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Nothing had ever made Andrés feel as alive as burning down Rome. The emperors had been growing more and more arrogant, fashioning themselves as gods, above mere mortals. Andrés had been watching – well, everyone had been watching, but Andrés supposed he had taken it as more of an offense than most. He had even offered a helping hand in an assassination or two, just because he could.
There had been fires in Rome before his, of course. But they had been pathetic, some set by demons, some even by careless humans themselves. Nothing anyone would still remember, centuries from now. Andrés had wanted to do something different, something much grander. He wanted a fire that would scorch the humans and the empire, so that no one who had seen it could ever look at flames and think of anything else. He wanted fire, the entire concept of it, to be his. He wanted hell and heaven to witness the destruction and to know it had been Andrés. Humanity would rebuild, certainly, but they would also remember.
He had been surveying the damage for himself, when he first met Martín. If only he could have gone back to that moment, he would have loved to tell himself to cherish it, to take in every detail. He would have found tangible pleasure in watching the scene unfold, knowing what he now knew.
The angel had been studying an arch that was still standing, surrounded by dying embers. See that? That’s Martín. He’ll be yours.
Andrés had been rude, dismissive, uninterested. “I’m afraid your services are not wanted here, angel. Scram.” You have no idea what he’s capable of, but you will.
“I’m afraid you’re not the one to decide on that, demon.” What did I say? He’s different from the rest.
“Came to admire my handiwork?” That’s exactly why he’s here. He was drawn to it. He always will be.
He brought his hand to touch Martín, and it burned. He didn’t let go.
He had burned many things before, but he had never felt fire for himself.
_________
The next time Andrés had met Martín, it was on the fringes of the Roman Empire. The Romans had been in turmoil for decades, ever since the assassination of yet another emperor – such a shame. Andrés loitered around quite often, for once enjoying just watching the chaos without meddling further. Everything humans did made it worse. The unintended calamity was almost too pleasant to interfere with.
He had been eavesdropping on what seemed to be a small-scale coup when he spotted Martín.
It had been a couple hundred years, but something about the angel stuck with him. He was different. He didn’t back away when Andrés had told him to scram, didn’t back away when Andrés touched him. They had had an actual conversation, brief as it was, almost like a meeting of minds. And of course, he had seemed to appreciate, perhaps begrudgingly, what Andrés had done to Rome.
“Martín, what a pleasure,” he greeted the angel with a grin.
Martín seemed surprised, his guarded expression momentarily softened by wonder. At what, exactly? That Andrés remembered him? That Andrés was pleased to see him? Did the angel really think so lowly of himself?
“Andrés,” he acknowledged, and Andrés thought of course you remember, how could you not.
“What brings you here?” he asked, making a sweeping motion, as if Martín had walked into his humble dwelling and not a hotbed of political conflict, uprisings and civil wars. Actually, Andrés would have rather liked a house like that.
“Just came to assess the damage,” Martín replied airily, and Andrés raised an eyebrow, because the damage could surely be better assessed nearer the epicentre of the empire. “Say, do you happen to know how this all started?”
“Oh, you know,” Andrés said, not even bothering to cover up his glee, “Another assassination.”
Martín couldn’t seem to help himself, grinning back. “How many is that, now?”
“Depends on what you’re asking,” Andrés continued playfully. “Ones I’ve offered a helping hand with or the total number?”
Martín looked at him for a long beat. Andrés wondered if he was misappropriating it, imagining a kind of reverence in that expression.
“Well anyway, I wasn’t here for Commodus. That was rather unexpected.”
“Was that the one strangled by a wrestler?” Martín asked, studying his own fingernails. Andrés liked that aesthetic on him; it could have been vanity or bashfulness. “I did think that one didn’t seem like your style.”
He wondered if that was true, if Martín spent enough time watching his work to recognise it.
“Flatterer.”
“Hardly flattery if it’s true,” Martín replied without missing a beat. “Anyway, you seem to be doing just fine here, so I’ll leave you to it.”
Andrés watched him walk away, unable to pinpoint quite what he felt. He was content, and he chose not to taint that with an excessive depth of examination.
A few years later, Aurelian met an untimely demise as he was crossing to Persia. Andrés imagined the look on Martín’s face when he heard about that one, the small smile he’d allow himself in private.
__________
When he first heard that London was in flames, Andrés had a feeling.
Try as he might to narrow down the cause of it, he wasn’t quite certain why.
Maybe it had been a shadow in Martín’s eyes the last time they met, in the city that was now blazing.
Maybe it was because the inferno reminded him of Rome, and that seemed to mean something to them both.
Maybe because Martín knew that the plague was Andrés’, perhaps he had been aching for a connection of some kind.
Maybe it was a cosmic thread, maybe it was happenstance, but Andrés had an unmistakable feeling that his favourite angel had a hand in this.
It was ridiculous, of course, bordering on insanity, but if not Martín, then who? If not Martín, then why? Burning down an entire city was no small feat; Andrés knew that better than anyone. You didn’t just burn Rome, and you didn’t just burn London. And Martín had an unprecedented passion. It was like nothing he had ever done in his existence could quite contain it. If anything, burning a city only seemed like the next logical step for him.
When Andrés went to indirectly pry him for information about it, in Naples, the angel attempted feebly to lie to him and gave the worst performance of his life, saying is it? and if you say so and nothing of any consequence. He could never live as a demon with such a poor penchant for lies, and Andrés had his answer in the unsaid.
The question remained, though. Andrés knew he couldn’t ask it, because Martín seemed hell-bent on not even admitting to what he had done, even though he must have known that Andrés would recognise it all. Their crimes pulled each other in, beckoning for closer study, waiting to be lavished in attention.
Why would you burn down an entire city?
_________
“Do we know who was responsible for the fire?” Sergio asked him, four days after Andrés confirmed what he had already known, the day after the flames eventually died down. Andrés had thought they were having a companionable dinner, but of course Sergio could never just relax and enjoy the finer things in life.
Andrés waited a beat, as if considering the question, his fork paused in the air. “No,” he then lied airily, making sure to sound bored. Or was it even a lie, really? They didn’t know anything, only Andrés knew.
“It’s just…” Sergio frowned, and by that Andrés knew he was going to say something stupid. Sergio never frowned about anything truly intelligent. “Such a large-scale tragedy. I can’t see why no one would claim it as their own handiwork.”
“Hermanito,” Andrés chastised him, unable to believe that they were about to have this conversation again. If the topic of their little discussion were anything but Martín, he wouldn’t have even bothered. “You don’t understand how people work, you never have.” He gestured with his glass, even though he knew it was in vain to try and explain art to Sergio, “Sometimes, it’s not about the glory, but rather about the quiet knowledge of having done something no one else ever could.” Some works of art were so grand that showing them off only served to cheapen their appeal, so you kept them to yourself, locked away. That’s how Andrés had always felt, but no one understood, no one had understood.
Sergio didn’t look too impressed, but at least he dropped the matter, watching Andrés as he continued to eat. He had probably deemed it more useful to observe Andrés rather than interrogating him. Suit yourself.
“I think it’s curious…. That you’re not more upset about this.”
Andrés chuckled, “Me, upset, by a fire? You know I love a good blaze, and one like this is so rare…” Could he turn this into an artistic segue, and start speaking of Rome?
“They burned your plague with it.”
No, then.
He shrugged. “It was beginning to outstay its welcome anyway.” Now that part was true. While he loved despair, it could get kind of stale after a while, and then it dulled around the edges and became just life. Humans could only stay adequately terrified for so long – which wasn’t very long at all. And Andrés couldn’t have his masterwork turn into a banality, so if anything, he should perhaps thank Martín.
Sergio continued staring at him, like Andrés wasn’t quite getting his point. That was one thing they at least agreed on.
_________
After watching London burn, and especially after meeting him in Naples, Andrés made it his part-time job and full-time hobby to keep an eye on Martín. He hated the thought that someone else might figure out the angel’s plans before he did. Loathed the idea that someone else might understand him better than Andrés.
There was a long lull of nothing, spanning nearly two centuries, and Andrés was a little bored and vaguely disappointed. Surely Martín had not been serious when he claimed that burning London was the right thing to do? It made for a solid excuse, but it wasn’t the truth, couldn’t be. He had enjoyed it, Andrés could tell. His eyes had still been glossed over when Andrés came to speak with him, his thoughts had still been in the flames.
It had been a high, and Martín would do it again. He had set on this path and he would see it through to the end.
It was only a matter of time.
And Andrés could be patient.
__________
He next found Martín in the United States, where some kind of a confrontation had been brewing for decades. The humans couldn’t seem to agree on whether or not one race of people could own another. The cause of their infighting was irrelevant, though: they were all pests, and Andrés enjoyed watching them argue about semantics.
Andrés had come to stoke the flames, to speed the process along, to reap some of the benefits of the destruction for himself, but he wasn’t sure why Martín was there.
He didn’t seem particularly happy, stood in the corner of a street in Albany, rain pouring around him. His posture was guarded, wings curled close to his body, mouth drawn in a thin line. If Andrés didn’t know him better, he could guess Martín was there just for the aesthetic of it. He did make for a nice picture, forlorn angel against a grey backdrop. Later, when his business here was concluded, Andrés might summon the scene again, attempt to sketch the sad outline of Martín from memory.
“Martín,” Andrés greeted him, and was pleased to see some of the tension leave Martín’s body as he turned to face him. Martín may not have known it yet, but his body said it loud and clear: this was where he was meant to be, by Andrés’ side.
Martín’s eyes were curious, suddenly he looked a little more alive again. “Andrés,” he drawled in an accent that he had picked up from who knows where and who knows when. Maybe he had been created with it already in place. No one else said his name the same way. “What are you doing here?”
“There’s a war looming, isn’t there?” Andrés shrugged, leaned against a wall, knowing how to frame the lines of his body just right. Martín’s eyes wandered over him dutifully, rewarding him for the effort. “Can’t have someone else take all the credit.”
Martín smiled. “Doubt anyone would dare step on your toes like that.”
“You would be surprised, but I am flattered, regardless.”
Martín was quiet for a while, rubbing his temples in thought. Andrés gave him space to voice his thoughts, hoping that without prompting, he would let himself be a little more genuine. “Would you think it offensive?” Martín finally asked, his voice as thick as the downpour, “If… someone else started a war. Like yours.”
Andrés stared at him, perhaps for a beat too long, because Martín averted his gaze, wings drawing closer again. Was Andrés reading into this too deeply, placing weight and meaning where none had been intended, or was Martín asking for his permission? Permission to start a war, no less? “Offensive? No, so long as they made it beautiful. I can appreciate fine art even if I’m not the artist, you know. Flattery, imitation, all of that stands true.”
The angel nodded, even if his worries didn’t seem completely abated.
Andrés decided to be merciful and dropped the subject, looking for some kind of neutral ground in their shared experiences. But what they shared were all wars, fires, death and murder, none of them topics that seemed likely to bring Martín peace right now.
“Have you seen what’s happening in the east? I think they’ll also have a civil war in their hands, soon.”
That managed to draw another smile from Martín, though Andrés wasn’t quite sure why. It was irritating, to not know what he was thinking of. Usually Martín was an open book, his to examine.
They spoke some more, about current events, the turbulent times in Europe and the skirmishes in Asia, but there was no art or poetry in it. They were mundane words, bereft of inventive flare, devoid of life. Words that were beneath the two of them.
One of them would just have to do something worth talking about.
__________
When the Qing Dynasty fell into a massacre of a civil war a decade later, Andrés wasn’t surprised, but he was gratified. He felt flattered.
__________
“You should be careful,” Sergio discerned one day, over glasses of wine in Tanzania.
Andrés scoffed, he couldn’t find it in himself to appreciate the other demon’s patronising tone of voice on a fine day such as this one. Sergio was infinitely better company without the moral lessons. “Whyever, hermanito?”
“The… angel,” Apparently that word was less cursed to him than Martín’s name. Andrés found that he liked the idea of Martín being a forbidden, ruinous little thing. “I hear you have been consorting with him.”
Andrés wondered who it was, spreading this petty gossip – heaven or hell? Did the worst and the finest among all of creation really have nothing better to do with their time?
Consorting, though. A lovely choice of words, full of intriguing implications.
He flicked dismissively with his hand, “I’m just forging connections, Sergio, high and low.”
“I dare doubt that. You have never been interested in connections before.”
“Never found ones worth keeping around,” Andrés scoffed. “And I’m talking to you, am I not?” Sergio took a beat too long debating whether this was a rhetorical question, so Andrés changed the subject. “Are you working on anything right now?”
Sergio stared at him for a moment longer, before nodding, “I have been thinking about a natural calamity, actually. There’s a volcano in the Pacific Ocean, and it could cause a tsunami if it were to erupt…”
Andrés leaned back, letting Sergio talk without really listening. He cared about Sergio, truly, but the man made plans that were mathematical, and precise, and lifeless. He sucked the art and the flair out of everything, leaving behind only dull and dreary exercises in breaking things without truly destroying anything. Where was the joy of working on a tedious plan for decades, where the most interesting outcome was a very big wave?
Moments like this made Andrés wish it were Martín by his side instead. He wasn’t quite as refined as Andrés, clearly surprised and unused to his own modus operandi, but he had vision. He could see what could be achieved with the smallest actions, and he took the risks required. Martín had no fear, he didn’t care about the consequences. He was willing to burn, in more ways than one.
__________
Martín’s destruction was escalating. Like any good serial killer, he was getting more confident, and the cool-off period was shortening. Andrés had never seen anything so beautiful, and when he hunted Martín down in Bombay, he couldn’t help but admire him. Andrés, who had never cared for a god or a being higher than himself, had gone from playing a rather solitary game of find the angel to an even more solitary game of admire the angel. Martín’s wings were growing ashen, like a symbol of his slow corruption for the world to see, and Andrés wanted nothing more than to watch him pluck off his own feathers, one by one, presenting them to Andrés like spoils from a war, drenched in blood.
__________
“Great job in Sarajevo, Andrés.”
“Thank you,” he acknowledged pleasantly, not wanting to share the knowledge of who really was deserving of the praise. If Andrés was the only one to know, it felt like a personal present, just for him. A cat bringing its master a dead canary. A masterpiece not to be shared with those who couldn’t appreciate it. Look what I made for you, Andrés.
__________
“Quite something, the assassination.”
“Was it not?” Andrés drawled, proud that Martín had gotten so skilled that his work was being mistaken for Andrés’. Was there praise higher than that? He would have to find a way to tell him as much. Blood on my hands, Andrés, it’s for you.
__________
“I like what you did in Sarajevo.”
“Why thank you.” Normally Andrés might have felt a little wistful, getting so many compliments for a job he hadn’t done, for blood he hadn’t spilled, but he had earned these ones. They both had. Andrés, I started a war, did you see?
__________
“You had nothing to do with Sarajevo,” Sergio hissed at him, looking angry. Andrés was surprised that Sergio, out of all people, could tell the difference.
He was too curious to keep up the ruse, meeting Sergio’s eyes with a grin instead. “How did you know?”
The other demon scowled at him. “He’s rasher than you. It might be a similar destruction, but yours take time. He goes out there and has someone shot in broad daylight, all of a sudden, no forethought.” If Andrés didn’t know better, he might suggest Sergio sounded just a little concerned for Martín.
“I imagine there’s plenty of thought involved,” Andrés pondered out loud, but he had to admit Sergio had introduced an idea worth considering. From what Andrés had heard, the Archduke had changed course a couple of times during the fateful afternoon that had led to his assassination. Martín had to be an opportunist to accomplish what he had. He probably worked off a skeleton of a plan, adding details as he went, as they were required. That was inspired, it was true art. It was a vision, accompanied by enough talent to see it materialised.
Sergio sighed. “I was hoping you would at least have the decency to deny it.”
“Now now, Sergio. It’s a sin to lie.”
“What you have done is so much worse.”
Andrés grinned, basking in the unintended praise.
To think that he had once considered Rome his magnum opus.
That he had looked upon the calamity he had brought London, before Martín ever laid his hands on it, and thought it was his piece de resistance.
__________
The War and the Influenza ravaged the continent in perfect harmony, with such a relentless grace that Andrés was left a little breathless. The death tolls kept climbing and he couldn’t help but admire the fruits of their partnership. Andrés would not have done any better by having done it all by himself, and that was the highest compliment he could give. It was the only thing to rival the Fire of London, and the man who had made it happen, with its beauty.
Not to mention how Andrés had told Martín about his plan beforehand, and Martín had done nothing to stop him. That meant that they were partners in crime now — it really was a beautiful collaboration. He racked his brain for another couplet to compare them to, was pleased to come up empty. They were beyond compare.
He was in fact busy admiring it all when Sergio rudely interrupted him.
“You have gone too far, Andrés,” he said, all clipped tones and full of anger.
“The influenza?” he guessed lazily, although of course he knew what Sergio meant. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I must admit, the war—"
“The angel,” Sergio hissed, “What did you do to him?” Oh, so he had finally noticed what Sarajevo lead to, had he? Andrés hoped Sergio hadn’t actually thought anything less. Martín didn’t just get blood on his hands, he flooded the streets with it. A beautiful, destructive thing. Heaven’s finest.
“I didn’t do anything,” Andrés said, mostly truthful, “It’s who he has always been, I’ve just—” perhaps encouraged it, given him a push. But honestly? Martín didn’t need a push, he had it all himself, all along. Andrés may have given him an excuse to cause such destruction, but Martín had always had the reason, within himself. That’s what no one but Andrés understood about him, least of all Martín. “I’ve allowed him to reach his potential, that’s all I’ve done.”
“It’s wrong.”
“Where did you get that fancy new moral compass? Do tell, so I can steer clear of the place.” He was starting to lose his patience, because Sergio’s suggestions were so many different kinds of offensive.
Since when did they care about what was wrong? Wasn’t this their place, corrupting, ruining and destroying? Had Andrés not always done a fine job at that, was he not still doing it?
“He’s going to fall, you know. You must know that.”
How could Sergio look upon the continent without seeing the reckless beauty that they had created together? Did he not realise that Andrés and Martín clearly belonged together?
“Let him fall, then.”
Sergio had the audacity to look shocked at that.
Most importantly – he was not ruining Martín. Martín was making his own, independent decisions, and it wasn’t Andrés’ fault that they were the correct ones.
“Let him fall,” Andrés repeated, a little louder, bolder. “They don’t deserve him, they don’t appreciate him. You think you know him so well, but you know nothing.”
He’s mine, Andrés wanted to say but didn’t. Sergio would never understand what they had.
__________
The time of miracles was far from over, Andrés mused upon seeing an angel stomp across the street, staring at him murderously. It wasn’t Martín, of course – first of all, Martín didn’t stomp – but rather a woman. He supposed she was beautiful, in a way, but her wings were such a pure white, the sight of them irritated him. Even back in Rome, Martín’s wings had been the shade of sheep’s wool, a natural white, not the holier than thou blinding colour heaven seemed to give all its favourite children.
“Hello,” Andrés said with faux politeness, trying to assess what she wanted from him, “I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
“Believe me, this is the very opposite of a pleasure,” she scoffed.
“Oh?” he responded, now somewhat intrigued. Offending heaven had long been the best part about his job, until very recently, anyway.
“Leave him alone.”
He laughed, craning his head back in amusement, knew he shouldn’t have been surprised. He wasn’t, not really. But it was nice to know that Martín had friends, ones willing to threaten a demon for his sake. Very touching.
However, this stranger had clearly not understood that it was Andrés’ job, now, to take care of Martín. This angel couldn’t have him, no one could.
Martín had branded himself as belonging to Andrés’ alone, when he burned London. Whether or not he knew it at the time was irrelevant. Andrés wasn’t one to disparage a wonderful present, when one was given to him.
“Oh, are you talking about dearest Martín?” he asked blithely, in hopes of annoying her further. As if he had all these other angels wrapped around his finger, as if he wasn’t just as consumed by Martín…
“You’re hurting him.”
“I think you’ll find you’re hurting him. Your damned kind, you don’t deserve him.”
She scoffed, didn’t flinch at the curse, quite impressive really. “And you think you do?” She stepped closer to him in challenge. She had never touched a demon, clearly, she had no idea how it burned. She was careless the same way Martín had been, once. But he wasn’t going to show her, that was beneath him. He hadn’t touched an angel before Martín, and he had no interest in making it into a pastime.
“I know I do. I appreciate him for who he is. I’m not the one trying to twist him into someone else.”
“He’s not a monster like you.”
Oh, but he is.
__________
Crashing the stock market had been a marvel.
Humans had been having such a good time, an entire decade since the War filled with dancing and drinking and living life to the fullest, and it was like nothing could go wrong. Oh, Andrés had relished every moment, because the more joyous they got, the harder it would all go crashing down.
It had taken forethought, of course. Andrés always worked off a plan, and he had spent the years since the War studying the system, looking for its weak spots to take it apart later. He could be an opportunist, too, but he preferred having a solid plan in place first. An artistic plan, with pretty little details and human calamity written in each brushstroke.
As he watched the panic rising, one pitch-black day of terror followed by another that would prove to be even worse, Andrés relished in the prospect of showing it off to Martín, his only equal.
__________
Andrés touched Martín every time he saw him. He wasn’t sure if Martín even believed it to be casual, but it wasn’t.
When he touched Martín, he was assessing the damage, evaluating the corruption. It was one thing to look at Martín’s wings and estimate by the colour and by the missing feathers, it was much easier to touch him and feel just how much it burned. Pain didn’t lie the way sight did, it wasn’t dependent on the lighting or the time of day. He could remember the pain much easier than what he had seen, it was much more novel.
When he touched Martín in Milan, what he felt was a soft, dull ache, very unlike Martín himself. Martín leaned into his touch, so he probably felt the same. A new high or a new low, depending on how you looked at it. So this is how they fall, Andrés thought distantly, but Martín didn’t look frightened under his fingers. He looked reverent. Andrés wanted him to fall, because he couldn’t stand the thought of such undying loyalty ever being aimed at heaven, at someone else, those who were so unyieldingly undeserving of him.
Even though Martín complimented his work, he did it so very carefully, in the spaces between the words. It didn’t suit him. The real Martín, whom Andrés only really saw in his devastation, was infinitely more interesting that the meek little imitation heaven forced him to be.
Luckily, Andrés hadn’t come empty-handed, this time.
He had shown the painting to Sergio, before. Sergio had said they were flames, had amended his statement at Andrés’ huff to say they were quite beautiful flames, and Andrés had rolled his eyes. He had only really wanted Sergio’s input to confirm that Martín really was a different kind. Andrés was so certain he could see more than just flames in the brushstrokes.
Martín didn’t insult his work like Sergio had, of course. He looked at the painting, his hands gripping it tightly, eyes darting from one detail to the next. Andrés could see his mouth forming the word before he gave it voice.
“London,” he said, finally. Andrés felt proud of him, proud of the ease with which he recognised it, the lack of any hesitation in his tone. Andrés wanted to praise him properly, wanted to give him more than a veiled compliment, but that would have to wait for another day, perhaps for another existence altogether.
It wasn’t in his power, though. This was all Martín, and Andrés would have to simply let him follow his own story to the end.
__________
“Hey, you, have you heard of Martín lately?” he thought to ask a demon in passing, since he hadn’t run into Martín for a while. He may not see Martín more than once or twice a decade, but he liked knowing where his angel was in the interim, knowing that he could go find him if he needed to.
The little demon turned to look at him in horror, which gave Andrés pause.
“What?” he demanded, glaring at him, not at all enjoying the sense of foreboding in this context.
“S-sir,” the demon said with a quivering breath, “He—he was cast out.”
“What the fuck,” Andrés hissed, “What do you mean, cast out? Out of heaven?” The last word burned on his tongue, but he had to force it out, to make sure there wasn’t some grand misunderstanding happening here.
“Y-yes,” the demon said with a quick nod, “For, crimes, against— humanity.”
So that’s how it happens, he thought, an eventuality turning into a reality. He had thought himself prepared for this to happen, but perhaps nearly two millennia wasn’t as long as he’d thought it. Not to mention that he had wanted this, but as to what Martín truly wanted, it was anyone’s guess.
”And no one thought to tell me? What the fuck,” Andrés repeated more emphatically. “Find him.”
__________
It took his pathetic underlings nearly three years, because they were dispassionate, and stupid, and everything else Andrés and Martín weren’t. During that time, Andrés started five wars with his characteristic flourish and eloquence. They were invitations, so that Martín could perhaps come find him, because finding a human on Earth could be the hardest task and heaven was clearly hiding him, but there was little use.
“Did I not warn you?” Sergio asked him quietly, one day. Unhelpful, callous Sergio. Full of morals and lectures, devoid of passion or sympathy. This conversation wasn’t had over dinner or glasses of wine: Andrés seemed to have lost his appetite for all the finer things in creation, sans one.
“I’ll get him back,” Andrés muttered bitterly. “This is just… unfortunate.” Like everything else when it came to Martín, that was an understatement. But there was no sense lamenting it, because this was also going to be temporary. Martín was always going to fall, it had been an eventuality, and once Andrés found him, he could finally have what he had spent so long wanting.
“He’ll be a broken toy, by the time you find him. You’ve never liked those.”
__________
Three years and no Martín, until one day—
A knock on the door.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed—” Andrés hissed, in between whispering little encouragements into the heart of what he hoped would be his new puppet dictator, “—but I am a little busy.”
The door opened regardless, and a demon stood there with her hands on her hips, exasperated. “We found your little pet, sir.”
Ah. He dropped the man like a wet blanket. This was going to be one revolution that Andrés wasn’t going to see through, and suddenly he couldn’t care less if it withered in his absence, like a plant left untended. Another pet project demanded his attention more urgently. “Where is he?”
__________
Martín looked awful. Humanity didn’t suit him, he was missing all of his sharp edges, all of his passion, everything Andrés had always most appreciated about him. He looked worse than a corpse, because at least corpses looked like they had lived, once. How dare heaven break its most beautiful creation like this?
The only good thing was that he was dressed in all black, which suited him so much better than white ever could. It accentuated his descent, underlined his misery. To Martín, it was probably another way of punishing himself.
“Oh, Martín,” he heard himself say, tried not to sound regretful. He wasn’t regretful, even if Martín clearly was.
“Andrés.” Even his voice had lost all of the spark, and Andrés wondered if burning down this stupid city together wouldn’t make him feel a little better. Or another plague? Another world war? Andrés would do it, he knew he would. He would show Martín what being cared for truly meant.
“You were too good for them anyway,” Andrés said in a scoff. It was ridiculous that this was something Martín had never understood, despite all his ingenuity, clearly beating himself up over his actions, no matter how beautiful they were. He was convinced he was the broken one, instead of acknowledging that everyone else was in the wrong. “You have a passion, it’s something the rest of them are lacking. I have been telling you this for centuries, mi querido.” You deserve better. Let me give it to you.
Martín didn’t respond to that. Andrés probably shouldn’t have expected a reaction, but he craved one. He craved seeing anything that he recognised as Martín, separate from this pitiful human existence.
“You should have come to me,” he continued simply, trying to use those simple words to convey so much more, because Martín had always been able to understand him unlike no one else. Martín should have come where he clearly belonged, instead of keeping up this pathetic game of wasting away in nameless street corners.
Martín simply shrugged, like everything else was shut away inside him. No matter the outcome of this little crusade, Andrés would have to double down on his destruction afterwards. The next city he burned, the next war he started, he’d be repaying Martín for all the blood he had spilled.
“I didn’t want to.”
Well, that was a little rude, now wasn’t it?
“So what are you going to do, instead? Live as a fucking human?” Humanity was so beneath Martín, it was laughable. Even now, a tired and strained body in a dreary city, he was better than the rest.
“I don’t need your charity,” Martín hissed, and he pressed just as much contempt into the word as a demon would, just not for the right reasons. At least he showed some of his former spark when he was angry with Andrés. That was enough to make Andrés press harder where it clearly hurt.
“Who else has come for you, hmm? I don’t exactly see your angel friends lining up to aid you.”
Well, that had clearly been a wrong move, because Martín didn’t go for the kill, didn’t start screaming or throw something at him. Instead he simply stared at Andrés, looking like he had never hated anyone else quite as much as he did in that moment.
Andrés could take his hatred, if that was what Martín needed.
“I would rather die alone than spend another moment with you,” Martín said finally, with the same unwavering certainty Andrés had once been so proud of. He stood up, his balance only teetering slightly. And then he left. Who the fuck did he think he was, what did he think they were, that he could just walk off and leave Andrés there just like that—
Andrés followed him with pitiful ease. Martín must have known that there was nowhere he could run, yet he had tried. Andrés grabbed him by the neck, hoisting him to the nearest wall. Martín didn’t look scared anymore, his eyes throwing a gauntlet as a hoarse laugh escaped his throat. He probably had a death wish, and Andrés could hardly blame him. If he were human, he would have wanted to die, too.
Still, he wasn’t going to allow such a work of art to be ruined by anyone, not even Martín himself.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Martín?”
Martín didn’t respond to that. His little outburst, his small-scale private spectacle, had apparently said everything he deemed worth saying, and now there was only the steely look in his eyes, the challenge.
“You must know you never belonged with them,” Andrés continued, since Martín seemed to be finally ready for the truth. “You belong with me. I burned Rome, you burned London. The War and the Influenza. Don’t lie to me, you have never seen anything so beautiful. You can appreciate it. No one else can.”
Martín’s entire body shivered at his words, so he had clearly struck a chord.
“What do you want from me?” Martín asked him quietly.
“I want your passion,” Andrés responded, simply. He felt like he had already expressed the same sentiment countless of times, in every corner of the world. Martín had never heard him, had never accepted the truth.
“I don’t think…” Martín said quietly, trailed off, cleared his throat. “I don’t think my passion was… directed where they wanted it.”
Andrés was an ardent man, but he had never felt the way he did then, hearing Martín finally admit what he had already known – that this had been for him.
He had been waiting for centuries for this grand declaration. He wanted to discuss destruction with Martín, to make plans and execute them, together. He wanted more than the stolen moments he had formerly robbed from heaven, more than the empty platitudes Martín voiced instead of what he truly meant.
Andrés wanted everything and he wouldn’t settle for less. He would own Martín completely, and he knew Martín would… not submit, never that, but he would take what Andrés gave him, accept it, appreciate it. They were equals, after all.
“Well, you must know that I,” he said slowly, wanting to make sure not to cause Martín any more undue pain and suffering. That was deserved for everyone else, not him. “That I would have had you. No one else has had so much blood on their hands in this century. For that, you should be rewarded, not shunned.” He slowly brought a hand to cup Martín’s face, to draw a line down over his Adam’s apple. “We could do great things together.” Martín would make the most magnificent of all demons, not to mention how he would be Andrés’ – his to own, his to cherish, his companion, his partner, his for all of eternity. As he always should have been. Andrés was repairing a fault in the great canvas on the universe.
“Come with me,” Andrés whispered in his ear, then, and Martín grasped the collar of his jacket, and even though he didn’t say anything, Andrés felt it in the insistent thrum of his chest – yes, yes, yes.
Things would be alright, Andrés knew. He would see to that, personally.