs to repeat it to make it true, like it's a spell. "And I'm not going to leave her."
Martín had never expected otherwise.
Really, he hadn't.
They never do leave their wives, do they?
But maybe he had thought he could keep what he had.
Andrés doesn't need to do this. He doesn't have to end things just to please some imaginary, gentler, duller version of himself. But Martín won't be begging for him to stay - he's demeaned himself enough by getting in too deep. He owes it to himself to cut his losses here.
Luckily he doesn't need to be nice about it, so he grabs Andrés's arm and stops him mid-stride, yanks so hard he falters in his step.
Martín kisses him, because he knows Andrés doesn't want him to. Kisses him out of anger, tenderly and spitefully, hopes it'll leave phantom wounds somewhere no one can see.
Instead of shoving him away (sensible), Andrés presses him against the nearest wall (fucked up). He kisses Martín like he's about to devour him, like he's a monstrous beast of old and has just been biding his time all along, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.
Maybe on another day they could have turned this into a masterful hate-fuck, but today neither of them seem up for it. Andrés was so intent on leaving just a moment ago, and Martín, for one, feels too much misery to drag this out any longer than he has to. He bites Andrés's lip, hard enough to draw blood.
Andrés curses, steps back, brings a hand to his bleeding lip. He looks at Martín with hurt in his eyes, and Martín feels nothing but contempt.
"You're a coward," Martín spits out. "And I'm tired of this." It knocks all the air out of him to admit it. He hasn't even realized, until now, just how tired he is. Sure, it's been fun - but has he actually been happy? Or has he just been biding his time, waiting for the next hit?
Is any sex, no matter how good, worth feeling so utterly empty?
(Yes. It would be, to him. And that's why he's not the one leaving.)
"Leave, and don't ever bother coming back."
He throws everything in the wash. His clothes, the bedsheets, pillowcases, what have you. Pours laundry detergent over them generously, mashes a few random buttons, leans over the machine as it starts singing its satanic tunes.
His throat feels tight.
He closes his eyes.
It was, while it lasted, the most meaningful relationship Martín ever had, and it had only ever been behind closed doors, with him bent over a desk, on the bed, on his knees.
But at times, during a few endless quiet razor-sharp seconds, when their eyes met and neither hurried to be unseen…
Martín could have sworn they understood each other.
Not that it matters, anymore.
He stares out his window at the city lights, blinking and whirring and sinister and quiet all at once.
He stares out the window and his whole body mourns.
In dealing with this, not that there is anything in particular to be dealt with, Martín does what he's undoubtedly best at, draws on a talent over a decade in the making.
(No, it's not denial.)
Meaningless sex.
(As opposed to the meaningless sex he had already been having.)
He picks up men from different bars and at moments he enjoys himself. He lets them fuck him, sometimes he even fucks them - that's how unjustifiably angry and bitter and pointless all of this has made him feel.
Soap, that's what they're meant to be. They're meant to wash away Andrés's touch, his memory and his influence, to allow Martín a clean slate to work on.
In the end, they're like oil - they do fuck-all and the mess seems worse than when he started.
Martín hates having to instruct them every fucking time, like children. Don't do this, do that, no not that way, here, just let me do it. It had been so good to give himself over to Andrés, so effortless to blur every line between the two of them, but these morons couldn't even be trusted with a pack of crayons, let alone his pleasure.
After a month, he decides, dispassionately, to stop trying so hard. He has to admit he's not going to find what he's looking for with any of these men.
He'll find someone, eventually. A funny blonde who attends pride parades and loves the disco and who's definitely not married to a woman.
On a second thought…
No, he's definitely fucked. He's going to give up on sex for a while and find something better to do with his evenings.
He's going to learn to play the cello.
Or something.
It's December, and it's so fucking nauseating, even worse than usual. Every street corner is made worse by garish decorations and children singing in TV commercials and happy couples holding hands as they buy overpriced candies at Christmas markets.
Martín's only escape is his flat, devoid of anything Christmas, but through a cruel twist of fate he can't stand the flat anymore, either. There's ghosts of Octobers past that reside there. They leer at him from the shadows, mock him for his ill-placed faith.
One takes the shape of Andrés's striped, blood-red tie, which Martín finds under his bed while cleaning. He doesn't know what to do with it, because everything that comes to mind seems to imply some kind of emotional attachment, in one direction or another.
In the end, he throws it out the window.
And then there's Andrés's cologne. Somehow it seems to have seeped into the very walls, into the floors and the furniture, and no amount of scrubbing, ventilation or strangers in his bed can quite get rid of it.
Martín hates Christmas, and he hates his flat, so he spends a week in Barcelona.
It's hateful, of course, but it's better to feel jaded in a foreign city, when he can redirect his ire towards the annoying tourists and pretend that if it weren't for them, everything would be better.
He feels nothing when he looks at la Sagrada Familia, eternally under construction, but he wishes ill upon it anyway. With any luck, it'll never reach its completion, and then they'll have something in common.
There's a brief moment of calm, when he buys himself a soft sweater from the post-Christmas sale of a department store. It all comes crashing down when he realises why he'd been drawn to it in the first place.
He sleeps with some guy who keeps slipping into Catalan in bed and leaves shortly after, without leaving a note or his phone number.
That might be offensive, if Martín could find it in himself to care.
He hasn't learned to play the cello, and he hasn't even considered doing anything else with his life. His has always been a meaningless existence, at its core, but only now does he feel the weight of that, having momentarily crossed paths with something real.
Or at least something he thought of as such, with all the benefit given to him by hindsight.
Martín tells himself that he just misses being wanted. That he misses the effortless nature of their meetings, or the pleasure it gave him. That Andrés was undeniably good - but nothing special.
But when he has a particularly low moment - it's rare, if you'd believe that, because everything is so dull and mediocre that it's hard to dig much deeper - he finds himself drawn to thoughts about Andrés's laugh, the carefree cadence, the way he seemed to believe the world was his for the taking, and he accepted the offering.
He stares at the ocean - the ocean he once loved - at the waves that crash and pull and demand and take, and then he stops watching it.
What a dangerous thing that was.
He's back at his flat, which is considerably greyer than he had cared to remember, and there's stylised violence on TV. Martín finds himself transfixed watching the blood spill across the concrete on parking lots. Now there's a thought, somehow. He wonders– no, he's going to stop wondering. If Andrés bleeds out on a parking lot after a job gone wrong, it's none of Martín's concern.
Why's he thinking about some guy from months ago, anyway? Martín never even knew him, not really.
He's not always drunk, for the record. But it's been one of those days, where someone else was terrible at his job and the problem somehow ended up being Martín's. He'd thought he deserved a bottle of vodka for his troubles.
(Whiskey is ruined for him, nowadays. Like drinking something corrosive, it gnaws at him and digs holes where none are meant to be.)
The knock on the door shakes him, and he glares at it with suspicion. The raps are familiar - but he's no longer expecting them. He did start to expect, once, right before the end. His whole body used to be attuned to them.
He stands up, regardless, turns off the TV.
Does he want to open the door? No.
Does he have a choice, though?
Of course he does. He always had a choice, and he should stop blaming everything else when he inevitably chooses wrong at every turn, ought to stop pretending he's Job, having his faith tested by every possible plague.
(Tomorrow. That can wait until tomorrow. He's drunk now.)
"It's not Saturday," Martín says in lieu of a socially acceptable greeting as he stands at his open door. Truthfully, he's not sure which day it is, but he knows which day it is not. Morbid curiosity has given him Saturdays.
"It's a Thursday," Andrés offers. He's a specter, slightly menacing, mostly familiar in the way the most worrying ones always are. Martín's eyes trail to his coat, draped over his arm. He feels like he remembers that coat, and this man, from a dream he once had. "And you weren't here last week."
He's come by before, then. He's stood behind Martín's door and received no answer.
Martín hopes he felt something ugly.
"I think I'm drunk."
"I think you're right."
Andrés pries the door from his fingers and lets himself in. It reminds Martín of… some other time, some other door or perhaps this one.
Oh. He told Andrés not to come back, didn't he? The sentiment, when he remembers it, tastes of blood.
"Why…" he starts, but he feels a little lightheaded and misplaces the rest.
"I needed to see you," Andrés says. There's nothing casual, coy or cavalier about it. He looks serious. He uncoils his scarf, and it joins the coat on his arm.
"And now you have."
Andrés scoffs, but it's not mean. If not mean, then what? "You're too drunk for this."
Martín is swaying a little on his feet, and the words take several seconds to arrange themselves into a sentence that makes sense. When they finally do, he finds himself with nothing to say. That's probably an answer of some kind.
Andrés steps closer to him, drops the coat and wraps his arms around Martín, centering him.
"Drink some water," he says, digging his fingers into Martín's side, "Have a nap."
It all goes dark after that.
Martín doesn't remember having done either of those things, but when he comes to, the pounding in his head is dull and bearable.
Andrés is still there. Sat on his bed, propped up by a pillow leaning against the headboard, watching him.
"You drugged me," Martín says.
"You were a dead man walking," Andrés replies.
"Well, I feel awful," he lies, "So thanks for that. I'm going to have a shower."
He gets up, less unsteady now. He's still clothed in an approximation of last night. It implies things he already knew - he would've never let Andrés into his flat, or into his life in any capacity, if he doubted.
He takes his time with the shower, even though he lacks the capability of even hoping that Andrés would be gone by the time he's done.
Words wash over him, rotten and poisoned words he hadn't been able to drown in liquor. Words Andrés has said to him in jest, with affection, devoid of anything at all.
I can't let you die.
You're a marvel.
Do you think she has ever made me feel the way you do?
I needed to see you.
He leaves his tile-floored haven, eventually, because good things and kind things are always finite.
He's wrapped in only his least-offensive towel. It can be whatever it needs to be, because getting dressed seems like too much of an effort.
Andrés is still there. No surprise. He's wearing a button-down and a matching frown.
"Feel better?" he asks, disinterested, perhaps a little agitated.
It's too late to kick him out, surely, so Martín has to settle for the next best thing.
"Hardly," he says, even though his cock stirs just from the sight of Andrés. His body has always been capable of betrayal of the worst degree. "Why are you here? Actually - if you're up for a fuck, we can multitask. Or just not fucking talk. I don't really care."
(He cares. He does care, an awful lot. He hates everything.)
Andrés grins at that. It reads a little bit like relief, which makes Martín suspect that maybe he never really learned how to read.
And then Andrés on his feet, unwrapping the towel. His hands are all over Martín, travelling the same well-worn paths like water drops - down his chest to his hips, digging into the spots he's previously left countless bruises, ones they've both admired.
(There were still bruises there, last week, made by someone else's greedy fingers. Martín is glad annoyed relieved that they're gone now.)
Andrés settles his head into the crook of Martín's neck and sighs.
"I missed this," he says. Martín frowns and pushes him to an arm's length as he unbuttons Andrés's shirt.
"I missed you."
For a moment, Martín thinks he spoke those words, because he had been thinking them, entirely mean-spirited. But their earnest, yearning quality, and the expectant look on Andrés's face, tell him otherwise.
"Yeah," he concedes. He doesn't say anything but that, because he's not sure when they stand, if they're even standing anywhere at this moment. And he's just so tired.
"Andrés de Fonollosa," Andrés says, out of nowhere, his fingers tightening their hold. He pronounces the syllables slowly, like he's half-expecting to hear them parroted back in a foreign accent.
"What?"
"My last name. You never asked."
Martín sighs. He maneuvers himself out of Andrés's hands and sits on the edge of his bed. There's something so hateful in knowing, that's why he has never cared to. What does it matter, what his last name is? It's useless to Martín either way. "I'm not going to ruin your life."
"I know."
"I was never planning on it. I'm not some scorned woman."
"I know that, too," Andrés says, but it's fond. "You're still clean?"
"Why?"
"Are you?"
"Yes," Martín says. He does, in fact, have a hard line on condom use, even if Andrés has never given a shit. He even got tested some weeks ago, when he momentarily decided to get his life back on track.
"Good." He pushes Martín down on the bed and bends down to nibble at his neck, probably leaves a mark somewhere Martín can't see. The concept of it scalds him, even if he can't be sure. "I hate that you've let other men fuck you," Andrés mutters against his skin, and the warmth is gone from his tone.
Martín doesn't ask how he knows. He hates it too, if he's being honest. But what's done is done.
"Haven't had any reason not to."
"Well here's a reason," Andrés says, "I got divorced." He fishes out the bottle of lube and opens it with a pop while talking, and the juxtaposition amuses Martín, distantly.
"Congratulations," he says, unconcerned. "I'm afraid I don't have anh–" A moan cuts into the sentence, sharp and incessant, as Andrés presses two fingers inside him, spreads them without waiting.
"Don't congratulate me, it was a depressing ordeal. I thought she'd at least cry prettily, and I thought wrong."
Martín snorts, moves to try and adjust himself. "Do they ever?"
"I'm a free man, now," Andrés says. It sounds like he's trying to bleed meaning into his tone, meaning that Martín will be ignoring, thank you very much.
"Again, congratulations."
"Her name was Tatiana," Andrés offers.
Martín has nothing to say to that. Her having a name doesn't make her any more or less real - she never seemed to weigh much in Andrés's decisions, until she did.
"In case you wanted to check," he adds.
"Why would I want to check?" Martín asks, sighing. "I really don't care, other than how you…"
Well. It seems like there's no right words to express that kind of misery, and just how unjustified he had been in feeling it. Martín was the one who made too much out of a simple arrangement. Andrés had every right to leave, and little reason to come back.
But here they are.
"It was unnecessary," he decides. It wasn't cruel or evil or any of those things, but it simply wasn't needed. There was no reason they couldn't have gone on like they had been, no reason for the ugly little lies, and there's was no reason for Andrés to be so dramatic about it.
"I've changed my mind," Andrés says, withdrawing his fingers, and for a moment Martín is about to beat the shit out of him. But then he continues.
"Turn around. I want you to look at me."
Martín does, even though he suspects it's more effort than it's worth.
He studies Andrés's eyes, since he wants to be seen that badly. He's about to start cataloguing the emotions there, but then Andrés lines his cock up to enter him, and Martín's full attention goes into incoherent cursing. Andrés didn't prepare him enough, despite knowing how it's done by now. He wants this to hurt.
"You're a bastard," Martín groans, his breathing shallow. It's too much, too soon, and his instincts tell him to get away, but he claws at Andrés's back instead.
Andrés smirks, even as Martín tries his hardest to draw blood. His nails are too dull for it.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Andrés asks, clearly not expecting an answer. "To be back where we belong."
"Fuck," Martín hisses as he pulls out and back in, harsh. "Andrés…"
"Yes?"
"Stop fishing and fuck me."
Andrés laughs. He laughs in a way that vibrates low through his entire body and then Martín's. The world is his for the taking.
And he accepts it.
For some time, the way they have sex reminds Martín of the last time. There's the fondness he has come to associate with goodbyes, and it becomes incomprehensible outside of that context.
When Andrés leans over him (like a thundercloud) and kisses him, Martín's first instinct is to knock him off with a well-aimed knee to his hip. The second is to bite, hard.
He tamps both down and kisses back, an unfamiliar move his body melts into regardless, because it may have been months, but his body still remembers how to meet Andrés's.
"I missed you," Andrés repeats, drawing away, but only enough to meet Martín's eyes.
"You left," Martín mutters.
"And that was a mistake," Andrés says. A mistake. "But we're back here." He stops moving, and the loss of friction feels like a weight on Martín's body, which cannot seem to decide what it wants (everything), and he whines. "Right?"
"Yes," Martín says.
If he's checking if they can go on as they did, then it's the truth.
But if he's checking if things are the same way as they were before, then this is a lie.
Martín's body still sighs contently when he knows he can stop doing every single thing himself, when he knows he can give himself away.
But Martín isn't going to make the same mistakes again. He's not going to assign so much weight where it's not anchored in reality. He isn't going to get in too deep now that he knows there's a riptide hiding just under the surface.
"Look at me," Andrés says, and Martín does. He hadn't noticed how his gaze had been drifting to the ceiling. "I came back for you." He punctuates this with a thrust, deep and with the power to make Martín dig his fingers into his shoulders. "It's only fair you should do the same."
"What do you want from me?"
"It's simple," Andrés starts, slow and contemplative, and for a moment Martín accepts that. Not to mention, he's rather good at simple, actually. Or he used to be, until recently, when everything suddenly became very fucking complicated.
"Everything."
For the next long, drawn-out, punishingly gentle moments, the only word that falls from Martín's lips is Andrés's name. Keening, desperate, at times even fond, he repeats it until it scrapes at his throat.
And then some.
"I'm not going to propose to you," Andrés says. He's drawn Martín's head to rest on his chest, and then he's drawn the covers over their bodies, and it's possible Martín had been asleep, prior to these words.
He opens his eyes, off-kilter but alert.
"I did not expect you to." What is he, a serial husband? Can't stand to be unattached for more than a day? Does he walk home from the meetings with divorce lawyers and his ugly-crying ex-wife and pick up a rebound girlfriend on his way?
(Is Martín–)
"But I shouldn't have left, either. I want this," Andrés concedes, like an offering. "Don't sleep with anyone else."
"Wasn't planning on it," Martín says, doesn't elaborate on how everyone else pales in comparison.
Andrés, though - he's a cheater. Martín is (was?) his accomplice, or something to that effect, and he should probably expect to be cheated on, too. "Will you?"
Andrés looks surprised at that. He has enough nerve to appear oblivious, right down to the tone of his voice, a little wounded, "Of course not. Why would I?"
Martín doesn't bother explaining. "Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?" he needles. Part of him wants to be yelled at, to find Andrés's limits, test them and then cross them. He wants to take this as far as it will go.
"No," Andrés huffs. "I'm telling you to commit to me. I don't want this otherwise."
It's not a proposal, it's not even a declaration, and yet it feels like both.
Martín doesn't give him an answer, or assurance, but he does prop himself up on one elbow and lean in to kiss him. Andrés smiles into it, wraps his arms across Martín's shoulders, draws him so close he almost loses his balance, melts into him.
Andrés kisses him like he's been waiting for this very moment.
It is both.
(Maybe it's more.)
It feels fucked up to see Andrés outside, in harsh daylight that draws out all the details. Every gust of wind makes him frown, and it seems weirdly intimate to see his body covered up by so many layers. He has a cup of coffee in his hand, paid for by Martín's new job. He's been trialling it, and he hasn't told Andrés yet, but he'll be taking the offer.
The entire concept of the outside is fucked up, actually. Everything is so bright and sharp and real: there's none of the dim ambiguity they've lived in until now. Martín feels like he's sprung to life from the pages of a book written by an unfamiliar hand, and he doesn't know how to be a real person, let alone a real whatever he is to Andrés, now.
Andrés is talking, and Martín isn't listening. He enjoys that kind of liberty, nowadays, because he's been brought to understand that there will be more. More words, more days, more opportunities, there will be endlessly more of the finest things in life. Saturdays.
In that moment, he's still far from certain that they'll actually make it. Maybe all the things that come along with real life will dim their enthusiasm for exploring any of this, and they'll dissolve into an argument that never ends. Maybe they will hate each other when they're not in bed. Maybe their personalities will be completely incompatible after all, and maybe it would have been ultimately better to keep this behind closed doors.
But Martín hasn't spontaneously burned to a crisp, so far, so maybe it's worth a try. Things have been good, and he's sick of pretending to know what happens next, ever fearful of being right, never quite hopeful of being proven wrong.
He laces their cold fingers together.
Andrés stops talking. He rubs the back of Martín's hand with his thumb.
It's not reassurance, and it's not love.
And yet…