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Once upon a time, Andrés had what could be called a busy life. It was more akin to a vague dream to him now, memories of raiding diamonds and paintings and whatever else stole his fancy. That was five years ago, a past that he only looked back on like a child through a cup. But he didn’t mind it as much as he thought he might.
No, it was relaxing in a way, this new life. He usually stood on the balcony when the weather was fine, admiring the summer breeze and autumn rains. Sometimes he would pick up a book or brush and paint whatever came to mind. Most of the time, he watched the clock while he waited for Martín to return.
Those hours were particularly long. So he passed them whistling, humming, doodling. He’d taken to scribbling on the milk bottles in Martín’s fridge. In black pen, he etched drawings of rabbits and birds and little caricatures of Martín’s face.
“What are these?” Martín had asked him the first time he saw the bottles. A grin. “Surprises for me?”
And Martín pecked him on the lips, as he often did, and Andrés felt that warm hum behind his chest.
Why hadn’t he noticed that hum before? It was strange, Andrés thought, to have been married five times and not recall a single instant where he’d felt half as alive. Even the faces of those women were melding into one, a blur in his mind, no doubt proof that he’d never loved them in the first place.
But Martín was not home yet, so Andrés entertained himself in other ways. He liked to feed the parakeet in their living room, a beautiful slight thing in a cage by the window. He’d chirp at it sometimes, and grin when it replied.
“You and I are not so different,” he told the little thing, “we’re both quite brilliant.”
And dear to Martín, he almost added. He was tempted to let it out of the cage- and sometimes it felt as if the bird was asking him to- but it didn’t feel right to unhook the latch. There was no telling whether or not it would fly away and never return.
When Martín returned that evening, he had a sack of groceries in tow.
“How was your day?” Martín asked, making his way to the fridge.
Andrés loomed over his shoulder, arms coming to circle Martín’s waist while he unpacked a carton of eggs.
“I wish you weren’t quite so busy,” Andrés said- purred, “it’s dreadful without you. I die of boredom every day.”
He pressed a kiss to the nape of Martín’s neck, satisfied when it produced a tingle from the other man.
“Ah, you’ll live.” Then Martín turned and grazed his lips over Andrés’ jaw. “I’m the one who can’t live without you, actually.”
Andrés chuckled, quite pleased with that response.
While Martín prepared his dinner, Andrés poured him a glass of wine. It had become something of a nightly ritual between them, a supper of seafood and red wine. While Martín ate, Andrés kissed the rim of his glass and placed it by Martín’s plate. He was content sitting across from Martín, an empty glass in hand.
He did not quite remember the taste of wine, but it was for the best-- Martín had told him that alcohol was bad for his body.
~o~
Andrés had been sick for a while, terribly ill. His memories of that time were made of cobwebs, pieces of his mind too sickly to recall much. He’d spent countless days too weak to move, bedridden for nights on end, accompanied by nothing save the whir in his ears and the buzz of time in his bones.
And a dark room, perhaps because the lights would bother his eyes. Sometimes he caught glimpses of light, shaded with blue. Martín was always there, then-
Holding his hand, stroking his brow, whispering to him again and again that he would be all right.
Andrés felt Martín by his side, even when his consciousness was lost to the dark. He knew Martín’s breaths were synced with the stir in his chest. And when Martín was near, touching him, soothing him, Andrés forgot the pain, forgot the stings and sounds of his nerves.
And when he awoke- at last, perhaps after years in the dark- Martín was still there. Martín, with sleepless eyes and soft hair, ever devoted to a dying man.
Adjusting to the light was difficult at first, but Martín remained by his side every step of the way. Martín buttoned his shirts, fixed his ties, combed his hair. Martín reminded him how to maneuver his limbs, how to speak and paint, and all those other things that made him Andrés. Martín helped him remember what he’d forgotten; the photograph of Tatiana reminded him that he’d once loved a woman. But Andrés- then- wasn’t sure if that was love. He’d fallen in love five times, it seemed.
But none of his former spouses had been by his side. No, only Martín. Then what did those strangers compare to Martín?
“I love you,” he’d told Martín, a spark of shock in his throat. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone else.”
Martín had taken very long to answer him, and Andrés recalled the first time he felt such dread. Until Martín nodded and took his mouth in his own. He felt Martín’s tears that day.
“I used to make you cry often, didn’t I?” Andrés had said, “I’m sorry, Martín. It will never happen again.”
And because Martín didn’t want to lose Andrés- not to illness or anything else- he was adamant that Andrés stay in his- their- flat. Recovery was a long process. And though Andrés was sure he was well enough to leave their home, Martín insisted otherwise. And because he loved Martín, he complied.
And Andrés did not complain. Because it was a world of himself and Martín, the lover and the beloved. (And a parakeet in a cage.) And he would have it no other way.
(Until that peace was shattered.)
~o~
No one entered and left the flat except Martín. Andrés had not set foot outside the flat in- he could not quite remember how long. Which was why he was rather startled when a knock sounded against their door.
And several knocks later, Andrés answered the door. He told himself it was because Martín was in the study, but some part of him knew he was simply curious what lay outside.
When he swung it open, Andrés grinned, no doubt from ear to ear, recognition flaring within.
“Hermanito!” he cried, an ecstatic joy rising in his mind, the warmth again in his chest.
Other than the smallest inkling of age on his face, Sergio looked exactly as Andrés remembered him, when they’d last met in Florence. The moment Sergio entered the flat, Andrés pulled him into a hug, arms tight around his brother.
“It took you long enough,” Andrés laughed, “I’d thought you’d forgotten about your older brother. And you’re still wearing that jacket. How are you? Do you have a paramour with you?”
Sergio did not return his embrace. He remained rigid.
“Hermanito? Come on, talk.”
Andrés pulled away, only then noting his brother’s face. Sergio was biting his lip, eyes wide behind glasses, his entire face bloodless. Andrés furrowed his brow, then brought a hand to Sergio’s forehead.
“You don’t look well- are you-”
And Sergio recoiled, snapping out of his trance. Shaky, he said, “Who are you? What-”
“Sergio-”
“You look just like him.” Sergio touched Andrés’ jaw, as if the skin was made of burning iron. “You even feel like him.”
Sergio looked ready to vomit. And before Andrés could demand an explanation, Martín appeared. Crossing his arms, he said, “Sergio.”
“What the fuck is this!?” Sergio shouted his way. “Martín, what did you do!?”
“You don’t have the balls to look me in the eye for years,” Martín drawled, “and now you come all the way to my home to do what- yell at me? Where’d your manners go?”
Sergio adjusted his spectacles, hand shaking. Gulping, he approached Martín.
“Martín,” he said again, “what is this?”
“It’s exactly what you think it is.”
“He’s dead,” Sergio said through grit teeth, “he’s been dead for two years. You and I both know that, so who the fuck is this?”
Martín’s fist connected with Sergio’s jaw. “And whose fault is that!? You motherfucker, I could kill you right now- I should- I-!”
Andrés stepped in, pulling Martín back while Sergio stumbled.
“Wait, wait!” he said, “are we going to fight over nonsense? Hermanito, what are you-”
“Don’t call me that!”
Then Sergio lunged forward, tackling Martín to the floor. “I’m not going to ask again- what did you do? That’s not a human being, is it?”
Martín laughed, dry. “And what if it’s not? What’s it matter to you?”
Sergio’s grip tightened against the collar of Martín’s shirt. “Why did you do this, Martín? What do you do with… with him?”
“You really hate the idea of me fucking your brother that much? What if I told you I fuck him every day in my bed. That’s what I do with him. Because he’s a walking, talking sex toy and clearly that’s all I ever cared about, you son of a bitch!”
When Andrés put a hand on Sergio’s shoulder, the younger man shook his grip away. Shooting him a glare, Sergio stood and collected himself.
“Don’t touch me.” He headed for the door.
“Hermanito, wait-”
“You’re not my brother.”
The door slammed behind Sergio. Still on the ground, Martín heaved and cursed. Andrés helped him up.
“Are you okay?”
Martín didn’t answer. “I’m going for a walk.”
He shrugged Andrés away, and pocketed the keys on the counter. Before he left, Andrés grabbed his wrist.
“Wait- Martín- what he said, is it true?”
“Forget what he said. He’s an asshole.”
“What if it was true?”
Martín said nothing, looking more irritated by the second.
“Would you still be mine, if I wasn’t Andrés?”
“What kind of stupid question is that?” Martín kissed him- coldly- and took his leave. When the door locked, Andrés stayed behind, eyes on his feet at the ground.
~o~
Andrés had no memories of Sergio. And yet he did. But it all came back to their time at the monastery. When Martín had been there as well. Before, he couldn’t recall. He’d half-raised Sergio as a boy. This, he knew. But he couldn’t locate a single moment when it had just been himself and Sergio. It was all a sea of white.
He looked at himself in the mirror, checked his jaw. Clean. Martín shaved every other day. Andrés did not recall using the razor ever since he arrived at the flat. It was funny- why hadn’t these questions come up before?
He unbuttoned his shirt and dragged his fingers from the chest down. He felt hair and skin and the etching of scars, old injuries Martín had explained to him. He felt-
Something sparked in his mind, a connection to a truth that he’d always known. He heard the ticking of his heart, not so different from the clock in the living room. (And it had only taken Sergio’s voice to undo the very thing keeping him sane.)
~o~
That night, Martín did not speak to him. But he allowed Andrés to feel his body, to rub against him and please him. He allowed Andrés to whisper by his ear, “I love you,” again and again until he fell asleep.
But Martín did not say it back.
Andrés did not remember when Martín had last said it back.
~o~
“Where do you go every day?”
Martín started, turning from the fridge, his face illuminated by the light within. Andrés stood at the kitchen threshold, hands clenching at the sides of his bathrobe.
“Martín, I need to know.”
But Martín only scoffed, retrieving a bottle of milk with a scribble of a turtle. He shut the fridge. “Why are you asking now?”
“I thought you’d tell me, but you never did.”
“Is this about Sergio?”
Andrés shook his head. “It’s about you and me. I don’t like waiting for you.”
“Welcome to my life. You don’t know how long you kept me waiting in the past.” Martín took a swig. “But you didn’t care. You always expected me to be there when you turned around. And guess what? I was.”
Andrés stepped towards him. “I’ll never make you wait again. I only need to know- do you love me?”
“You’d be dead if I didn’t love you. Now go back to sleep.”
But Andrés didn’t sleep. No, he lay awake- dormant- until the sun rose. The ticking was louder, and it was not from the clock.
“That’s not what I mean,” he said, slow, “I love you, Martín, I love you more than anyone else on Earth. But you-”
He pursed his lips. And parted them. “You love someone else. Let him go, Martín. I’m here now. I love you. I’ll be better than him-”
Martín splashed the bottle’s contents against Andrés’ face. He threw the bottle on the floor, and as the glass shattered, he seethed, “No you won’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Andrés blinked, cold milk trailing down his hair. He reached for Martín. And Martín clenched his wrist. He glared Andrés in the eye, a rage in those blue eyes Andrés had yet to see.
“Since you won’t shut the fuck up, I’ll tell you-- Sergio’s right. You’re made of clockwork and electrons, and if we cut you open, you’ll just be pieces of metal. Andrés was the man I loved. And you?”
Martín let him go. “You’re a fucking sex toy.”
And stepping over glass, Martín stumbled out, leaving a trail of blood on the tiles below. Andrés felt the milk drip from his cheek.
He stood. Waited.
Then he swept the glass away, mopped the floor, and washed his hands. He went to the parakeet, tapped its cage-
And laughed.
~o~
Andrés was dying of disease. Andrés died, bleeding out from bullets to the flesh. Little bits of steel that hardly measured up to anything else. Andrés was felled so easily because he was weak. Pathetic. Unworthy to have lived at all.
And he was not Andrés.
He knew that now, was certain of it now. And Martín had known all along. This little farce of theirs was over. But it was for the best. Because he no longer cared what Martín wanted from him.
He wanted Martín. And that was all that mattered in the end.
~o~
“Step aside.”
Martín eyed him dully, perhaps with a touch of guilt. He didn’t care. He remained in front of the door.
“You’re not leaving today. I think I know where you go now.”
When Martín took a step back, he grabbed him by the wrists, fingers digging into skin. Martín hissed, for he was no match against steel.
“You didn’t have anywhere to go,” he crooned, “you wanted to get away from me. You thought I was a shadow of him, and it bothered you-”
He forced his lips over Martín’s own, drawing blood from that plush mouth, feeling it trickle down his senseless throat. Martín gagged, and he released the kiss.
“It won’t bother you anymore. I’m not him. I’m not a pathetic weakling who couldn’t see you for what you were-”
Martín struggled against him. All the better.
“So why can’t you see me, Martín? I’d do anything for you. I love you, I love you-” the voice looped from his mouth, again and again, almost a sob.
Martín cried out, something between pain and rage. “Fuck-!”
He didn’t hear the door bust open. Until it was too late. A frenzy of heat gathered at his back, the sensation of something cold piercing skin and into the center of his ticks. A knife.
He turned, meeting Sergio’s panicked gaze. As if shocked at what he’d done, Sergio backed away, hands releasing the handle of the thin knife in his back.
He grinned. “Hermanito, welcome back!”
“Fuck!” Martín cried again, “Sergio- get out of here-”
But he managed to knock Martín away in time. He opened his arm, poised for embrace. “How about a hug?”
Sergio- like his pathetic brother- was not fast enough to avoid his grip. He pinned him to the wall, a hand around his throat. Limits off. He squeezed, grinning as the man choked and sputtered. It was satisfying, really. The closest living remnant of Andrés de Fonollosa on Earth, the man that shared a speck of Andrés’ blood. The only living thing binding Martín to Andrés. He’d crush Sergio and Andrés would be burned to ash.
“Hey!”
On instinct- the sound of Martín’s voice- he turned. A lamp smashed him in the face. He fell, clattering at Martín’s feet. Martín roared. And brought the light down again, brass and heavy. It crushed his windpipe, his shoulders, his clavicle-
Sergio was gasping by the wall.
Martín did not stop. He could move, reach up and take the lamp by force. But he remained fixed on the ground, feeling each piece of clockwork fall apart. Apart. Apart. But Martín was above him.
And somewhere beyond the smashing of his parts, he heard the parakeet sing, echoes from a cage.
~o~
Sergio held a hand to his bruised throat, glasses askew. Thoroughly shaken, he gulped, and roughly, rasped out, “Martín- Martín, it’s over.”
He touched Martín’s shoulder, the fabric of his shirt soaked in sweat. Heaving, Martín shuddered. He dropped the lamp, and sinking to his knees, buried his face in his hands.
Sergio was tempted to follow suit. He looked at the remnants of Martín’s automaton on the floor, limbs and body broken down to parts and gears. He grew nauseous at the sight of the broken face, the splitting image of Andrés cracked in half, a glass eye frozen. When the automaton could move and speak, he appeared human, until one looked closely and saw a doll in his place.
An Andrés made of porcelain. And now his face lay on the ground like cracked china.
“Why did you come back?” Martín muttered.
He looked to Sergio then, disheveled and tired, blood still dripping from his mouth. He’d aged a hundred years since Palermo, and Sergio knew no amount of apology or explanation could bring that Martín back. The Martín that the real Andrés had known.
“I wanted to apologize.” It still fucking hurt to speak, quite literally. “What I said the other day- it was uncalled for. And this, it’s my fault-”
Then Martín’s arms were around him. Martín held him tight, as Andrés used to.
“No, it’s not,” Martín told him, gentle, a tone so soft Sergio had thought he misheard.
He blinked the dampness away. And found himself hugging Martín back.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking ever more.
“This thing was my fault.” Martín released him and again looked to the pieces on the ground, eyes hollowed with grief. “He didn’t even fight back in the end.”
Sergio met the glass eye’s gaze again.
“You know how I knew he could never replace Andrés?” Martín mumbled.
“Martín-”
“Because I programmed him to love you, not me.” Martín shut his eyes. “Just like it always was.”
At Martín’s request, Sergio took the bird cage with him when he left. Once he was away from the flat, he unlatched the cage and watched the parakeet fly away.
And for Martín’s own sake, Sergio hoped he’d leave the flat as well. He hoped Martín’s wings were not so clipped that he couldn’t fly. One last shudder. And he was gone.
A tempestuous northerly wind began to blow and roar angrily, and it beat the poor puppet from side to side, making him swing violently, like the clatter of a bell ringing for a wedding...His breath failed him and he could say no more. - Pinocchio, Carlo Collodi