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The song was hitting its last chords. Andrés took the last sip of his wine and placed the glass on the small wooden table by the sofa. He stood up and went over to the record player feeling Martín’s eyes follow his every move. He smiled to himself. Martín, still sitting on the sofa in the obscure corner of their makeshift study, was smiling too.
“Hmm, what else have we got here…” Andrés was going through the vinyl records carelessly thrown around the tables.
“I wanna dance, cariño. I am now officially drunk enough.”
Andrés chuckled softly.
“We’ll find something for you, mi argentino flagrante… Oh yes!” He picked up a record and rushed to the record player. “Oh, that is perfect!”
Andrés gently placed the needle onto the shiny surface of the record, and with the fist ardent sound of the violin, he turned to Martín. His open hand and his wicked grin luring.
“Dios mío…” Martín rolled his eyes, recognizing the most famous Argentinian tango in the world. But still, he couldn’t help smiling and walked up to Andrés.
He took the offered hand and placed his left hand on Andrés’ shoulder, brushing the velvety material of his jacket with his thumb. Martín loved feeling expensive material of Andrés’ jackets and shirts, he was always thrilled to run his hand over his friend’s back or shoulder, or arm, or chest. But Martín forgot about the soft tingly sensation of the cloth as soon as he felt Andrés’ left hand squeeze his right one.
“Por una cabeza de un noble potrillo…” Andrés started in unison with Carlos Gardel as he took the first step to lead the dance. “Que justo en la raya afloja al llegar…” He kept singing along quietly and passionately, looking right into Martín’s eyes.
All the Argentinian could do was to let himself be led and mesmerized by both the sight and the music. He really was drunk, his head felt light and his eyes could barely focus; but so was Andrés, he thought. Martín saw how red Andrés cheeks were, how bright his eyes were shining, reflecting the soft glow of the wall lights. He laughed when Andrés dipped him like a proper ballroom dancer even though there was barely enough room for anything but timid swaying. Andrés didn’t care. Of course he didn’t.
When Martín heard the heartbreaking notes of the chorus, he felt his chest tighten. Perhaps he forgot how good the most famous Argentinian tango in the world was. Andrés’ eyes fell shut and he frowned his brow as if he, too, was stabbed in the heart by the music. As Martín let his eyes wander down to the other man’s lips, he saw that he kept mouthing the words.
“Por una cabeza todas las locuras…”
“Su boca que besa”, whispered Martín, “borra la tristeza”, Andrés opened his eyes, “calma la amargura”, they sang together.
Andrés grinned at him wide and happy. He was enjoying himself. Matrín stepped closer, using the opportunity of his friend’s carelessness. He didn’t pull Andrés into a hug though, he just looked at his face, breathing his air, feeling his heat. Martín felt his eyebrows twitch and his eyes starting to fill with stupid, sentimental tears. He was blaming the wine. And the music. It was a normal tipsy reaction to a beautiful song, he assured himself, praying Andrés wouldn’t read too much into it and wouldn’t start babbling on about art, feelings and all that shit. Just let him be silent for now. Let him be this. Beautiful, sensuous, loving. Let them sway in this rhythm, hot breath on his cheek, dark eyes piercing.
“Yo juré mil veces”, Martín echoed the words dancing in the air, “no vuelvo a insister.” Still looking in his eyes, Martín moved his hand from Andrés’ shoulder to his neck. “Pero si un mirar me hiere al pasar”, he glanced at his smiling lips and then looked back into his eyes, as if asking permission. Andrés blinked lazily and grinned wider. “Su boca de fuego…” whispered Martín before leaning closer and capturing Andrés lips in a firm passionate kiss. He opened his mouth wider and slid his tongue between the other man’s lips, moaning at the soft, hot, slick sensation. Martín was surprised to feel Andrés cup his face and when the chorus hit again, he felt like crying. But he wouldn’t. This was probably his one and only chance to have it. And he will have every second of it, fully, greedily.
Martín’s every exhale was turning into a moan, he was digging his fingers into the other man’s scalp, holding his jaw firmly, feeling like if he let Andrés face part from him for even an inch, his own face would come off the bones. He breathed and felt, and tasted. Moaning and gasping. Not crying.
But when Andrés pulled away and Martín felt the cold air touch his cheeks, he was about to burst into tears. So he kissed him again. And again, because Andrés pulled away again. And again, barely touching his lips this time. His lips. Soft, hot, pliant, forceful, tasting like wine, like a hot summer day, like a black sky full of burning stars, like him, like Andrés. Martín will forever remember.
The soft chuckle was like a razor slashing Martín’s heart.
“Now that was passion, mi amigo. That was tango”.
Martín was laughing too, sliding his hands off Andrés’ face. He was glad Andrés was too drunk or just didn’t care enough to look closer at him because he knew he couldn’t burry the pain. Not yet.
“You asked for it”, teased Martín, watching Andrés change the record.
Lively and joyful “Guantanamera”.
“Well”, said Andrés. “At least now I’ve had it all, didn’t I?” he laughed, dancing again. “I’ll stick to my sweet little Guantanameras though,” he took Martín hands and tried to shake him up. “But my highest compliments to the chef!”
He hastily kissed Martín’s cheek and laughed again.