Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was all because he learned one day, without pretension or forced cynicism, that it was best not to trust people. Because trusting people was like hurtling off a cliff, smashing into rocks below-- breaking on them-- and looking up to see the one he had trusted holding all the good parts above him. So then he’s all smashed up on the rocks below the cliff without even a heart to cry over breaking.

Most of them apologized, but they were still crying over a broken body, and in real life, tears didn’t solidify into needles that stitch up wounds. Tears just bleed over a wound and burn and never serve to heal. He wanted people to stop crying and feeling sorry and just not break him in the first place.

He hated sitting against the cool tiles, knowing there was something good about life just from the way he was seated. He could see orange trees and grass in every direction, and even the way the sunlight glanced off glossy heads was pretty damn impressive. He hated that feeling; he was in the middle of paradise with this slashed up grin because he just couldn’t feel the light.

They were sitting in the bookstore, and it was a rather colorless relationship to anyone with a shred of sense. They read side by side until the store closed, and then Juan suggested they walk down to their favorite restaurant, and Fernando wanted to do that, he really did, he just didn’t want to be trapped out in public with his hand in someone else’s, with his tongue stumbling over secrets, his hands back in his pockets, his own body too ashamed to do anything but hide.

Juan wasn’t afraid to show the world what they were, but he wasn’t comfortable with it either, and Fernando often grappled with the feeling that if he were with someone braver-- if he were with someone less like himself-- he would flaunt it. He would be proud of who and what he loved. He wouldn’t be afraid to wear certain clothes or talk a certain way or be in a relationship with a man who cooked him breakfast every morning.

It was that one particular rainy day in March that made him wonder if there was more out there. He didn’t tell Juan what he was thinking about, but that was nothing different. Juan had grown to accept that Fernando could be brutally honest and wretchedly open, and then just seconds later, snap shut like a jewelry box. The transformation, lately anyway, was normally completed without a word of complaint from Juan. Fernando thought he ought to be grateful, but he just felt like spring was opening up all around him, and he was stuck back somewhere in September.

“Want to go to a movie tonight?”

“Not really,” Fernando answered after a moment. He sipped his coffee as they walked down the street. The sun set behind them. “If you want to go though, we might as well just go.”

“No,” Juan said agreeably. “You’re right. Might as well save the money, hm?”

“Might as well.” Fernando sighed amicably, but he vaguely wondered how hard he would have to run straight at a brick wall to escape the boredom that subsumed his existence.

He told himself to love the man who loved him,  who would dream of him, not some shadow of danger that beckoned him closer with the curl of cruel fingers. But the man who loved him was just a man, and Fernando was incapable of recognizing the alien beauty of humanity.

March passed with rain and inactivity. He felt like his heart was stuttering every time they exchanged the triple exhalation of weakness.

Sometime during early April, Juan introduced Fernando to his parents. They were surprisingly accepting, but their eyes probed, and their questions made him doubt his gravity.

"I'm so happy for you," his mother said, holding Fernando's arm tightly as he reached for his coat. They were on their way out. “Juan has spoken so much about you. You’re all he talks about.” She bit her lip. “I worry sometimes. A mother worries when her son is in love.”

“A son worries when a son is in love,” Fernando replied plainly. He never meant to sound rude; it just came out that way.

She pursed her lips, and Juan came over, throwing one arm around her shoulders and the other around Fernando’s. “What are you two talking about?” He sounded excited. He was terribly excited about this dinner.

“Just people in love,” Fernando said at the same time Juan’s mother adjusted her shirt and said “fears” with a little smile that snipped apart the tension.

“Oh,” Juan said, and he only had to look at Fernando once to understand that he was uncomfortable and wanted to go home. He could tell, sometimes, when Fernando wanted to be alone. It happened often and without warning, but he tried. He always tried so hard to make sure Fernando had his space to breathe.

Later, when they got back to Juan’s place, Juan was carrying in the bag his mother sent home with him filled to the top with bananas, apples, oranges, and some kind of dried seaweed cracker she’d found at the organic grocery store. He set it all on the table, and Fernando trailed behind slowly and quietly, and suddenly he couldn’t handle being silent and angry and bitter anymore.

“I have to go,” he said, even though he spent most nights at Juan’s. “I need to clear my head a little. Will you be fine on your own?”

Juan looked like he wanted to say no just to keep Fernando there, but he nodded, eyes trained on Fernando. “Yeah, go ahead. You alright?”

“Good,” he said hurriedly. “I’m good. I just need to clear my head.”

“Okay. I’ll put away the groceries. If you feel like coming back…”

“I’m welcome,” Fernando finished on his way out. The door shut behind him. “I know.”

Fernando ended up returning that night, but when they fucked, slow and dispassionate, he had to shut his eyes and think about his hands being tied down before he could give himself away to beautiful exhaustion. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, and Juan’s head was on his chest. He rolled away after awhile. Juan’s head fell gently to the pillow.

Fernando slipped into the bathroom, sitting in the bathtub without the light on. He grabbed a towel from the hamper and wrapped it around his shoulders. Clad in his damp boxers and a dirty towel, he let his head fall against the wall, giving easily in to sleep.

+

They continued on like that for a long time. Fernando went to clubs sometimes. He knew this guy Daniel Agger, and they went together, just as friends and all, but Juan was uncomfortable around him and Fernando couldn’t bring himself to care.

Danny smoked a lot, and he had these fantastic tattoos that made Fernando want to trace every inch of his back with a pale, bony finger.

“What’s going on with you and him anyway.” Blew smoke Fernando’s way.

Fernando shrugged his shoulders. “Not much.” They were outside having lunch. Danny wanted to go to a bar, but Fernando thought it was too damn depressing to sit in a poorly lit place just after noon.

“Normal then.” It was a question, but Danny hardly ever phrased things as questions. Even “how are you doing” was a statement, an expectation that one was doing well and willing to share only the good parts if they were not.

“That’s the problem,” Fernando said, staring down at the table.

“What are you looking for then.”

“A little bit of something.”

“You have a little bit of something. He’s so --good. I can’t believe you get to mark him up. It’s like marking up a goddamn angel.”

“I don’t want to mark up an angel,” Fernando replied, disgusted. “And I don’t want to mark up him either. I want something that will make me…” He drifted off, his eyes lingering on Danny’s long fingers.

“Desperate,” the other man supplied.

Fernando nodded, a pink flush creeping up his neck. “I want to be desperate again,” he said with a little exhalation he knew would get Danny’s attention.

Danny chuckled and put out his cigarette. "While I would love to take you up on the offer-- I'm married. Don't get me wrong, I love fucking boys in the filthy bathrooms of clubs. I love the way they moan when I pull their head back. But I can't do that to a friend. I can't leave a mark on your throat and wait for her to see it."

"Fine," Fernando said listlessly. He wasnt that invested in fucking his friend anyway. It was just a Thought. He got those sometimes.

"I know someone though." He played with his wedding ring. He always wore it out in public. He didn't even take it off when he was cheating. Fernando had always thought there was something disgusting about that, but he guessed it wouldn't have been any different without the ring on his finger. The ring didn’t mean a damn thing anyway.

"For you or for me." Fernando was inheriting his ability to ask a question without making it sound like he was curious.

“For you.” His voice was quiet. “Just.” His finger tapped the table nervously, but his features were perfectly calm. “Just know that you’ll miss him most of the time. Sometimes all you’ll do is miss him even when he’s right next to you.”

Fernando rolled his eyes because he was in that sort of mood. “What kind of person are you recommending I meet up with anyway?”

Danny shrugged. "Maybe you've heard of him. Name's Ramos."

+

Juan was propped up  against a pile of pillows when Fernando came back from one of Danny's clubs. He was sleepily flicking through channels.

"Hey," he said with heavy lids. "Did you have fun with Danny?" He tried so hard.

"It was alright."

"What happened?"

"Not much. Have you been watching Lost again?"

Juan grinned. "Still confusing. Want to watch?"

Fernando undid his belt without looking at the other man. Checked his sore jaw in the bathroom mirror. "What season."

"Five."

"Nah, five gives me headaches." He left his shirt on the bathroom counter. Blood stained the collar. Shoes and socks in the shower. He let cold water run to get the mud off. His pants were black and therefore only in need of being washed every few weeks; he kept those on.

Fernando lingered in the doorway as he brushed his teeth. Season five did give him headaches but Sawyer was so fun to look at.

"Fernando," Juan said hesitantly. "Is that blood?"

"Yeah," he said without looking down. "You want leftovers?"

He looked horrified. "What?"

"Are you hungry?" He licked his thumb and scrubbed the blood off his collarbone. "I'm having spaghetti."

"Fernando," Juan said again. "Fernando, why is there blood on you?"

"There was a fight. Danny fucked some guy's boyfriend."

Juan knew about his extramarital pursuits. He pursed his lips and went back to watching. "I already ate. The spaghetti's in the fridge."

"Ok." He didn't leave yet. He turned to spit in the sink, washed his mouth out with water, and wet another towel to press against his aching jaw. "Did you get a haircut?"

"Two weeks ago."

"Oh." Fernando cocked his head, watching Juan with a funny expression. "So what did you do tonight?"

"TV. Called my dad. I had something to finish up for work." He paused. "My sister came over. She asked about you."

"What did she ask, and what did you say?"

He fiddled with the remote, unwilling to pause it and send the room into perilous silence. "She asked where you were."

Fernando blinked. "I was meeting an artist. Danny introduced me to him. The museum wanted me to find something new.” He watched the screen, aware of Juan’s eyes on him. “He’s some up and coming new artist.”

“What’s he done?”

“Some paintings. The murals downtown.” He walked back to the bathroom to wash his face, spending an extraordinarily long amount of time staring at his own lips, counting his freckles, brushing two fingers across the scar on his abdomen. “He’s working on something new. That’s what we’re going to show, I think. If he lets us.”

“What’s he working on?”

“It’s unfinished.” It didn’t really answer the question.

“Oh. What did you say his name was?”

“Ramos,” Fernando said, suddenly flustered. “He did the murals. Downtown.”

“Yeah. You mentioned that.” Juan just looked at him. He had a way of dragging the truth out of people with just that look. It seemed to remind Fernando of his conscience and his promises, and maybe a little bit of Danny with his meaningless ring and his meaningful promises, and the senselessness of his betrayal.

Fernando tugged on his pants to adjust them, and Juan was briefly distracted. “I’m going to go eat,” he said quickly.

“Want to eat in here?”

“No, I have a headache. I’d rather just listen to music or something. Don’t wait up.”

Juan nodded. “Right. I never seem to have to anymore.”

+

David always knew how to reveal harsh truths. The night his sister brought David home to announce their engagement, David had turned to Juan and said, “We’re going to be related. I don’t really like you, but I guess the familial connection is kind of unavoidable at this point.” And Juan had replied, “I guess so” with a stupid grin plastered to his face.

They were sitting at the dinner table and Paula was pestering Juan about Fernando again. Ever since Christmas she’d been a royal pain in the ass about everything to do with their relationship, and Juan was convinced their mother had everything to do with it.

“He’s not home much anymore.” Juan shrugged. “I don’t know. I try and talk to him, but it’s like talking to a wall. He just doesn’t want to let anyone in, and that’s okay. I’m okay with him being closed off and quiet if that’s what he wants to be, but at some point…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “At some point, I have to know the person I’m in love with..” David rolled his eyes. “Or something,” Juan added hastily. He hated sounding overly sentimental around his brother-in-law.

“Look, Juan, I’m going to give you some advice,” David began, leaning forward. Paula rolled her eyes behind his back. “He’s not pretending he doesn’t give a shit because he’s quiet and scared. He acts like he doesn’t give a shit about you because he genuinely doesn’t give a shit.”

Paula sighed. She threaded her fingers through her hair and stood behind David’s chair. “If you were to lose him, what would you do?”

“I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”

“And if he were to lose you, what then? What would he do?”

He didn’t even have to think about it. “Everything.”

+

It was the second evening they were spending together.  When they first met, Fernando understood what Danny meant. Sergio amidst his half-finished sculptures reminded Fernando of the time they were able to exhibit a Picasso at the museum, and he had the opportunity to walk so close he could breathe on it, and none of it made sense until he just exhaled and let the beauty of it speak. That’s what he felt like-- when he watched Sergio that time and all the times thereafter. Any attempt to understand the magnetism was an attempt to kill it off once and for all.

“How’s it going?”

Sergio looked up briefly. “I’m good.” His gaze returned to the sculpture in front of him. It was a block of crude marble with a delicate hand reaching out. The work on the hand was exquisite, but the rest of the block looked like it had been hacked at by a madman. “The piece, on the other hand.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Well, it’s pretty shit,” he admitted after a moment.

“I like it.” He didn’t, not really. But he liked the hand, and he liked Sergio.

“It’s shit,” Sergio said again. “I should probably just stick to painting. It’s what I know, but I just.” He gestured to the sculpture. “Something’s stuck in there, you know? And I have to get it out.”

Fernando thought he was crazy. He thought most of the artists he dealt with were crazy, but that was the price they paid for the gift of Creation. That was why he worked with art instead of on art. He wasn’t willing to make the sacrifice. His unwillingness to make sacrifices was so potent that it became his poison. Juan was always so willing to make sacrifices; hell, he practically had a sacrificial lamb stuffed up his sleeve, but that was one way traffic, and Fernando was distracted.

“That’s an interesting way of putting it,” Fernando said finally. He moved closer to the marble to see if he could find what was trapped.

“Tell me what you see,” Sergio said. He put his hand on Fernando’s back. “Do you see what’s trapped?”

Fernando saw a block of marble. “I see a hand,” he said. “Is it a person trapped in there?”

He felt ridiculous saying it, but Sergio was wearing one of those awful tank tops with ‘Hawaii’ written across the front in loopy cursive, and it showed off his arms really nicely, and then Fernando was thinking about Sergio in Hawaii, on the beach with bright red swim trunks and a smile that made the waves crash closer, if only to kiss his feet.

“A person,” Sergio scoffed. “That’s so reasonable. This is art, Fernando. Not mathematics. I thought you said you worked with art all the time.”

“I do.”

“Then tell me what you see. When you look at Nike of Samothrace, what do you say? Do you say you see a headless winged woman?”

“Yes. That’s what I would say because that’s what she is.”

Sergio shook his head. He reached for the white tarp to cover his work, and suddenly Fernando was struck with the terrible realization that he had failed Sergio. He had disappointed him. His inability to see Sergio’s dilemma drew a thick line between them. Sergio would always be on the other side with his marble slaves, and Fernando would be pressing up against the glass, toes dying to cross the line, his museum ticket in hand; because that’s what art had become to him. Overly exposed to beauty and under-dressed to every meeting, he had grown lazy and unappreciative, and art had become just a few billion dollars.

“He misses someone,” Fernando said finally, just as the tarp had settled over the block of marble. The hand still protruded.

Sergio didn’t exactly light up, but a serious focus fell over him, and he looked at Fernando like a doctor would a patient. “Who does he miss?”

The way Sergio talked about it; it was like he actually believed someone was trapped in there. Fernando both loved and hated the artists who became their work. When they became their work, they almost stopped being human. They were marble that could move and sculptures that could speak, and blocks upon blocks of work undone. They were paintings in need of repairs and the anger with which they colored the canvas. There was no longer a difference between paint and blood.

“His love. That’s who everyone misses, isn’t it?”

Sergio nodded quickly, covered the hand with the tarp. “Do you have someone that you would reach for like that?”

“Yes,” Fernando said without thinking. Then, “No. But he would reach for me.”

+

Juan was in bed when Fernando returned. He was wrapped in the cashmere blanket they spent so long picking out at the store, head resting on the pillow, mouth wide open. He must have felt the bed shift because as Fernando sat to remove his shoes, Juan stirred sleepily, rubbed his eyes, and struggled to sit.

“It’s okay,” Fernando said. “Just go back to sleep.”

“No. I was waiting.” He was flustered. He paused the TV even though it was on mute anyway. It was just the sort of thing Juan did. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Fernando finished taking off his shoes. He stuffed them under the bed because he always tripped on them in the morning. He was planning on getting up early to make breakfast or something. He hadn’t really thought about it until he saw Juan sleeping there. Before he saw him sleeping, he was just thinking about Sergio and how he felt like a new person, desperate for just one glance. But when someone is sleeping like that-- with their mouth wide open and all-- it just changes things. That kind of vulnerability could make anything grow in a man’s heart.

“Okay,” Fernando said after awhile. He turned to look at the other man. Didn’t bother getting undressed to sleep in case it was one of those talks that ended with him either on the couch or out the door. They had those from time to time. Rarely, but Fernando knew that look of finality when he saw it.

“I hardly know you,” he said finally. He looked impossibly sad. Fernando didn’t know if he could muster up that kind of emotion for anyone. “And I want to, but I feel like I’m reaching out, and you won’t reach back. At least meet me halfway.”

“I am meeting you halfway,” Fernando replied stupidly, knowing that if they were meeting in the middle, they wouldn’t have been having the conversation in the first place. “I don’t know what else you want me to do.”

“Things used to be different. You used to care. You used to fuck me like--”

Fernando stood up. “Have you eaten?”

“--like it meant something to you, and now you--”

“Because I think there are some leftovers. Did you eat the last of the spaghetti or is there more left?”

“--now you just fuck me like I’m slightly better than porn. I’m not trying to--”

“Are you hungry or not?”

“Fernando,” he finally yelled, throwing the remote across the room. It hit the wall with a thud.

“That’s going to leave a mark,” he remarked plainly.

“I don’t give a fuck about the goddamn mark on the goddamn wall. Stop talking about fucking leftovers and look at me, and act like you’re actually invested in this relationship because if you’re not--” He broke off.

Fernando forgot all about how he looked asleep. “What? What’s going to happen if I’m not?” He was goading him, mocking him. The words were so delicious on his tongue, but the minute they rolled off, the poison settled in, and he felt rotten.

Juan didn’t narrow his eyes. He always narrowed his eyes when he was mustering up the courage to do something. “When someone acts like they don’t give a shit about you, it’s not because they’re just quiet or scared. It’s because they genuinely don’t give a shit about you.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you don’t give a shit about me?”

“I’m trying to tell you that if you’re not invested in this relationship, you can walk out that door and not come back.”

Fernando didn’t move. He wanted to move, but he didn’t know how. He looked at Juan’s socks. They were the thick black ones that Fernando had picked up for him while he was in Philadelphia for work. “I’ll stay on the couch,” he said. His voice was hoarse.

There was a long pause. “And in the morning?”

Fernando didn’t speak for a long time. He was just thinking about how Juan looked when he was sleeping with his mouth wide open and his head resting on the pillow, but he was thinking about Sergio too and how strong he looked when he was freeing souls from marble.

“I’ll make breakfast.”

+

He did end up making breakfast in the morning. The pancakes were two shades too dark, and by the time Juan woke up, everything was soggy. He ate it all anyway, and he kept looking at Fernando. The syrup made his lips shiny. Sweet when Fernando kissed his apology into them.

“I’ll be home tonight,” he said firmly. He was good at making promises, especially when he didn’t mean to keep them. He’d always been better at lying and suppressing than he’d been at telling the truth.

“You don’t have to be. I want you to do what you want. Just let me know what that is from time to time, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He laced up his shoes. “I’ve got to go into the museum today. We’re expecting a Van Gogh.”

“How long?”

“Exhibit’s open for two months.” He reached across the counter to grab an orange for the road.

Juan kept chewing his pancakes. He didn’t have to be in to work until late, so he was still in boxers and a white t-shirt with a hole in the sleeve. “And that new artist? You’re showing him in the same exhibit?”

“No, we want him to do the following couple months.”

“Must be really good if he’s following Van Gogh.”

Fernando remembered the hand reaching out from the block of marble. He decided he liked it, hacked up pieces and all. “He is.”

+

The next time they were together, Fernando saw a far different side of Sergio. He was across the room with a drink in either hand, standing in front of the Van Gogh talking animatedly. He was wearing a suit, looked dignified and nothing like the scattered artist Fernando had seen shape marble.

Flutes of champagne floated by on waiter’s trays. Juan had accompanied Fernando, and he took two. Fernando felt like taking five. “Who’s that?”

“The, uhm. The artist I was telling you about. We’re showing his new piece-- hopefully-- after the Van Gogh exhibit.”

Juan looked carefully at Sergio. “He’s handsome,” he said after a long stretch of silence. “Don’t you think?”

“No,” Fernando replied sharply. “I don’t.” Nothing else phased him. Fights that could potentially lead to a breakup with Juan didn’t even phase him. Juan throwing the remote against the wall was nothing. But Sergio looking away with the faintest trace of a smile-- that had his knees shaking.

“You don’t think he’s handsome,” he repeated, watching Fernando suspiciously. He wasn’t being possessive; he was just remembering when he and Fernando could walk around and gossip about who they thought was beautiful. In those conversations, there was no trace of insecurity. That night, everything was unbalanced.

Fernando shrugged. “I guess if you like that dirty artist look.” He laughed thinly.

Juan looked from Fernando to Sergio. “Armani  just screams dirty artist, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up,” Fernando said mildly. “I’m not in the mood.”

“To be teased?”

“For this. For any of this.”

“It’s celebrating your work. You’re, like, the guest of honor here. Well, besides the Van Gogh.”

“Yeah.” Sergio looked over, and Fernando downed his champagne. “I’m going to the restroom. You should check out some of the other stuff. There’s a Matisse down the first hallway.”

“I don’t like Matisse,” he said to Fernando’s back. “And you sound pretentious.” They had their best conversations with their backs turned.

+

Fernando was staring at his own reflection in the mirror, his empty flute of champagne discarded in the sink. He was quiet until the door opened, and Sergio appeared, and then he bent to check in each of the stalls. Empty.

“So who are you here with?” He loosened his tie. “That man that was hanging on to your every word.” Took two steps forward. “Who is he?”

Fernando’s throat was dry, and he kept seeing that marble with the hand reaching out. “My boyfriend.”

“Adorable.” He didn’t sound sweet and scattered anymore. His eyes were narrowed and vicious, and his tongue was twisting knots of impure thoughts into Fernando’s mind. There was an inescapable passion that Sergio exuded, and Fernando needed to bleed the color of his insanity.

“It’s not that adorable.”

“No,” Sergio agreed. “It’s not.” He was so close Fernando could feel his breath like a desert storm. Back in his studio, he wasn’t clean shaven. He’d had this scruff going that was just-- And there in the bathroom, he was clean-shaven, so put together and handsome that Fernando hatedhatedhated it.

“So how are you?” Fernando inquired politely.

Sergio ignored him. He loosened his tie again. “Are you hungry? Because I know a place.” His gaze lingered on Fernando and, though the other man didn’t answer, Sergio understood. He smiled and turned around, walked out the door without waiting for Fernando to follow.

They left together. Fernando’s jacket was slung over Sergio’s arm.

+

He realized halfway through dinner that Juan was stuck at the museum without a ride home, not knowing where his boyfriend was. Completely alone and utterly abandoned. Fernando kept eating. He twirled his spaghetti and asked Sergio about his new piece-- how was the hand coming along? And was the marble still all hacked up? And did he have any new ideas concerning the piece he would be allowing the museum to show?

“Lots,” he answered pleasantly. He had this way of looking at Fernando that made him want to lean forward and shrink back at the same time, being pulled in two separate directions. He felt like he was being split in two. Half of him was loyal to Juan, never wanted to leave Juan’s side-- remembered what he looked like when he was sleeping and vulnerable and kind. The other half of him was animalistic, some rare breed of monster that would do anything to be flat on his back beneath Sergio.

“Care to elaborate?”

“No,” Sergio said simply. He sipped his water until the silence at the table grew uncomfortable, and only then did he set the glass down smugly, lean forward, and say, “I want to hear about your boyfriend.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“That seems a little cruel.” Sergio was smiling.

“Maybe I am a little cruel.” Cruelty intensified Fernando’s beauty; in that moment, he was all sharp edges. His eyes could have been harsh little silver coins lodged at the hilt of a dagger.

“Even to the person you love?”

“You assume I love him.”

“Yeah.” Sergio watched Fernando, and Fernando watched the candle on the table. “Because you’re with him.”

“Since when are people with the ones they love? I thought we were all just thrown together to be pulled apart.” His fork scratched against the plate harshly.

Sergio’s mask flickered. Hesitated. Retreated. "The most beautiful thing I ever created was born of that kind of thinking. But it's not the kind of thing you admit. People like to hear I made beauty from beauty. The truth, unfortunately, is always beauty from ruin."

"What was it? The mural downtown?” Fernando was finished talking about Juan. He felt guilty when he remembered how Juan looked with his shiny lips at breakfast.

“No. It’s covered in my studio.”

“And you’re never going to show it?”

Sergio looked at his hands. He was intensely passionate, and Fernando muted him. “Do you want dessert?”

Fernando hesitated. “No.”

He had thought things were going well. He wanted Sergio in all the ways there were to want someone. He wanted to pant exhaustedly in his ear and kiss his neck in the morning and clean his dirty laundry when Sergio forgot to do it. But the other man was already pulling out his wallet and setting money on the table, gesturing for the waiter to keep the change. He slipped his wallet back into his pocket as he stood up, holding out a hand for Fernando to take.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

On their way out, Fernando slipped his hand out of Sergio’s. “Why is it covered in your studio?”

Sergio frowned. “Why did you let go of my hand?” It was such a childish question to ask that Fernando was thrown off guard. He would have smiled, but.

“So you couldn’t let go of mine.”

“Do you do that a lot? Do you throw things away before you can lose them?”

“Sure I do.”

“And doesn’t it hurt just the same?”

“Hurts, but differently.”

The ride home was quiet. Halfway there, Fernando realized he was giving directions to Juan’s house instead of his own, because that had always been headquarters, safe territory, home base. He didn’t even consider going back to his empty, dark apartment overlooking the lake. Juan never came over there, and so it had never been home.

It should have struck him as a bad idea, allowing Sergio to drive him back to his boyfriend’s place-- the boyfriend he had just abandoned at a party. But he had no intention of lying to Juan, only suppressing. He had it all planned out: he would walk in, react calmly to Juan’s anger, tell him that Sergio had some ideas concerning the new work, and his genius was erratic. Juan would be angry, but he would eventually forgive because he knew no other way.

They were in front of the house when Sergio leaned over to brush his lips against Fernando’s. The blinds were closed; Juan couldn’t have seen. The fire and the secrecy were one thousand times better than remembering the reason and routine of fidelity. He went in for another kiss, and then he couldn’t stop going back. When, finally, Sergio put a hand on his chest and told him he’d better leave, Fernando knew he would be living in that state of mind constantly, returning and reliving and remembering with his flesh.

“Another time then,” Fernando murmured, and Sergio hummed his agreement. He wasn’t particularly talkative, and he wasn’t particularly in love, but Fernando made him feel something and with feeling came the gift of creation. Every great artist had a muse, and Sergio was no different.

As Fernando walked into the house, his lips remembered. “Juan,” he said loudly. “You here? Juan--” His gaze fell upon a pile of clothes in the middle of the entryway. He stuffed the keys in his back pocket hurriedly as if that would change Juan’s mind.

Juan appeared in the hallway with more clothes. He was wearing his suit pants from the event at the museum, his white dress shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. “I’m done,” he said quietly, adding the clothes in his arms to the pile on the floor. “And I think you are too.”

“I’m not,” Fernando said, appalled, , but that was always the problem. He only ever said things. “Come on, can’t we even talk about this?”

“Talk?” he echoed in disbelief. “Is that what you want to do? After months and months of you walking in silently and growing into this new person that I don’t know-- now you want to talk?”

“You can’t just kick me out. I have nowhere to go.”

“You have an apartment, Fernando. I’m not falling for that bullshit.”

“I have nowhere to go,” he said again, desperately. “And I want to be here. We have leftovers, and you won’t be able to eat them on your own.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Juan murmured. He had to look away or Fernando would have seen his eyes shining. “Take the leftovers. Take the TV. Take the fucking comforter. I’d give you the goddamn house if I could. I don’t want to walk around here every day with your ghost.”

“All I want to do is stay.” He stared at the pile on the floor, feeling desperate and remembering his conversation with Danny from so long ago, about desperation and angels.

Juan walked to the kitchen, shaking his head. He picked out Fernando’s mugs and placed them gently in the cardboard box on the counter. He couldn’t speak for a moment because he couldn’t afford to look weak. He couldn’t lose his resolve.

Finally, he mustered up the strength to spit out, “Where the fuck were you?”

“Sergio had this idea--”

“Not tonight. I saw you leaving with Sergio. I already knew that.” By that time, he didn’t care what they were up to. It didn’t matter to him how he had gone about losing Fernando. It just mattered that what they had was lost and could not be recovered. “Where have you been all this time.”

“I’ve been right here. Just, quietly.”

“Silently,” Juan corrected. “And it’s not good enough.”

Fernando bent to pick up a shirt. He started filling the duffel bag at his feet. “But I love you,” he said as he packed.

“You don’t,” Juan said without pity. “You like me enough to lie and say you love me, but you don’t love me. I was in this for the long haul, but I’m pulling out now.”

There was a stain on his collar, and he was wearing his blue slippers. Fernando remembered what he looked like in the mornings.

+

It was almost four in the morning, and Fernando was sitting outside his apartment. He hated the place. It was dusty and dark and there was a picture of him and Juan on the wall. He hadn’t cried or kicked anything or yelled, but there was a pain bottled up in his chest that felt like regret.

He left a message on Sergio’s phone: “I’m outside my apartment. I broke up with my boyfriend… not for you or anything. We just fell apart. Anyway, I don’t know why I called you. I just didn’t really have anywhere to go. So I’m outside my apartment, and I hate this place, and I was hoping--”

Sergio picked up. “Fernando,” he said, and then he was quiet for a long time. “What happened?”

“We talked finally.”

“And that’s what broke things?”

“Yeah, it would have fixed things, but.”

There was a long pause. “Why don’t you come over.”

Fernando shut his eyes against the night breeze. He was thinking about Sergio pulling back the tarp and unveiling the Desperate Hand, but he was thinking about Juan too and how he looked in the morning.