Chapter Text
Cop bars are fucking cesspools. All the bad apples in a single bushel. It’s why Martín usually avoids them like a plague. He’s never fit into the outdated brotherhood mentality, and he certainly never feels the need to spend any more time than necessary with any narrow-minded bozos. But his tedious workday ended and he couldn’t bring himself to dress up for a club, so he dragged himself to the nearest place for a drink…and it’s the coppiest of cop bars.
He needs alcohol, life is a big time hellscape with his partner gone, leaving his workdays monotonous in her absence. Today he had to talk to Ángel for fifteen minutes about fútbol. Fifteen minutes of mind-numbing nattering.
Okay, Raquel isn’t gone-gone but she’s on a “family vacation” with her aggravating husband and their four-year-old, and he hasn’t heard from her in days. Mariví claims to have spoken to her and she’s fine, but Martín isn’t convinced. Raquel would never ignore him. The worry has begun to gnaw at his bones and he’s silently concerned that the bad, noxious vibe he has always gotten from Alberto and the reason for Raquel’s subtle avoidance lately is going to rear its ugly, truthful head real soon.
Sitting in the shadows of the busy bar, Martín nurses a cold beer and holds back a sneer when he overhears a few glorified traffic cops gloating about catching a ten-year-old shoplifter and bringing them in.
Ten years old.
A motherfucking child is sitting in a tiny room, terrified out of their mind, and wondering what’s next for them. And his fellow so-called protectors of the law are happy about ruining the kid’s entire life.
This is why he hates his fellow justice doers. They barely see past their gun holster and what tales they can bring back to the bar for a free beer. That kid wasn’t shoplifting for shits and giggles, something was wrong, whether at home or at school but they don’t care enough to figure out the root of the problem. They never care.
No one cares. The world is inherently apathetic and he hates that he helps feed into a broken system he once wanted to change.
But maybe the truth of it is why he likes all of four cops, one of which is himself. The other three are the exact opposite of these fine, fine gentlemen. He truly believes if Raquel were the one in charge of things, then the force would be a much better place. Less corruption, less cruelty. It might even be a good institution someone could have an ounce of faith in.
“ – and you think by snatching up a child who was stealing to help his family deserves to be locked up in detention center?” a blunt, low voice interrupts the uniform’s gloating, and Martín shifts on his barstool to get a better view. He does love a little drama, after all. He takes a sip of his beer and subtly eyes the handsome, dark-haired man at the other end of the bar, the hateful glare in his eyes at directs odds with the wide, fake grin on his lips.
Hot, is what Martín first thinks, taking in the man’s three-piece suit and piercing brown eyes. Then, when the gentlemen stands toe to toe with a cop double his width, he inwardly sighs. Hot but stupid.
“You got something to say to me?” the cop rumbles, slamming his beer down. Uh-oh.
The man’s pink lips twist into a smarmy smirk and Martín wonders if he’s looking for a black eye. Or a night in the tank. Either way, pissing off this particular cop is a bad, awful, horrendous idea due to his father being a high-ranking officer who would have no qualms backing his boy up.
All he needs is to be called as a witness to this fiasco.
“Ah, nothing much. Just that you’re a dirty –”
“There you are, cariño,” Martín crows, turning on his stool before this very pretty fellow can get his teeth knocked out. The brown-eyed man blinks at him, the word pig dying on his lips, as Martín saunters towards him. He tosses an arm around the man’s waist and tugs him close, somewhat surprised that the man doesn’t resist, although he stiffens and throws him a baffled look. “I thought I told you to come right over to me when you got here? Tch, you never listen.” To his narrowed-eyed fellow members of the police force, he grins and apologetically gestures to the man beside him. “Sorry, boys, my boyfriend here got a little lost – and he’s already started on the schnapps. I’m afraid that’s when he gets difficult.”
The man lets out a slow scoff beneath his breath, but Martín is pretty sure it’s because he implied he drinks schnapps, not that he’s his boyfriend. Yay, gay rights?
“Of course, he’s one of your men, Berrote,” the officer spits, disgust curdling on his dumpy face. Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you – do I know you? Why is he asking about “his men”? Weird, did they ever…
Nah, no way, he’d never have sex with this jarhead.
…right?
He does have a tendency to drink a little too much of Suarez’s mystery punch at the yearly Christmas party. So, maybe, but hopefully not.
“Sorry, why does it sound as though you think I have a harem?”
“All you gays are the same, you never settle down and run wild,” he retorts, and despite his casual homophobia, he turns back to his buddies, one or two of them looking a little uncomfortable at his remarks. Good. Stay uncomfortable and maybe they can open their stupid mouths sometime soon. “Get lost. We don’t need your kind here.”
Martín bites down on his inner cheek, the rage rushing over him in waves, and slaps some money in the bar top to cover his charge. “Queer or foreigner?”
“Both.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Martín sneers, tugging the grim-faced man out the door. It’s best to go while they can before anyone gets too deep in their cups before egos get thrown against the wall…or Martín finds himself on unpaid leave and nursing a broken hand.
The cool autumn air hits him hard, the noise from the bar being silenced once the door slams shut behind them, and he lets go of the man, eager to light up. The stress of this fucking job and dodging bullets (metaphorical and otherwise) every day is a fucking menace and his smoking has more or less turned out of control. He should quit but he’s far too deep in his addiction to stop now.
“I didn’t need your assistance,” the man starts, eyeing the cigarette Martín politely offers him. It’s never fun to smoke alone.
After a brief pause, he takes it but digs out his own lighter, a gold-plated and intricately designed contraption that doesn’t even compare to the dingy corner store plastic piece of crap he has buried deep in his pockets.
“Well if you didn’t need my help, then what fuck were you thinking in there?” Martín retorts, blushing when the man doesn’t bother to ask whether or not he wants him to light his smoke; he just does it. He gets close, too close, and Martín catches a whiff of a strong cologne. Oaky with hints of vanilla. He likes it. “Those guys are literal sharks, one whiff of civilian blood and they’re out to eat you alive. If if I left you in there they would have arrested you on the spot for some made up bullshit.”
The man cocks a haughty brow and steps back. “I’m more than capable of handling myself.”
Martín rolls his eyes, taking a drag. “Whatever,” he grunts. “You’re welcome. I’m glad I stuck my neck out for someone oh so capable of handling themselves.”
“Ah, don’t think I’m not grateful.” Martín becomes momentarily entranced by the way the man’s mouth wraps around his cigarette. Lips thin and pink, there’s something undeniably sensual about him. “You spoke up out of the kindness of your heart – something I wasn’t aware policemen actually had but who doesn’t enjoy encountering a fascinating anomaly?” Oh, so he’s a snarky shit on top of being unreasonably hot. Shit. “My point is that I could have easily dealt with those brutes myself.”
“I might be a cop but as you saw, they hate me too,” Martín sighs, leaning back against the rough brick wall of the bar. His thin leather jacket protects him from the mild bite in the air, but not the intense stare he’s receiving. “Look I get the hate. Truly, I do. Most of us are pricks, and I’m definitely a prick, but I’m not their brand of a prick. Get what I’m saying?”
The man laughs, low and deep, and a gorgeous, absolutely heart-stopping lopsided smile lights up his face. “I think I do,” he says, moving to the empty space next to them, their elbows brushing.
Honestly, Martín has to bite back a gasp. Nice laugh and even nicer smile? Jackpot.
He silently debates with himself while they smoke in silence. Should he let this go? Or should he introduce himself? What could be so bad about that? It’s just to be polite. Friendly. He’s being friendly! And Raquel isn’t here to send him a hefty dose of disbelief and a silent, you want to politely introduce yourself to him and then impolitely sleep with him.
“I’m Martín, by the way.”
Eh, Raquel isn’t here and he can get into as much trouble as he likes.
Trouble being this very handsome man.
“I suppose it’s only polite if I tell my boyfriend my name,” the man replies dryly and Martín feels his cheeks heat up. “Andrés.”
Martín grins, and something warms in his chest when he sees Andrés’ own smile grow. “Nice to meet you,” he winks and Andrés huffs out a low chuckle, “boyfriend.”
“To you as well.”
“So why were you in a cop bar? Clearly, you aren’t one.”
“Clearly.” Andrés draws the cigarette from his lips, a plume of smoke following into the night air. “I was supposed to meet a friend,” he replies vaguely. “They ended up canceling on me at the last minute and I was already in a foul mood when those pigs started going off.”
“Hm, that makes sense. This place isn’t usually my scene either, but it’s the closest bar to my precinct and I needed a drink after all the paperwork I did today. I’m stuck on desk duty while my partner is away on vacation – I’m a negotiator mainly.”
Andrés’ gaze trails over him once more but much more thoroughly. “Interesting, you handle hostage situations then?”
Having been on the other end of infinitely weirder questions when it comes to his job, Martín shrugs. “Yup,” he says, kicking his heel into the brick. “Perfect record too. Always get my guy and not a single civvie death in sight.” He leans in a bit, unwilling to not flirt. “Impressed?”
Andrés arches a brow, amusement dancing in the gleam of his mild smile. “Perfect records don’t last forever,” he counters. “You just haven’t met your match yet.”
Not yet, Martín thinks, his mind drifting to the latest incident file sitting in the drawer of his bedside table. Maybe soon though.
“They would have to be a genius.” Martín refuses to contemplate being drawn in by a boring criminal. Give him a thief or a serial killer. Someone who loves a good mental puzzle as much as he does. Fingers crossed that’s what he has on his hands now. “And seeing as no one is as smart as I am, I’m going to be waiting a long time.”
Another laugh breaks through the night, the borderline cackle settling deep in his bones. Andrés has a laugh with meaning, and it doesn’t take being an inspector to know he’s laughing at him.
Martín won’t act like it doesn’t grate on his nerves. He is smarter than everyone else. He’s a fucking genius. But how do you explain that to a total stranger without sounding like an imbecile? Or, worse, like one of his colleagues?
Andrés catches onto his silence and his crooked smile turns mocking. “Did I hurt your feelings, Martín?” Martín resists the urge to roll his eyes, he’s starting to wonder if this guy is itching for a fight. He waits a moment, intent on making it clear he’s not rising to any bait, and oddly enough, the mocking edge to Andrés’ smile fades away. “Don’t misunderstand me, I’m sure you’re a fine negotiator – you did swoop in at the right moment back there and knew exactly what to say. It’s just that you’re hardly the first cop I’ve met who believes he’s the smartest man in the room, pardon me if I’m a tad skeptical of your claim.”
He knows better than to engage. Those safety meetings aren’t just for do’s and don’t’s of de-escalation. “Be as skeptical as you like,” he replies calmly, ignoring the way his voice drops lower than usual in hopes that it won’t betray his annoyance. “It’s not my duty to convince you of my intelligence – or even my worth. I don’t need to prove myself to anyone. I know who I am. I know what I want. Screw everyone else.”
Not long ago Martín would have bent over backward to woo this man. But not anymore. He has long since stopped caring what other people think of him. If they don’t like him, then that is their unfortunate problem.
Andrés stares at him for a long moment, dark eyes narrowing. There’s something unreadable there, a curiosity Martín can’t quite understand.
And despite the mild annoyance Martín feels, he wouldn’t mind knowing Andrés better.
Or, rather, he wouldn’t mind sticking a ball gag in his mouth to shut him up.
Finally, Andrés breaks eye contact with another round of deep chuckles. “You know who you are,” he repeats, mulling the words over as he rolls his cigarette between his fingers. “What you like.”
The way Andrés mirrors Martín’s words makes him sound way more profound than he meant them.
He just doesn’t give a fuck. That’s all.
“That’s me. The irreverent and loudly homosexual Inspector.”
Andrés grins, his nose crinkling up from the force of it, and Martín is further charmed. Was he annoyed? No, never! “I admire such a brazen attitude. Tell me then, Inspector, you said this place isn’t your scene,” he deflects, and momentarily, being called Inspector throws Martín off-balance…of the horny variety. “So, what kind of bar do you usually inhabit after a long day of talking down fools and locking away thieves?”
“Hm, clubs and bars that aren’t filled with raging assholes.”
“Smart move,” Andrés nods, smiling away. “Nothing worse than drinking with assholes.”
Martín smiles down at his shoes, the air between them is bizarrely comfortable now. There’s no strangeness or awkwardness despite them being complete strangers. It’s nice. Comforting after a bad day.
“So,” Martín hums, dragging out the word, “you said you were meeting a friend?”
Andrés shifts a bit, but nods. “Yes, why?”
The hint of defensiveness in his voice takes Martín aback, but he soldiers on, one part of him working in overdrive to figure out this mystery man.
(It’s his dick. He’s thinking with his dick.)
Carefully, Martín stubs out his cigarette and shrugs. “Just curious.” And somewhat suspicious. Weird meeting in a cop bar. Has run into cops before. Definitely fishy. He pushes off the building and stretches, careful to keep an eye on Andrés – to see if his eyes go to his best feature; his ass. Which they do, and he tries not to grin in victory. “Girlfriend cancel on you?” he asks innocently.
Andrés sends him a wry smile, crushing his own cigarette under the heel of his shiny brogue.
“I’m recently divorced,” he answers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Victory! Divorced! “I was meeting a work colleague – I’m an art dealer. I collect rare pieces of art few people can appreciate. They’re safe in my hands.”
“Someone was meeting an art dealer in a cop bar?” Martín asks, his voice full of disbelief. Shady, much? “Those motherfuckers in there can’t even finger paint.”
Andrés lets out a raucous cackle, his head falling back and exposing his long pale neck from its force. Hot. He’s so fucking hot. Martín wants to shove him up against the wall and blow his brains out.
“You really are a different breed, aren’t you, Martín?” Andrés murmurs once he calms down. “What do you say I buy you a drink as a thank you for your heroics today – far away from here?”
“I’d like that very, very much.”
So as it turns out, Andrés is a fucking gem of a man and he’s practically tripping over his tongue the entire time they spend at the bar – they get kicked out around three, closing time, and they’re still talking on their cab ride back to Martín’s place.
Well, they’re sharing a cab, and Martín just happens to be the first stop. Because, Andrés is most likely straight (he’s debating with himself still as to whether or not that’s true, to be honest, but he’ll keep things friendly and take the four ex-wives Andrés mentioned at face value) and won’t be joining him back at his apartment for some late night fun.
And while, yes, he’s disappointed that he won’t be getting to know Andrés biblically, he’s been having one hell of a time just getting to know Andrés in a regular, not at all sexual way. He’s funny, smart and elegant, and they share similar irreverent personalities. They enjoy the same things; art, music, dancing, languages. Martín really, really likes him as a person. He can easily see them becoming friends. Good friends.
They just get along. A wonderful vibe imbued with a shared mindset.
(I’m better than you, but you’re better than them too, maybe we’re the same; better than them together.)
“In both my work life and my dating life, I prefer simplicity,” Martín replies to Andrés long-winded rant about how complicated his current client is being. “The chase is fun, don’t get me wrong, I love the danger and intrigue but after a while it gets stale. The easier the better, I say. I don’t have time for complicated crimes because the solution is always lacking. Everything goes back to spurned lovers or base greed. The passion is gone from crime and it’s really a shame.”
Andrés has been pretty vague in the details about pretty much anything to do with his personal life other than all the divorces, but his latest client from what he gathered is making their art acquisition plain difficult because he keeps changing his mind – and the price.
Look, he likes art, thinks paintings and sculptures and shit are real neat, but he knows next to nothing about art dealing and auctions. Give him a good painting theft from a museum – the file by his bed, the latest incident in big whodunnit he’s been privately working on, is a part of a string of thefts from numerous different museums throughout Spain right now, all done by one wily son of a bitch who he will nail, make no mistake – and he’s a happy camper.
But from what Andrés has implied, the art scene cutthroat business. A very stressful bloodbath of couture and snobbishness.
Briefly, Andrés’ fingertips brush over the back of his hand, soft to the touch. It happens so fast, he chalks it up to an accident. “‘The art of the art, the glory of expression and the sunshine of the light of letters, is simplicity’,” he quotes, and the words itch at the back of his mind, he’s heard that somewhere before. “I’ve never been much of a writer but it’s one of my favorite quotations by –”
A flash of a memory hits him. A boyfriend from way back in university, a lit major, who thought the way to Martín’s heart was through poetry. All because he was reading Leaves of Grass for a world wide poetry course when they met in the library. While it was true that Martín did indeed enjoy a few of the poems, liked dissecting it to shreds, even went so far as to reread it a few times, do further research on the North American poet, and buying other things he’s published, he was always more into equations and languages than any honeyed words. Chances he’d be wooed by anyone reciting poetry to him is slim to none.
Well, until now at least.
“Whitman, right?” Martín interrupts, tapping his fingers on the car door. They’re almost to his stop and he sincerely doesn’t want this night to end.
Surprise is an understatement. Andrés looks positively bowled over, mouth ajar and brows flying so high, he’s convinced they’re going to disappear into his hairline. Should he be insulted by his shock?
“You know of Walt Whitman?” Andrés murmurs, brown eyes glinting in the darkened cab.
Martín nods slowly. “Uh, yeah, I don’t have an extensive list of favorite poets by any means but he was talented,” he says and lets his eyes drift shut, digging into the recesses of his memory. “‘I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake’. That one could very well be my life’s motto. I read Leaves of Grass a handful of times in university. It was kind of sexy if we’re spilling our poetry hot takes.”
He’s just about to crack his eyes open and grin at his newfound friend when he feels dry lips press firmly to his own and a fleeting touch of warm palms against his cheeks. His brain, immediately, implodes in on its self.
Holy shit, Andrés kissing him. Really kissing him.
He…did not expect this, but he welcomes it wholeheartedly.
A moment later, and before Martín can properly reciprocate, Andrés’ lips are gone, replaced by a breathless bout of laughter that bubbles through the other man and shakes his shoulders. He seems shocked by his own spontaneity. The pure audacity of kissing another man. But he’s keenly delighted too if the sparkle in his eye says anything at all. Some hidden truth, a poem he, Andrés, wrote and discovered in the back of a cab in the early, early morning hours, and Martín hates to admit it, but even he can see the romance of their serendipitous encounter and the evolution of their meeting. And from what little he’s learned, Andrés is a born and bred romantic.
Frankly, Martín is at a loss and can only gawk in confusion when Andrés rolls his shoulders forward once and places a very deliberate hand on his upper thigh, chin held high. I’m doing this, his expression reads, I have no clue what I’m doing or why I’m doing this because but I think I like you, I’m drawn to you and I command my own will.
Andrés takes a deep breath and opens his mouth, closes it again, and sighs deeply. He really is at a bit of a loss. “Well,” he begins, and the gruff timbre of his voice sends a jolt down Martín’s spine, a shiver of anticipation, “perhaps then you’ve heard this quote then; ‘And you’re very flesh shall be a great poem.’”
Oh. Oh shit. Way to go for zero to hitting the pedal to the mettle. He – wait! Did he, Martín Berrote, inadvertently seduce a straight man by recognizing something by a random poet?
Raquel will laugh at him, Alicia won’t believe him yet ask for graphic details, and German will be shocked he’s ever read a book in his life.
He needs different friends. Friend and friendly acquaintances. Or at least friendly acquaintances who aren’t cops.
Licking at his lips, Martín nods. He’s pretty sure Andrés is trying to act as though he isn’t new at wooing another man – and he’ll let him play the part, because he really fucking likes him. And he’s hot. So hot and he doesn’t want to scare him off by being a prickish know-it-all.
“That might be my favorite. He was quite the sensual guy despite the terrible hair and unkept beard,” he quips, somewhat anxious when they stop outside his apartment. “Right, uh, this is my stop...” he trails off and eyes the hand resting on his thigh. “Do you –”
“I think I do, yes,” Andrés answers before he can get the whole sentence out, and he’s stuffing a wad of cash through the plexiglass and into a bewildered cab driver’s hands while he pushes Martín out the door.
Martín’s brows arch high. Someone is eager. One second he was getting mixed signals and then he’s getting all the signals. Hey, he’s not complaining. It’s just a quick turnaround.
His stomach flips pleasantly and he watches Andrés climb out behind him, hoping to god that his place is in order. He’s pretty sure it is. Paula hasn’t been around to chew or fingerpaint all over anything lately. Plus he’s been busy pulling double duty at work and remodeling the property – his future residence, hopefully – his dear father left him in his will last year. The place should be okay.
The walk up to his apartment doesn’t take very long, but Martín feels Andrés’ eyes on his back as they climb the stairs. He feels like if he turns around, the other man will bolt. The butterflies in his stomach flutter and he swallows thickly, and then, before he knows it, he’s unlocking the door and letting Andrés into his apartment.
Martín kicks off his shoes next to the door and tosses his keys onto the small table by the entrance. He shrugs off his coat and he can hear Andrés doing the same behind him as he begs his inner self to calm the fuck down and be cool. The amount of lovers he’s had… there’s too many to count, and one guy, one exceptional guy, shouldn’t make him this nervous.
But he is nervous, and he doesn’t understand why.
When Martín turns around, Andrés is staring at him, devouring him with his eyes, and, fuck, he is way out of his league. This is guy so damn gorgeous and eloquent, and Martín barely feels like one of those things. He’s just a normal guy working nine to five, living day to day without much excitement. Ordinary. Banal. That’s his life. It’s horrid, but it’s where he’s at.
He doesn’t know Andrés well, or even at all, but instinct tells him that he’s a whirlwind, nothing average about him.
“Um, it’s not much. I mentioned to you about my other place – the one I’m remodeling? Yeah, I say remodeling but it’s more of starting from scratch because that place sucked ass before it was bequeathed to me. It’s bare bones right now since I ripped –”
Andrés swiftly cuts off his embarrassing bout of rambling by pushing him up against the wall and kissing him into complete and utter silence. Which, he'll have to thank him later for that. He was dying internally. Something about Andrés makes Martín feel like he’s drowning, everything from the warmth on his skin to the taste of his mouth. Andrés is like a phantom straight out of a dream and when he pulls away to look into Martín’s eyes, he’s breathing heavy, pupils blown wide, and pale cheeks flushed bright red. Then, he smiles. A real smile, so different from the smirks and larger-than-life manic grins he conjured up all evening at the bar.
Martín can’t stop for anymore poetic bullshit, he kisses Andrés again. Again and again.
He thinks he might have very well died right here in this hallway, on the spot, if Andrés doesn’t pull away when he does. The older man backs up, slowly loosening his tie with a smirk.
“Where’s your bedroom?”
It’s the sweetest thing Martín has ever heard, and a testament to his lackluster romantic life.
“Follow me,” Martín breathes, pulling Andrés by the tie past the kitchen and living room and into his room.
It’s dark, save for a desk lamp that’s on a timer in case he’s away on a case. There’s nothing personal whatsoever within sight. He’s never been good with keeping things out in the open or having much to care about. Just a bed, two beside tables, a dresser, a closet, and a desk. His guitar is locked away in the closet alongside his safe, all his records stored in cabinet in the living room and the only pictures he has are on the fridge – drawings from Paula and a baby picture of her. But, if this were a crime scene, Martín would say his place looks like any other bachelor pad, albeit a cleaner one than most.
Martín is a bit of a clean freak, truth be told. When he’s anxious, he cleans. When he’s angry, he cleans. When he’s bored, he cleans. When he’s sad, he cleans.
There’s a lot of cleaning going on.
The tie slips from his fingertips and falls to the ground. He pushes Andrés onto the bed, crawling onto his lap. Grinning, he starts to unbutton the other man’s vest and shirt, tugging off one piece at a time. The material of his clothes is expensive, and maybe he needs to look into a career change. Art dealers must make a lot of money if this is how they dress.
Andrés’ eyes flicker close when Martín brushes his fingers through his chest hair, and for a second, he thinks he’s going to push him away, but after a solid twenty seconds of Martín just touching him, he exhales sharply and settles his hands low on Martín’s hips. Then, he leans in closer again and kisses him, biting lightly at his bottom lip, licking it, and letting out a soft moan when Martín opens his mouth to allow him to deepen the kiss.
The kiss is passionate and full of a strange longing, and Martín doesn’t hesitate at all in returning it until the need to breathe gets critical. He pulls back, gasping, his pulse pounding in his ears.
“You’re gorgeous,” Martín admits.
Andrés peers up at him through half-lidded eyes and he chuckles softly, “I’ve been told that a time or two but it’s always nice to hear it.” The soft pad of his thumb swipes beneath Martín’s eye, his touch reverent. “I’ve never seen eyes like yours. They’re like a storm – you enjoy chaos, don’t you, Martín?”
Weird time for a weird question, but he supposes the best time to get weird is in the bedroom. He does like the call to danger that comes with his job. The unpredictability that occurs when chasing after the bad guys. Or, the good ones, if he’s feeling extra bitter. He’s been shot once, stabbed twice, and at the time, the pain was a bitch but the adrenaline he felt…he’s only ever felt that alive when in immediate danger.
“It has its moments,” he agrees vaguely, “but I have an odd feeling you like it hell of a lot more than I do. I can tell you’re a troublemaker.”
It’s true, from the way Andrés talks and acts, cocky swagger in his every breath, Andrés seems to enjoy sowing discordance.
Andrés’ smile turns sharp, something cool building in his whiskey-colored eyes. “You have no idea,” he says, “but maybe you will in time.”
Martín swallows, trying not to think about what that could mean, what it might imply if Andrés meant them to mean anything at all. He can’t quite shake off a foreboding chill creeping up his spine but Andrés seems content enough, and he would hate to do anything to spoil the mood.
So instead of waxing on about storms and trouble, Martín steals another kiss Andrés, his tongue brushing against teeth and fingers sliding through stiff curls. Kissing is way better than talking, and according to pretty much every person who has ever encountered him, he loves to talk.
Andrés groans, hands moving down his hips and slipping into his back pockets. He shivers, grinding down on his lap, and Andrés responds eagerly to his touch, his hands pressing him further into his ass, his fingers just shy of digging into him.
In a flash, Andrés’ shirt is being pulled over his head, thrown somewhere across the room, and tossed to the floor. Bare chests pressed together, Martín moans softly at the way Andrés’ long fingers dance over his skin, exploring the plains of his body. And that’s when he loses the plot. He kisses Andrés’ neck and his face and his chest and his shoulders, and every strip of skin that he can reach.
Certain men deserve to be worshipped, and this man deserves an entire religion in his honor. Martín is happy to kneel at the foot of his altar and bask in any glory he’s willing to bestow.
Knees twinging, Martín’s hand slides down between them just brushing the hardness in Andrés’ trousers, when suddenly, Andrés’ brown eyes flash. Martín is flipped onto his back, his legs parted and gaze trained to the ceiling while Andrés climbs on top of him.
Grinning, Andrés moves slowly, his tongue teasing Martín’s lower lip, then pressing light kisses along the underside of his jaw until he reaches his throat, biting none too gently.
Martín moans at the harsh bite and arches up, pressing his hips to Andrés’, wanting more. Needing it actually. He’s hard, painfully so, and would really prefer his pants on the floor right now, thank you very fucking much.
But Andrés stops, and Martín whines and tries to pull him closer, but Andrés keeps him pinned to the bed. “You know,” he hums, and there así a low current of curiosity in his voice and in the depths of his eyes as he stares down at him with bright desire, “I have wondered what this would be like.”
Interesting. Is he about to admit to not having been with a man before?
“What what would be like?” Martín murmurs gently, stroking his thumb over the leather of the other man’s belt. He wants to take it off so badly, and to see all of him. But patience is a virtue.
Andrés’ throat bobs, a tick jumping in his jaw. Martín is good at reading people, comes with the job. They haven’t know each other very long but he can sense with all his heart that Andrés doesn’t like to appear less than in complete control. In charge. To be the one who knows everything and comes off as a king sitting on his throne to those who don’t know him.
Arousal courses through Martín, heat pooling low in his gut and spreading through his body. But he will stop if Andrés needs him to. If he needs an ear to listen to this big revelation. Truly.
But…
Andrés shakes his head, forcibly dislodging any hesitation, and smirks down at him. “Nothing,” he chuckles, sounding perfectly fine. “I’m just glad I met you tonight.”
He sounds like he means it, and Martín is somewhat touched.
Martín smiles and tugs at the belt. “Same.”
“Good,” Andrés drawls, leaning forward and trailing his fingers along the side of Martín’s neck. “Because I don’t just drink with anyone. Fuck them either.”
“Lucky me then,” Martín chuckles, rolling his hips upward, trying to get rid of some of the tension in his muscles. “Now can we please take our pants off? I’m dying here.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Andrés laughs, his eyes crinkling at the sides. He rolls off of him, more graceful than Martin could ever hope to be.
Grinning, Martín shimmies out of his jeans and boxers and moves to grab some lube and condoms out of his bedside table, crawling his way up the bed. When he looks back at Andrés, he’s stunned to see him fully naked. His dark hair is all disheveled and messy and he sports an impressive erection which is pretty fucking spectacular.
Martín sucks in a sharp breath and watches, transfixed, as Andrés moves back to the bed. He crawls on top of Martín again and presses their bodies together once more, peppering kisses to Martín’s cheek, nuzzling his nose, his forehead, and he can barely keep his head above water because Andrés is acting very…cute.
Cute. Calling a fellow grown man, this particular grown man, cute confuses him, because of all the things he labeled Andrés as tonight, cute was not one of them. Debonair and striking? Yes. Cute? Big no.
Andrés smirks, drinking all of Martín in, studying him carefully, and the amount of focus and attention makes Martín shiver. This feeling, being watched, this consideration – he craves it, always has, and he finds himself reaching out for Andrés’ face and holding it tight in his hands, his thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones. He wants to memorize this moment, burn it into his memory. The way the dim almost-morning light illuminates Andrés’ face, showing off the contours and the curve of his stunning features. His sharp edges and smooth lines and strong jawline highlighted in shadow and light. It feels like it should be illegal for anyone to be so pretty after midnight. Such untamed beauty. And yet here he is – and there’s no stopping them.
Andrés has Martín wrapped around his little finger and they’ve only just met.
A true troublemaker.
Suddenly, Andrés’ expression morphs. With his bottom lip caught between his teeth and brow furrowed, Martin wonders what the hell has Andrés looking like he’s about to be asked to recite the first hundred digits of pi. It’s quite the confounded look.
He lets go of Andrés’ cheeks to drag his hand down his chest, fingers trailing over a nipple and teasing it with his thumb, watching the gleam in his eyes grow darker. His mouth parts slightly. It’s tempting to just push Andrés on his back get his mouth on him. Catch the way his chest rises and falls under his tongue. Memorize the way he’d clench and unclench his fists as his breathing turns labored.
The want is so potent, so tangible, Martín might explode.
But Martín pulls away, and moves his hand down to Andrés’ stomach to his cock. Well practiced, he strokes him slowly, enjoying the way Andrés’ eyes flutter closed and his breathing quickens.
“Fuck,” Andrés whispers, his voice hoarse and low. “That – ah, that feels good. Let,” he sucks in a breath, eyes glinting determinedly, “me.”
Martín’s hand stills. Let him what? Let him do what?
Andrés pointedly glances down at Martín’s erection and it clicks.
Oh, so that’s what has him so conflicted. Touching a dick. Another man’s dick. He’s a smidge insulted by the hesitance but mostly, he’s amused by how new Andrés is at this and yet determined not to let him know that he’s new at it.
It’s endearing to watch Andrés struggle so valiantly.
It’s also hilarious.
He takes pity on the poor man and lets his other hand slide down to hold Andrés’, pressing their palms together. Their fingers slot perfectly together as though made for each other. He traces the bumps and ridges of Andrés’ knuckles with his thumb and leans forward, kissing the back of his hand.
“Try,” he whispers, his own arousal growing in his belly as he guides their conjoined hands down, “but if you don’t want to, we can stop. No big deal.” He’ll stop and make sure Andrés gets everything that he wants, whether it be with his mouth or his own hand. He’s willing to put aside his own pleasure for Andrés.
How unusual. He is never this accommodating. Or nice. He must be coming down with a cold.
Andrés keeps his mouth shut, but a little bump forms between his brows, showing off his irritation that Martín is trying to say he has no idea what he’s doing with another man in bed, that he needs his hand held throughout.
Actually, Martín isn’t trying to say anything. He is saying it because it’s painfully obvious that’s what’s happening.
Slowly, Andrés hand wraps around his cock, fingers curling around the base, nails raking along the way. He strokes, tentatively at first, letting his fingers brush over the sensitive skin, as Martín throws his head back with a loud, slightly dramatic moan to bolster Andrés’ confidence. He bucks his hips and thrusts in Andrés’ hand.
Delighted by the enthusiasm, Andrés chuckles, his smile confident and smug, and it’s almost adorable. He’s so fucking pleased. Martín grins at him, biting down on his lower lip and shifting up onto his elbows.
“Fuck me,” Martín whispers, blindly reaching for the bottle of lube.
“I think I will.”
But Andrés’ hold on him tightens while he pushes Martín’s hand back and takes the bottle himself. He squirts a generous amount into his palm, rubs it all over both of them, but then he hesitates, aware of what needs to happen next when Martín bends a knee.
“Do you want me to do it?” he asks softly, trying to convey how fine he is with using his own fingers.
A cross expression flickers across Andrés’ handsome face and he demands, “Take my hand. Again.”
Stubborn man.
Sighing slightly, Martín complies. He takes the hand offered to him and holds it up to the side of his face, keeping his gaze locked on Andres’. He trails kisses along the edge of his knuckles before he presses wet open-mouthed kisses to his wrist, sucking softly until he reaches Andrés’ pulse point. He traces the vein with his tongue, tasting the saltiness of Andrés’ sweat and the few droplets of lube that slid down.
Martín hears (and feels) Andrés groan, and slowly, he brings his lube slick fingers to his own entrance, ready to guide him through the process. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply before he exhales and guides Andrés.
Andrés grunts, his hand tightening around Martín’s as they move together in a steady beat. He’s surprised that Andrés is so reactive, especially when Martín is the one getting fucked open.
But for what it’s worth, he’s well aware that he, himself, is loud in bed. Hopefully, Andrés doesn’t mind too much.
Martín lifts his knee higher, allowing Andrés to slip in another finger, but he continues to guide him in and out, in and out. Andrés is getting impatient though, so he tightens his grip and deepens the rhythm, directing Andrés’ fingers into him a little harder and faster until it feels right.
“I’m good,” Martín grunts, grabbing the condom packet and tearing it open with his free hand. “We’re about the same size, these should be fine for you.”
Flushed, Andrés nods, and interestingly, he looks a bit regretful when he removes his fingers and the emptiness hits Martín. It’s alright, he knows what he’s getting and he can’t fucking wait to have Andrés’ cock inside him.
Andrés rolls the condom on but before he starts, he looks down at Martín and smiles slightly, leaning in to kiss him sweetly. Long and languid, there’s no rush, until he settles on top of him. Then, the world speeds up, he pushes into him, easing himself down and settling inside Martín’s body, until he’s all the way. He lets out a low sound, low and slow and full of disbelieving wonder, and it vibrates right through Martin. It’s all very…careful.
Martín, personally, tends to go for rough, and he kind of thought Andrés was going to be the same way. Ruthless, powerful, hand around his neck to stop his big mouth from waking the neighborhood.
Not that he’s complaining about what is going on, this is lovely. He’s just surprised. Andrés is surprising him.
He waits for Andrés to start though, to really set the pace, and strokes his hands up Andrés’ chest. Drifting over his arms and shoulders, his jaw, and running his thumbs over his sharp cheekbones, his chin, his lips. He caresses him, silently tells him what a work of art he is, and rocks up slowly, as Andrés moves in time with his movement.
Slow and easy.
Until it’s not, and Martín grins.
This is what he’s been waiting for.
Martín’s fingers dig into Andrés’ shoulders and his heels press into the small of his back, as Andrés’ thrusts become hard and punishing, tearing him apart in the best possible way.
“Yes,” Andrés growls. “Martín, yes.”
Martín shudders beneath him, his hips bucking upwards, pulling Andrés even deeper into his body. “Harder,” he grunts, pushing back against Andrés, wanting more. He needs more, because there is a shift in Andrés’ movements, in the way he’s setting the pace, the sounds he’s making that is simply maddening. He knows sex, not softness.
There’s something new that Martín feels…and for a brief breath, it freaks him the fuck out.
Tonight has been too much, too soft, too thoughtful, too much fun. He hurriedly strokes himself, again and again until –
The heavy wave of pleasure washes over him, hitting hard and fast and powerful, and he arches his back. He comes with a cry, squeezing Andrés’ shoulders, rocking into him again and again until they both of them come completely undone, and collapse into each other.
They stay lying on top of the blankets, sweaty and half asleep, limbs tangled together, Martín’s head resting on Andrés’ shoulder. They lay quietly for a while, the morning sun just eking through the blinds until Martín finally breaks the silence.
“So,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, gently tracing patterns into the hair trailing its way down Andrés’ abdomen. “That was…fun.”
Andrés snorts softly and only pulls back enough to look at him with a smile. “Fun is one word for it,” he hums, his fingers carding their way through his hair. It’s nice, soothing, but a little too much of both seeing as how sleepy it makes him. “I can’t say I expected this when the night started.”
“I’m glad it did though…aren’t you?”
What if Andrés hated it? He’d feel like shit if that were the case. He might not be a big people person but he’d prefer not to leave anyone wanting. It’s a bit of a curse. He doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks about him but he likes to give pleasure. Therapists would have a field day with him, he’s sure, and actually…he really likes Andrés. He’d love to maybe take him out on a date or something. Maybe.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” Andrés replies, a hint of wonder in his tone. “I quite like you, Inspector Berrote.” His expression twists, his mouth stretches thing. “Oh god, I slept with a cop. I’m disgusted with myself.”
Martín laughs, smacking him playfully on the chest with the back of his hand. “Hey, there are perks to sleeping with a cop, you know.”
“And what are those?”
“Well, I can get you out of a parking ticket.”
“Sounds like an abuse of power.” Andrés is teasing him, he can feel him smiling against the top of his head, his lips caressing him with every word. He presses closer to his side.
“I can carry a concealed weapon.”
“It doesn’t look concealed to me,” Andrés leers, making Martín huff out a laugh and toss a blanket over their waists. “Ah, what a shame, you’re quite skilled with your “gun”.”
Oh, you don’t have the half of it, guapo, Martín thinks, wondering how much fun they would have if there time together lasted longer – and less diluted from alcohol.
“I also have handcuffs in my coat pocket.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Oh? Are you going to arrest me, Inspector?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Very much so.”
Two weeks later and Raquel still isn’t home nor has she answered Martín’s various messages gushing about the super hot, super cool guy he’s met, but at the very least, he has a very tentative boyfriend to eat up his precious time.
It’s tentative because Martín is terrified to ask the man he’s had sex with every single night this week and the one before it — and ate dinner or lunch with on those days too — if they’re in a burgeoning relationship. For all he knows, this could be just the world’s longest one-night stand, and since he doesn’t have his common sense (Raquel) around to help him navigate human emotion, he’s lost at sea without a life jacket.
Martín has just tried to call her again, leaving a somewhat annoyed-sounding message on her voicemail, but thankfully, his irritation eases once the scent of the dinner Andrés is preparing hits his nose. He can’t believe he scored a hot guy who cooks, wears suit vests with his sleeves rolled up, and thinks it’s fascinating when he rambles about the Panama Canal (long, long story).
Andrés is his ideal man. No one has ever wanted to hear his expansive thoughts on the Panama Canal. Until now.
“Taste this,” Andrés commands, more or less jamming a spoon in his mouth the second he rounds the corner. A lemony, savory sauce spills onto his tongue and he’s very into it, but he’s even more into the way Andrés’ eyes darken when he moans a little too loud and sucks a little too hard on the spoon. “I said taste it,” he rumbles, backing him ups against the counter, “not perform fellatio on the spoon.”
“And where’s the fun if I don’t fully savor your,” Martín grins, an impish, teasing thing, and hops up onto the counter, wrapping his legs around Andrés’ waist, “cooking.”
Andrés rolls his eyes but pulls him into a quick kiss.
“You’re terrible.”
“Aren’t I?” Martín chuckles, freeing the other man so he can go back to making dinner. “My partner is still ghosting me. I think I’m going to change my cologne. Maybe then she’ll call me back.”
“Worrying about a woman ignoring you? I’m shocked, I though you would be celebrating.”
Legs swinging, Martín snorts and pops a leftover cherry tomato in his mouth. “She’s the only person I give a shit about.” Andrés shoots him an unimpressed stare over his shoulder, and he amends, “The only person I gave a shit about up until recently.”
“Smooth recovery. You said she went on vacation, right?”
“Yeah, somewhere in France. I sort of…tuned all the planning out. I think it might have been Disney? I don’t know,” Martín shrugs. “She and her husband never went on a honeymoon, so they decided to take a long trip with their daughter. They should be back by now.”
Truthfully, Raquel and Alberto have been having issues for a while, and even though he’s been all but begging his friend to leave her husband, she’s insistent about making things work for Paula’s sake. Even at the risk of the verbal abuse he’s overhead her suffer escalating into much worse – so much worse.
All the classic signs are there. Controlling behavior. Isolation. Manipulation.
Martín has seen too many cases of domestic violence not to be concerned about what happens next.
“Hm, perhaps she’s just enjoying time with her husband,” Andrés offers, stirring the thickened yellow sauce he jammed in his mouth earlier. “A wife should definitely prioritize time for her husband, especially when,” disgust coats his tone and a sneer drifts across his face, “children are involved.”
While Andrés is perfect in a lot of ways, and they haven’t known each other that long, it’s super easy to see why he’s been married to four different women. Super easy.
Martín is hardly an expert on feminine wiles but he’s pretty sure they aren’t into being thrust into a certain role in their husband’s life. Once upon a time, he had some…thoughts on women and heterosexual sex and procreation but Raquel put him in a headlock and more or less kicked his ass at the gym while reading him the riot act for voicing such opinions. So he stays in his lane nowadays and keeps his thoughts to himself.
Also every time they go out, Andrés sneers at baby carriages and small children, which he’s taken to mean he’s anti-procreation and very pro-choice. Which hey! He jives with that. Kids kind of suck and he has no interest in them beyond being a cool uncle to Raquel’s mini-me.
“Yeah, well, I don’t know about that considering I’ve never had a wife – thank god – but what I do know is that her husband is an outrageous asshole,” Martín says pleasantly. “We’ve never liked each other, but put it aside for Raquel. Our…mutual apathy has grown recently. He hates that whenever he and Raquel fight, she comes here, usually with their daughter. I don’t trust him.”
Andrés arches a brow at him. “Are you worried for her safety?”
“Sort of,” he sighs and rests his head against the cabinet. That’s a difficult question times a million. “Alberto works in CSI and he isn’t – uh, he’s the kind of guy who hangs out at cop bars.”
A knowing look is sent his way as Andrés opens the oven to poke at what Martín thinks is roast chicken. He has no idea, he had gotten home from work and an hour later, Andrés showed up with two grocery bags worth of food, told him to shower (he smelled like a cop apparently), and then fetch some candles because he’s making dinner.
A real home-cooked dinner all for Martín! He was going to order pizza…again.
Seriously, how did he manage to find the best possible guy?
“I don’t want to belittle my partner or anything, she’s a capable person who doesn’t need me worrying over her but…”
“But you’re worried for her regardless,” Andrés finishes for him as he pours the sauce all over the chicken, before placing it back in the oven. He turns to him, tossing the oven mitts (he owns oven mitts?) to the side and crossing his arms – and this is highly inappropriate, but he looks mighty fuckable right now. “You care about her.”
“I do, she’s my best friend.”
Cocking his head, Andrés purses his lips. “I’ve never had a best friend,” he reveals with a slight shrug. “I had a friend, he, I suppose, was close enough to fulfill that role in my life for a time but…well, Damián I parted ways unhappily.” Martín takes note of the name and files it away for later. “Occasionally, I’ve wondered what it might be like to have a friend in my life who ranks above all others but it was never in the cards for me.” Their eyes meet and Andrés’ lips curl into his signature lopsided grin. “You know, I think under different circumstances, you and I would have made good friends, perhaps even the closest of partners. Our minds are beyond compatible and I feel an incredible kinship with you – it’s something I’ve never felt before, not even with my ex-wives if I’m being truthful.”
Amused, and secretly thrilled, Martín pokes Andrés’ thigh with his toe. “We’re not friends?” he pouts, injecting some fake hurt into his voice. “I think between all the dates and the fantastic sex, we’ve been getting along rather well. We’re proper buddies. Thick as thieves.”
Andrés strides towards him, eyes glittering with wild amusement. When he’s close enough, Martín wraps his arms around his shoulders, clinging to him, as Andrés smirks, his hands gliding up his thighs.
“We’re…ninety-nine percent friends.”
Martín bites his tongue to keep from laughing. He can’t wait to hear this. Andrés has the best ability to be unintentionally funny about the weirdest of subjects. Everything from fruit to fashion to seventeen-century architecture, he has an opinion. A pretentious opinion which he never fails to be amusing, and it’s obvious that Andrés likes him a great deal, otherwise he’s sure he wouldn’t get away with laughing at him constantly.
“Ninety-nine percent? What’s the other one percent?” he wonders aloud, tilting his head down to meet Andrés’ eyes. There’s no great difference in height between them, but with him sitting on the counter he’s a whole half a head taller than him, and hot damn, if it doesn’t make him feel powerful.
Andrés grins and places a kiss on the sliver of collar bone exposed by his shirt. “My desire for you.” Martín smiles, Andrés’ warm lips sliding over his throat and jaw. “You’re something new,” he murmurs against the swell of his Adam’s apple, “and I’m going to keep you.”
“Is this you saying you want to be my boyfriend?” Martín wonders, somewhat joking. He combs his fingers through Andrés’ hair, enjoying the way the other man is teasing his skin with his sharp teeth, then soothing over it with his tongue. “Ah – for real this time.”
“The title is somewhat juvenile but if you’re willing, then yes, I do want to be your boyfriend,” he replies, placing his chin on his shoulder and wrapping his arms around his waist in a tight hug.
Martín screws his mouth to the side, holding back the grin that’s dying to escape him, and presses a quick kiss to Andrés’ temple.
“Okay. Boyfriends?”
Andrés nods, his chin digging into his shoulder. “Boyfriends.”
A lull of silence, content and warm, settles over them, the timer on the oven down to single digits. He has a boyfriend, one he managed to attain with very little work or effort – that’s not to say he hasn’t gone out of his way to impress Andrés. He has, and he may or may not have gone out and bought a full collection of Walt Whitman’s poems and read it twice to commit them to memory all to be able to keep slipping snippets into their conversations. Right now it’s locked away in his safe, far away from Andrés’ handsome eyes.
When the number on the timer hits six minutes, Andrés sighs and pulls back slightly, mouth pursed. “You should know something,” he begins, brushing his hands over Martín’s chest, “about me. Probably a lot of ‘somethings’, but this feels relevant at the moment.”
He reckons that’s not an awesome sign for things to come but he’s always loved a bit of unpredictability. A normal relationship would be boring, and while he’s not exactly a modern-day Romeo – probably more a Casanova – he’s had a few solid boyfriends over the years. But they always ended the same way, with him barely being able to tolerate the guy he’s seeing because he’s bored, then dumping him.
Something tells him though that Andrés is the farthest thing from boring possible.
“What is it?” Martín asks calmly, leaning back on his palms.
Absently, Andrés straightens his green and silver pinstriped tie and avoids his eyes. “I’m straight.”
Martín blinks. “Are you now?”
The amount of not-straight sex they’ve been enjoying says otherwise.
“Was. I never considered myself anything other strictly heterosexual.” Andrés appears truly pained, like he cannot believe he’s forced to have this conversation…or that he might possess an affinity for cock. “You’re my first male lover. You’re the only man I’ve ever been with.”
The stubborn set of Andrés’ jaw only becomes more clenched when their eyes finally meet. Go ahead, Andrés’ brown eyes glare, fight me.
Martín raises a lazy brow. He is so not going to fight him over his sexuality. “Yeah, I sort of figured that out on my own after you looked at my dick like it was a Rubik’s cube, querido.”
Andrés gapes at him, a scowl twitching at the corners of his mouth when Martín lets out a little laugh.
“What are you talking about? Our first night was perfect! Magical!”
“Oh my god, Andrés, come on, yeah, it was perfect and magical and very, very fun. I wouldn’t change a second of it but you were out of your comfort zone and it showed at times,” Martín says, stroking his clenched jaw with his thumb. Anger inches its way into Andrés’ eyes, his mouth tightening, and he feels himself soften, there’s no need for anyone to feel embarrassed. “Hey, it’s no big deal. I don’t mind being the first guy you’ve been with – I mean, I’d like to hold your hand in public but I saw the way you reacted last time I tried. You nearly tore my arm off after you saw that guy laughing at us. I’m used to bigoted assholes from when I was younger. It doesn’t bother me, but I remember how overwhelming it was at first. I know you pretended to go to the restroom just so you could spare my feelings. I get not wanting people to know we’re dating. It’s okay. I’m fine with taking things slow so you can adjust to this.”
A complicated series of expressions cross Andrés’ face; irritation, horror, embarrassment, guilt. Martín almost regrets speaking his mind. He should have smiled and nodded, kept things short and sweet.
“That’s not – ” Andrés cuts himself off with an angry shake of his head, his fingers clenching and unclenching around a fork sitting to his left, almost unconsciously. Martín eyes the fork in confusion. That’s an odd reaction to an utensil.
“You don’t have to –”
Andrés heaves a sigh and drops the fork. “I’m not ashamed to be with you,” he says, and Martín’s chest warms, hearing and accepting the imploring tone in his voice. “Truly. I won’t pretend as though I haven’t been accused of being…less than purely heterosexual and that it hasn’t irritated me in the past. But I’m happy. Martín, you’re handsome and brilliant and you don’t annoy me which is miraculous.” That’s… shockingly relatable, actually. “I just don’t handle people mocking me well – and that includes them mocking someone I care for. That man pissed me off and I didn’t want you to see me angry. That’s why I left. This is new for me, yes, but I’m in this, Martín.”
“One hundred percent?” Martín whispers, feeling almost shy under Andrés’ intense gaze.
The other man nods, mouth set in a thin line. “One hundred percent.”
Heart thundering in his chest, Martín slides off the counter as the timer begins to beep behind them. Despite the shrill shriek happening in the background, he takes Andrés’ hand in his own and presses a firm kiss to the back.
“Feel free to tell me when I’m coming on too strong and I’ll hit the brakes. I don’t want to push you. Sound good?”
Because even though Andrés claims he’s unashamed, Martín has a feeling that he doesn’t fit the usual mold of Andrés’ ideal partner. He’s a male cop with a dirty mouth who wears jeans and spends his spare time getting his hands dirty remodeling a house of nightmares. The farthest thing possible from elegant and refined as someone can get. He’s no one’s ideal lover.
Andrés rolls his eyes, amusement glimmering in their depths, but squeezes his hand before pulling away to put in the oven mitts. “I’m not a little girl, you don’t need to coddle me,” he sniffs, moving to the oven. “This needs to rest for a few minutes, then we –”
The doorbell rings and Martín groans, if that’s his neighbor again asking for “sugar” again, he’s getting a restraining order. No matter how many men he brings back to his place, the chick in the downstairs apartment still thinks he’s going to fuck her.
“I’ll go scare whoever that is away,” Martín huffs, moving to the door, “then I’ll pour the wine.”
“Sounds good,” Andrés mockingly calls at his back.
“Oh fuck off and see if I’m ever nice to you again.”
Andrés’ deep laughter warms him to his core as he opens the door without looking to see who it is, which is a terrible move considering he’s a cop and should have some inkling to watch his back.
Oh well, he’s going to get murdered while wearing blue striped socks. Fingers crossed Andrés avenges him.
“Hello, can you kindly get lo –” Martín’s caustic greeting dies in his throat when he sees who’s on the other side of the door. “Raquel? What the hell are you doing here?”
Dressed in an oversized hoodie and dark gray leggings, his partner sends him a halfhearted smile. Even though she just spent nearly three weeks at some resort or theme park or French whatever, her cheeks are washed out and there are dark circles under her eyes.
His anxiety spikes. Raquel doesn’t look well.
“Hey, long time no see, stranger,” she says, shifting from one foot to the other. “Miss me?”
Martín grabs onto the doorjamb to keep from falling over. What the fuck? Three weeks of radio silence and she’s suddenly on his doorstep like nothin happened?
“Yes, of course, I missed you…but maybe you would know that if you answered your phone when I called. All one hundred times. I even called your mother. Do you know how many dinners I have to go to now? She told me not to worry, but for fuck’s sake, Raquel, you at least could have given me a heads up that you were home,” Martín replies in one harsh breath. He has to stop himself from hugging her – and pulling her into his apartment where the lighting is better and he can get a good look at her. Check her over, worry some more. He’s angry, a little hurt, but also very, very concerned.
Raquel sighs and tucks a chunk of sun kissed brown hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, uh, my phone actually broke a few days in, I dropped it and had to get a new one,” she says, and almost immediately he knows she’s not telling him the truth. “I couldn’t remember your number. I just figured I’d see you when I got home. Which I am. Home. Am I allowed to come in? Or are we chatting in your entryway today?”
Well, that’s a steaming pile of dogshit. He doesn’t believe a single word she said. Raquel is intuitive, she easily could have borrowed a phone or bought a new one to call him. Because if she really couldn’t remember his number, then why not call her mother and have her pass his along? Or better yet call him at work to give him a heads up about her phone. Email. Text. A postcard. There are methods of communication, but she deliberately chose not to utilize any of them.
Something isn’t adding up.
Nothing is adding up.
“Actually…” Martín has no idea how to politely say that his new boyfriend is currently setting out dinner for them and that he’s actually kind of angry at her for ghosting him for weeks.
Thankfully, or not, he’s rescued by Andrés calling him from the kitchen.
“Where’s your bread knife?”
Halfway across the threshold, Raquel’s brows shoot up, and Martín flushes under her probing stare. “I don’t think I own one of those,” he responds, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just use a regular knife. I’m not going full Iron Chef on your ass if the bread is cut unevenly.”
“You live like a barbarian!”
Martín makes a face over his shoulder, aware that Andrés can’t see him but it’s nice to do anyways. Who the fuck goes out and buys a bread knife? A knife specifically for fucking bread. All knives are bread knives at the end of the day.
“Who is that?” Raquel asks, lips twitching up into a faint smile.
“That is the guy you would know all about if you listened to my forty-five voicemails about him,” Martín replies, unable to contain his own smile. “He’s kind of my boyfriend. We met two weeks ago and there have been about fourteen nights of the best sex of my life. He also cooks.”
Raquel’s eyes go wide and she lets out an incredulous peel of laughter. “A boyfriend? Best sex of your life? I was gone for three weeks. What else did I miss? Did you win the lottery too?”
“I fucking wish. It’s a long story but yeah, landed myself a hot piece of ass in a cop bar of all places.”
“Are you talking about me like I’m a piece of meat?” Andrés asks, sneaking up behind him with the grace of a venomous snake. Raquel sucks in a breath, brown eyes somehow growing even wider, as he lets out a loud yelp at his sudden appearance. He’s putting a bell on him. “Thank you,” he smirks, ignoring the glare he shoots him, “I’m not sure anyone has ever referred to me as a ‘hot piece of ass’ before, I’m honored.”
“Well, you are,” Martín admits, nowhere as embarrassed as he should be. He gently tugs Andrés forward and tosses a careless arm around his shoulders. “Andrés, this is my erstwhile partner, Raquel. Apparently she’s returned the abyss. And, Sunshine, this is Andrés, hot piece of ass and my new boyfriend. Yup, this isn’t awkward at all.”
Andrés snorts, a well-practiced smile sliding across his lips, and lifts a hand for Raquel to shake. There’s a gleam in his eye – an odd, I know something you don’t know glimmer that sets Martín slightly on edge.
“I’ve heard a great deal about you. It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Raquel.”
Somewhat suspicious by the well-spoken, handsome man who is so very different from every other shady guy Martín has ever brought around, Raquel shakes his hand. “Hi, I was just explaining to Martín that my phone fell in the ocean when I was on vacation – otherwise I’m guessing I would have heard a lot about you too. He’s a talker, as I’m sure you know.”
Andrés laughs but Martín frowns. Her cellphone fell in the ocean? Didn’t she just say earlier that she dropped it? He supposes she could have dropped it in the ocean but…isn’t it a bit cold for a beach getaway? Paula would hate not being able to swim and he swears he heard more about Disney princesses than usual.
Damn it all, it’s no use overthinking it. He’s sure she’ll tell him the extent of her vacation and where she even fucking went, later on. Or, she’ll lie through her teeth again and he’ll have to stand around useless while her world implodes.
“That he is. Why don’t you join us for dinner?” Andrés offers, oozing charm.
Despite the smile on her lips, Raquel’s eyes narrow slightly. “Oh, I couldn’t intrude –”
“Nonsense.” Andrés waves away her refusal and beckons her inside. “I cooked more than enough, there’s even extra for Martín to take for lunch tomorrow.”
Leftovers! Has he mentioned how hot his boyfriend is? So hot.
“You guys are having a date and I don’t –”
“You should stay,” Martín says firmly, an odd sinking feeling in his gut. His mind is screaming for Raquel not to go home to Alberto. “Andrés is a great cook, definitely not lethal like we are in front of a stove. Stay. Please. I want to hear about your trip.”
Their eyes meet, something unnamed traveling between them, a tug and pull that he wins. Raquel slowly nods, the tight line of her shoulders loosening. She steps further in, closing the door behind her.
“I guess I can stay for a bit. Paula is with my mother for the night.” No mention of Alberto, which he can’t decide is good or bad.
In the brighter light, he can’t help but notice her makeup seems extra thick. An uneven quality about it. He’s no expert on women’s makeup but it doesn’t look right. It’s…off.
“Excellent, I’ll bring out another setting,” Andrés beams, and yeah, he’s definitely putting on a show. He’s unsure if he’s just trying to get Raquel to like him because he’s the new boyfriend or he really is that into appearances. Probably a mix of both. “I brought over a bottle of white wine from my own collection. It pairs well with what I made. Do you drink, Raquel?”
“Does a fish swim in water?” he mutters dryly, accepting a firm punch in the arm with grace.
“I’ll drink anything, thank you.”
Andrés nods, smiles again, before leaning in to press a delicate kiss on his cheek, his lips dragging across until they reach his ear. “She has a bruise on her jaw. Right side,” he breathes, before, he heads back to the kitchen.
Heart in his throat, Martín zeroes on his friend and the place where the makeup is caked on extra thick. She stopped wearing makeup a few months back, which freaked him out at the time because she always liked dragging him into makeup stores to buy nail polish and other makeup-y things. She gave him some excuse once she stopped showing up with green nails and dark eyeshadow but he knows it was Alberto.
It’s always Alberto.
Martín knew her makeup was off. Andrés is right. She’s hiding a bruise.
Every single one of his worst fears is realized and he wants to grab his car keys and slit Alberto’s useless fucking throat. Is it too early in their relationship to ask Andrés for an alibi?
Raquel kicks off her shoes, waiting until Andrés is hidden from view to whirl around and hiss, “Holy shit?! You found that guy in a cop bar? Are you sure it wasn’t a strip club with men dressed up as cops? He’s good-looking. Fancy, too. White wine? Holy shit, Martín.”
Martín forces out a laugh. He feels like he might throw up. In his mind, all he can think of is every punch and slap his mother landed, every cut and bruise he had to hide. Long sleeve shirts in the summer and clumsy “accidents”. No one deserves that fate.
“Nope, definitely a cop bar. He was meeting someone and nearly got himself arrested arguing with an asshole,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Hey, uh,” don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it, “I missed you, I’m glad you’re home.” Home safe, where I can keep an eye on you.
Raquel’s brown eyes soften, a faint glassy sheen coating them. She steps forward and wraps him in a tight embrace. “Missed you too,” she mumbles into his shirt. He holds on to her extra tightly, he has no idea what he’s going to do or say, he doesn’t want to scare her away. For now he can just be here for her. Let her know she can talk to him. Make sure she understands this place is safe. “Paula can’t wait to see you. She talked about you endlessly on our plane ride home. I think she has something like thirteen seashells, four Donald Duck postcards written in gibberish, and a baggie of sand to give Tío.”
Martín wrenches back in horror.
“What in the flying fuck am I going to do with a baggie of sand?”