Chapter Text
He found him and at first, he barely recognized him.
He knew that Martín was less inclined towards luxury than he was, but he didn't expect to find him living in that awful hellhole of an apartment, with notes and books and bottles scattered all over the place.
Worse yet was the sight of Martín himself - pale, with red eyes and toussled hair, unshaven, dressed in what Andrés could only describe as rags.
"What?", asked Martín and that was the final shock to the system. Andrés' brows furrowed at his friend's- ex-friend's? - tone. It was flat, devoid of any emotions. Andrés knew this was no time for apologies, even though he felt uneasy at Martín's state. Then again, he did break the poor man's heart. It was only right that he had a breakdown. Romantic, really.
But they both knew that if Andrés wanted to apologize, he would've come earlier. This was not the case.
"One of our own has been captured. Sergio wants to get him back."
Martín stared at him, arms tight around himself.
"Care to tell me why the fuck would I care?"
"Our plan is on the table."
Sergio arrived in Italy shortly before the others in order to prepare the monastery with Andrés and Martín.
In all honesty, he would rather not have Martín on the team, but he was half the mastermind behind the plan. Besides, maybe the time away from Andrés has done him some good.
Well, the time has done something, he decided as he watched the two figures aporoach his car. Martín looked like a ghost.
"Sergio," he gave him a nod, hands in his pockets. It was raining and although Andrés had an umbrella, his friend was keeping two solid meters of distance between them.
"Let's go," Andrés smiled. "Maybe we'll make it in time to hear compieta."
As much as he hated his brother's and Martín's constant talking, he missed it now, Sérgio decided after driving for two hours. He looked into the rear mirror to see an unusual picture- instead of Martín staring at Andrés with absolute devotion, he found it was his brother who was glancing at his friend from time to time, decidedly annoyed. Martín on the other hand was glued to the window, face turned away from Andrés, his eyes following the raindrops on glass.
Sergio wondered if he's allowed a ticking bomb inside his car.
Once at the monastery, he finally saw a glimpse of emotion. As Andrés went to search through his rooms, Sergio and Martín stepped into the chapel to see if some of the plans were still hidden there. As they set foot inside, Sergio saw the engineer flinch visibly.
Yes, he decided. A ticking bomb it is.
By the time the others have arrived, Martín - Palermo - got himself together. He unpacked, making sure that his new bedroom would be carefully disorganized, he then took a long bath, shaved and dressed in some classy attire.
He welcomed la banda with flair, he drank and sang with them, he teased them mercilessly and in no time, he was one of them.
At first, he was very careful not to interact with Andrés. With Berlín. But then, as he loosened up in the company, he and Andrés have slowly started speaking again. Exchanging witty remarks. Exchanging looks instead of words whenever someone said something particularily idiotic.
When Palermo explained to others how to get into the vault, Berlín put a hand on his shoulder, beaming with pride. And Martín let him.
Slowly, inevitably, they've fallen back into their usual dynamic, with Andrés tossing Martín some of his attention, and Martín catching it, maybe not with adoration this time, but with gratitude nevertheless.
Martín was a weak man. He was like a moth drawn to a flame.
Andrés was satisfied as he finally saw Martín give in. It has proven that the love Martín - Palermo - held for him was not all fire and passion, but something deeper, unbreakable even by the utmost cruelty that he had forced himself to inflict upon poor Martín.
As they found their rythm once again, Andrés felt himself relax, basking in the warmth that was Martín's presence, like a satelite around Andrés, always there if he wished to reach him.
He was on his way back to his room after talking and drinking way into the night with Sergio and Raquel, he got stuck by a new idea. He needed to consult Martín. Oh, how glad he was that he could just stride into the room, switch in light on and wake him up to share his thoughts-...
"What the actual fuck-... Andrés?" Seeing it was him, Martín fell back onto the pillows.
Berlín smirked and took a chair beside his bed.
"What is it?"
"I'll explain in a moment, my friend. The book you were reading at breakfast, do you have it here?"
"Sure," yawning, Martín stretched his arm towards the desk. "It's over there, if you could just-..."
Andrés lazily followed Martín's movements with his gaze. As he saw Martín's forearm, his eyes widened and he immédiatelly grabbed it hard enough to bruise. Martín yelped in surprise, trying to pull away, but Andrés was having none of it.
"What the fuck is that?"
Martín looked down at where Andrés was clawing at him arm and he had the audacity to snort.
"Oh yes, I should've remembered to wear long sleeves even to bed, but you see, it's getting really warm and-"
Andrés didn't let him finish. He slapped him right across the face and when Martín shut up, stunned, he climbed over him, knees on his both sides, still gripping tightly Martín's forearm, marked by two ugly, disgusting, thick scars.
"What have you done ?" he growled, filled with an unknown kind of fury, ice cold and filling him to the brim, making it difficult to breathe.
Martín stared at him without a word.
Feeling any common sense and control leave him, Andrés grabbed Martín by the chin and squezzed hard.
"What the fuck have you done?!", he yelled.
"Why are you screaming at me, Andrés?" the other man whispered, his gaze once again distant. "It's not really my fault, but yours," he said simply.
Finally, Berlín identified the storm in his veins. Shame. Guilt. Searing pain.
He pulled Martín's hand to his chest and for the first time in a long while, he cried.