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I.
The merry chatter along with the sanguine tones of Celia Cruz’s La Vida Es Un Carnaval are what draws him in. They can be heard from across the street, and Martín contends that if the happy couple truly hadn’t intended for outsiders to crash their wedding, then they should have kept their good cheer to themselves instead.
It’s easy enough to blend in with the other guests. Most of them are wearing casual clothes, flowy skirts for the women, dress pants and shirts for the men. No bowties though. Not in this heat. Palermo is known for its warm climate, and this particular summer has brought with it a heatwave like none before.
Martín takes a seat at the bar, signaling for a drink before turning around and allowing his gaze to roam around the room. Outings such as this are the perfect way to meet new people, after all. Where better to find a casual hook-up than at a wedding, a venue filled with men brimming with euphoria because they managed to escape the bonds of matrimony for just a little while longer. Men who, in turn, are free to still their baser desires, to indulge in their primal instincts.
He sips at his drink, his gaze drifting from one man to the next. Dismissing some, considering others. He supposes he could make a pass at the man in the far corner, blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. Or maybe the guy at the other end of the bar; Martín likes the way the muscles in his arm bulge whenever he reaches for his drink.
He’s debating his choice when he feels his skin prickle. Someone is watching him.
Slowly, Martín looks up to find a man staring at him from across the room.
The first thing he notices is his suit. He’s impeccably dressed, tie and a matching handkerchief; a paragon of elegance. Martín likes the tight press of his shirt across his chest, the sharp lines of his shoulders, lean and angular. He looks powerful, beautiful, and something inside Martín ignites, a flame being fanned.
This one, he decides. He wants this one.
Martín flashes him a smile and raises his glass in a silent cheers. The stranger responds with a smile of his own, a lovely, luring thing. Martín would quite like to see it up close, to feel it against his lips.
He leisurely finishes his drink before making his way across the room in long strides, his eyes never leaving his Delphian stranger. Tall, dark and handsome.
“What a shame to see such a handsome devil brooding in a dark corner. Alone and in need of titillating company,” Martín says as he approaches him. He’s trying for coy yet cocky, lidding his eyes and pursing his lips. A suave seducer, that’s him.
He watches as the stranger’s lips quirk into a smirk, clearly amused by Martín’s daring. It’s lazy and almost languid, and yet there’s nothing sluggish about him. He seems to radiate a sense of effortless power, an air of superiority. He reminds Martín of the oil paintings he saw at the the Museo del Risorgimento, the ones commemorating army generals and saints.
“Look around, my friend,” the stranger says, his voice deep and silky. Dulcet tones that linger in the air. This voice is meant to command, Martín thinks, to rule and vanquish. To dominate. “Good wine, Spanish music,” he pauses, eyes boring into Martín’s, dark with intent. “Titillating company. What else could a man wish for?”
And just like that, Martín is intrigued. This stranger is an enigma, like nothing he has seen before. He reminds Martín of his equations – complex and convoluted. Martín's convinced that it'd take him many sleepless nights to unravel him, to understand him and make him his. To conquer him. But Martín has never shied away from a challenge, drawn to them like a moth to the flame. Even if it burns him.
He’s so taken with his stranger, this marvelous mystery wrapped up in a three-piece, that he doesn’t notice the brunette until she’s right beside them, leaning up on her tippy-toes to press a kiss to his stranger’s cheek. She’s wearing a wedding dress, white and angelic, and Martín’s heart sinks at the harsh realization that his stranger won’t be going home with him tonight.
II.
The next time, he receives an official invitation.
It’s the fruit of their continued acquaintance, born of long nights spent wandering from bar to bar, talking and laughing. Feeling like a part of the Pantheon, endless and eternal. Invincible. Martín has never felt like that before. Like he belongs – and yet adrift at a vast sea of ambiguity, lost in the twisted maze of Andrés mind, his charm, his cunning. Lost in his darkness.
It is the first time Martín has met someone who is like him. Who yearns for power and prestige, for recognition. They are both driven by passion. A thirst for more, Andrés had called it before he’d stolen away with his bride. I think we’re very much alike in that sense, my friend.
And so that’s what they become. Friends. Because Andrés offered, and Martín would have been a fool to refuse him.
Martín has yet to realize that weddings are a recurring motif with Andrés. A red thread that runs through his life like Ariadne’s string, guiding him out of the labyrinth and towards safety. Safety, in this case, being lucky bride number two. Her name is Salma, and Martín finds himself believing – albeit briefly – in a higher power with a penchant for irony. Salma – meaning safe, meaning peaceful.
And because Martín doesn’t know that marriage number two is doomed, has been ever since Salma made a biting remark about the pattern on Andrés’s bowtie, he resolves to be buoyant and sociable. He buys an expensive bottle of wine, and dons his best dress shirt. He embraces the bride and tells her that he’s grateful for the invitation, that he’s happy for them.
(And then, because he is an incorrigible flirt, he winks and tells her that if they ever want to spice up their sex life, he is just a call away.)
But despite his attempts to join in the festivities, Martín feels an underlying simmer inside of him, dark and insistent. A nagging at the back of his mind, nudging him towards a realization he can’t yet grasp.
(It’ll come to him soon enough. Sneaking up on him, catching him unaware before nesting deep inside his heart, his mind, his soul. Burdening him with the knowledge that he will never be free from it again.)
III.
They say the third time’s the charm, but for Martín, Andrés’s third wedding is nothing short of painful.
He finds himself sulking in a corner of the room, trying – and failing miserably – to keep his eyes from wandering to Andrés. He can’t help it. Andrés is positively glowing tonight, the smile never leaving his face as he spins lucky number three around the dancefloor.
The music changes to something slower, something more heartfelt, and Martín lowers his eyes. He’d rather stare at the half-dead fly swimming in his glass of champagne than watch Andrés pull his wife close. Her arms twisted around him like poisonous vines, luring him in.
Martín hates himself for being so bitter. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth – which means that it’s time to hit the bar and get a new drink. Preferably something strong and mind-numbing.
His plans are thwarted, however, when someone blocks his way, and Martín’s gaze snaps up to see Andrés, patiently holding out his hand in a silent invitation for a dance.
It takes Martín a moment to react. To squash the hopeful flutter inside his chest and take Andrés’s hand, warm and smooth, in his. His fingers are so elegant. Long and lovely and—
Andrés leads him onto the dancefloor before pulling him close, closer than any straight man should be comfortable with, Martín thinks. They fall into step easily; Martín is happy to let Andrés lead, the motions familiar to him either way.
“Why so glum, Martín?” Andrés asks. They’re so close Martín can feel his warm breath on his face, can smell the fresh notes of his aftershave. He suppresses a shudder. “Aren’t you happy for me?”
But instead of waiting for a reply, Andrés proceeds to spin him around in a full-circle – sudden and unexpected, and before Martín knows what’s happening, laughter spills from his lips. Bright and bubbly, and absolutely infectious if the tingling in his stomach is anything to go by. A hoard of butterflies, all aflutter.
“Hmm,” Martín hums low in his throat. “Being there to witness you marry the love of your life – not only once or twice, but for the third time now? How couldn’t I be happy for you, you lucky bastard.”
Andrés tilts his head back and chuckles, amused. Martín’s the only one who’s allowed to tease him, and he relishes in it. This intimacy that is afforded to him.
Martín takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. He wishes desperately that he could lean in, rest his head against Andrés’s shoulder and close his eyes. That he’d be allowed to lose himself in this very moment. He wants it to last forever, endlessly stretching like a cosmic rubber band of time and space.
But things are rarely that easy, he finds as something seizes inside his chest, his mind reeling with a sudden realization, unbidden and jolting: that he has fallen in love with his best friend. Absolutely and unconditionally.
His steps falter, and his clumsiness has Andrés pulling back. He’s waiting for an explanation, Martín realizes. And because he is tipsy from wine and champagne, and drunk on the euphoria of finding himself in Andrés’s arms, he almost confides in him.
But thankfully, number three is at their side before Martín can make a complete fool of himself. She winks at Martín before asking if she can steal her husband away, likely to suggest a quick tryst in one of the broom closets if the rosy flush in her cheeks in any indication.
Martín offers Andrés one last, shaky smile before leaving him with his bride. He doesn’t return to his table though. Instead, he pilfers a bottle of tequila from behind the bar, and leaves.
IV.
The fourth time, he’s already two sheets to the wind before Andrés says I do.
It’s the only way he can stand to hear the words: through a buzz of alcohol that dims his pain, even if only for a moment. A temporary respite from the heartache of unrequited love. Because ultimately, it comes down to this: Andrés doesn’t want him, and chances are he never will.
“How many times?”
Andrés turns to him, his brow arched in a silent demand for clarification.
“How many times are you going to do this?” He nods towards the bride, beaming and bright, but what he really means is how many times are you going to put me through this?
In his darkest moments, Martín thinks that he isn’t strong enough to go through this whole spiel again. To fake cheer and laughter as he watches Andrés marry someone who is not him. To see his best friend, the love of his life, the man he wants above anything else, declare his love for yet another woman-of-the-week. To see him fall in love with someone who is undeserving of his time and attention.
Someone who will never – who can’t possibly – understand Andrés the way Martín does.
“Oh Martín, my friend.” Andrés sighs before taking a sip of his wine. “You seem to be under the illusion that I want my marriage to fail. It’s not like that. Each time I think: this is it. This is the love of my life. The one that diminishes all the others. Salvation and absolution.”
Andrés laughs, shakes his head before he continues, “you know me, Martín. I’m a hopeless romantic.”
His words give Martín pause.
He has no doubt that Andrés would respond with kindness, with understanding, if Martín were to confess his feelings. Surely, the hopeless romantic in him would appreciate Martín’s utter devotion, the way he’d gladly debase himself for Andrés. He’d just have to say the words and Martín would give him anything.
But Andrés doesn’t ask him, and so Martín bides his time. He has always prided himself in his patience. He’s already waited for the better half of a decade, what are a few years more?
And so he continues to play his part. He cheers when Andrés kisses his newly-wed wife, he laughs with Sergio, and when the time comes to send the happy couple off, he embraces Andrés and tells him – honestly, fervently, selflessly – that he wishes him all the best.
The pain is almost manageable now. It has become a part of him, like the flecks of gold in his eyes or the constellation of freckles on his left shoulder. Because he knows that number four will leave eventually. Just like all the others did before her. But Martín? Martín will still be there, picking up the pieces.
V.
Number five is the worst of all.
Not because of the wedding, no. He was holding up just fine for that, drawing strength from the knowledge that this marriage, too, will pass. But it’s a small comfort, pitiable really. Because what’s really tearing him apart is the undeniable fact that this had been the last time Martín’d be invited to one of Andrés’s weddings. That it had been the last time he’d seen his friend so carefree and happy, buoyed by his unwavering faith in love.
Worse still is that Martín hadn’t even been aware of it. If he had known, he would have soaked it up. He would have basked in Andrés’s attention like a flower turning its head towards the sun, desperately conserving its light for lonely nights, for more unfortunate times.
(He feels robbed.)
No, it isn’t the wedding. It's what came after.
Martín can’t even remember all of it. Not after he’s tried – and almost, almost managed – to drink himself to oblivion. His memories are nothing but flickers now, licking at him like white-hot flames. Andrés claiming that he loves him, that they are soulmates. But why, Martín thinks bitterly, why would Andrés leave if that were the truth?
And then there's the taste of Andrés’s lips, smoky and dark and unforgettable. The hunger in his eyes, his pupils blown as he cornered Martín like a lion its prey. The feel of his back pressed against the wall, completely at Andrés’s mercy. Martín had always been at his mercy though. Wholeheartedly and without any regard for his own dignity.
And then…
He screws his eyes shut and buries his face in his pillow as an anguished cry tears itself from his throat. It’s just too much. He feels like he’ll never be happy again, not when Andrés left him and now there’s a part of Martín missing, keeping him from functioning.
There’s no escaping the flames now. They’re engulfing him, laughing at him. Mocking him. And Martín lets them, gladly. Because there’s nothing left inside of him; he has lost his will to fight, and so he gives up and allows his agony to consume him whole.
In these darkest of times, the dimmest days-weeks-months of his life, his only reassurance is this: at least things can’t get any worse.
+1
There are no tears left inside of him as he stares down at the grave of his best friend, his soulmate. Of the one person who had made his life worthwhile, who had understood his unyielding passion, his yearning for greatness.
Andrés.
The earth is still fresh, as are the blooming bouquets resting against the gravestone, a sea of red and white and purple. There are so many of them, a reverent offering of the people of Spain. Those who worship the proud libertines who had dared to fool the policía. Who had fought the oppression, and who had won.
“What a beautiful day for a funeral, don’t you think?”
Martín’s whole body freezes. Something twists inside his stomach, a churning pain. He’s never thought that he’d hear that voice again, hasn’t dared to hope. Not after what he had seen on the news, the images condemning and cruel.
And, apparently, misleading.
“Martín. Turn around.”
He takes a deep breath, braces himself, and does as he’s told.
It takes him a moment to make sense of the apparition before him, this impossible mirage. For some reason he isn’t prepared for the sight of Andrés, struck once again by his aura, this timeless elegance that clings to him. Martín drinks in the lean set of his shoulders and the narrow waist, clad – as always – in a three-piece suit. The pale skin, the artful arch of his eyebrows. His eyes, dark and intense and knowing.
“Andrés,” he spits his name out, laces it with hostility. “I see the reports of your death have been greatly exaggerated.”
Andrés has the gall to smile at him. It’s the same lopsided smirk Martín had fallen in love with years ago. He wants to slap it off his face.
“What is this, hmm?” Martín continues irritably. Andrés’s stillness makes his blood boil, makes him want to lash out like a feral animal. “Don’t tell me you’ve come back to gloat. Haughtiness doesn’t suit you, Andrés. It’s unbecoming.”
His words are swords, meant to harm and hurt. But Andrés remains calm and collected – too much so for Martín’s liking. It’s as though he’s unfazed by this whole situation. As though the surrealism of it all eludes him.
“No, my friend,” Andrés says eventually, his eyes softening as he takes in the anguish on Martín’s face. “I’m here to serve my penance for hurting you. For leaving you behind.”
Penance. The word reverberates inside Martín’s mind, and something tugs at his heart. He thinks he likes the sound of it. What it might mean for their future. What it might mean for them.
“I’m offering you a chance to turn back time,” Andrés continues in his usual drawl. “The Bank of Spain.”
Martín sucks in a sharp breath. Their plan. Andrés had come back – he had returned for him. To realize their plan.
Time will bring us back together, Andrés had told him. Martín has clung to the words like a boy to his favorite toy ever since. He has embraced their echo like a precious jewel, a treasure he could take out and hold in his shaking hands whenever the pain threatened to drown him. And now… now time has finally done its part.
“Think about it, Martín.” Andrés’s voice sounds so sweet, his words so tempting. Is this how Faust had felt when he’d made a bargain with the devil? What Eve had felt when she’d grasped the apple, cherishing each bite even as it brought her closer to her own downfall?
He wishes he could claim that it took him longer than a split second to make up his mind. To nod and gasp out a breathless sí.
“I’m glad.” Andrés’s smile widens.
“I’m coming with you, but that doesn’t mean you’re forgiven,” Martín says – not because he wants to, but because he has to. Has to make it abundantly clear that he’s not settling for scraps this time around. He wants all or nothing. There is no in-between, no black box of doubt and uncertainty, and Martín needs Andrés to understand that. Desperately.
“You shouldn’t have left,” he says, swallowing the me before it can escape his mouth. “You took the coward’s way out, and for what, Andrés? Because you were too scared to be with me? Because you’d rather crush me than give us a chance?”
Andrés shakes his head. There’s a sadness in his eyes, a frozen lake of sorrow.
“I wanted to spare you. Hurting you then seemed a better option than seeing you destroyed by your love for me. Because the truth is, your devotion humbles me. It scares me, yes. Because I am afraid that one day, you will put yourself in harm’s way to save me. But Martín, I couldn’t possibly be worth any sacrifice you may make.”
There’s a lump in Martín’s throat, but he forces it down. He won’t be swayed this easily. Andrés can’t possibly think that this is all it’ll take to win him over. That Andrés can seduce him with magniloquent words and promises, dangling them in front of him like a shiny bauble.
“So why come back? What has changed?”
“I have,” Andrés says. “I almost died in the Mint and it made me realize some things. That I have yet to see the Tournesols in Amsterdam, and listen to Missa Solemnis at the Elbphilharmonie. That I haven’t yet shared a bottle of Chateau Lafite with someone who knows how to appreciate it.
“But most of all,” Andrés smiles, fondly, warmly. “I’ve realized that I have yet to rob the Bank of Spain with my soulmate. With you, Martín.”
And because Martín is still as enamored as he was ten years ago, he seizes his chance and closes the distance between them. And just like in Florence, Andrés responds immediately, drawing him close as he swallows Martín’s desperate keens, his breathless mewls. They come together in a whirlwind of fire, burning, burning.
Andrés was right. Time will always bring them back together, no matter the circumstances. Andrés defied death to return to him, and if it comes to it, Martín will do the same for him.
It might have been happenstance that led them together that first time. A whimsical twist of fate. But now their destinies are intertwined, the red thread of fate a knotted mass – the antithesis of a Gordian Knot. They have become an ouroboros, an endless circle. The cemetery turns into Florence turns into Palermo, and the past becomes the future.
Palermo, Martín thinks, beginning and ending alike.