Work Text:
2021
Joaquin Peña didn't know boredom. He ran his fingers along the spine of the book he had been reading. He had always loved books, and this one was one that he had cherished for a long time. Stuart Chase’s Study of Two Americas was by no means a recent account, but it was a fascinating story of two travellers. A bit like Javí and him. Joaquin sighed deeply and looked up to where his husband (yes, husband, fuck civil partner) was resting on his couch. Javí had folded his hands across his stomach and was snoring softly. Without his glasses he looked young, Joaquin found. His features were relaxed, and there weren’t too many wrinkles. He was a bit pale, he thought. Maybe they should get out more, but travelling wasn‘t easy these days. He remembered their trip to Cuba two years ago. Javier had enjoyed himself, and so had he. They had spent quite some days on the beach, sunbathing and reading, and Javí’s honeyed skin had taken on a healthy and golden complexion. The tan was gone now. Joaquin thought of young Javier and his toned body, a macho hotshot that had had A LOT of (female) company over. He had heard them sometimes when either man had forgotten to firmly shut the window. Javier had been a good lover, it had seemed. He had been selfless, even if his dates had obviously been prostitutes. Whatever he had done hadn’t sounded violent. Joaquin had been interested in his neighbour, and he had been happy to catch him at the pool one quiet night. Javier had done his lanes, and for a moment, Joaquin had watched mesmerised as the fit and slender body moved in the water. Then he had started doing his own routines. They had stayed longer than they normally would have, secretly trying to outdo the other, and had stopped at the same moment. They had acknowledged one another’s company by a nod and had parted ways. The next time they had met had been at the market. Javier had been licking out a grenadilla he had broken in two, and Joaquin had bumped into him making Javier choke on his fruit. Joaquin had stopped and apologised. He had bought him a new fruit, and Javí had accepted it. And that had been that. The attraction had been mutual from the start, but they had taken their time getting to know one another, and he had soon enough learned that Javier didn’t trust people lightly. He had been guarded, and sometimes Joaquin had got the impression that he had been scared, but he hadn’t been able to figure out what scared him. At first, he had thought it was people, but the more he had learned about Javí the more he had come to the conclusion that Javí was scared of himself, that he was afraid of messing things up, of hurting people, of doing things that led to sorrow and pain. In the early days, Joaquin had also wondered if Javier had been having it on with Steve, his (married, but well…) partner. Steve had been taller than Joaquin and broader and a much nicer shade of blond. They had been easy around one another, and Joaquin had been jealous, but when he had accidentally met Steve alone, the other man had winked and reassured him that he should go for it, that there had been nothing going on between Javier and Steve, and that Joaquin was Javier’s type.
Joaquin Peña didn't know much about kissing. However, about two months into their acquaintance, it had been Joaquin who had kissed Javier, and that had brought down the walls the other man had built around himself. They had never had the most sexual relationship. Joaquin wasn’t that interested (though there were some rather hot memories that would still make his member twitch). He had got used to Javí taking care of him (after all, Javí was a patient and considerate lover), had learned to relax into his ministrations, but he had always remained reluctant to touch a naked Javí back. He had always loved just watching him. Javí had had a beautiful body (he still had), but touching him had made Joaquin tense. He didn’t think that he had been any good at pleasuring his experienced partner, so they had eventually given up sex, and Javí had been okay with that. He hadn’t been exclusive, and Joaquin knew that Javí felt sorry about it now, but he had needed that sort of physical contact then, so he had continued to sleep with women for more than a decade. He hadn’t lied about the fact, and to Javí, it hadn’t felt like cheating on Joaquin back then. It hadn’t felt like cheating to Joaquin either because he had always known that Javí swung both ways. After all, it had been just sex, but Joaquin was sure that it was the comfort that he had provided that had made Javí return to him - and that had made him stay. Joaquin had meant more to him than sex. Joaquin was his rock. He would hold him, pat his head or caress his cheek, pull him close and wrap him in his arms. He made him feel safe, and he made him feel loved. Joaquin wasn’t sure if Javí loved him back, but what he felt surely came closest to what Javí would call love. He had committed to him when he had married him. Joaquin wouldn’t have thought that he’d still be with him thirty years from Colombia. He knew his husband’s history, had known his track record back then, and he knew that he hadn’t done relationships before. They had just happened, and Joaquin was glad that Javí had stayed. Of course, they hadn’t lived together for the first ten years or so. They had managed to get to the same country, sometimes city. Then they had shared a house for about a year, but that hadn’t been a good time in either man’s life, so they had lived apart for the next five years before going back to Colombia. After Javí’s dad had died, they had settled in Texas. The farm was secluded enough, and the neighbours were kind people that didn’t understand same-sex relationships but that liked Javí well enough not to bother. And that was where they were now. It wasn’t fucking Brokeback Mountain. It had never been. There was no drama in what they had, they just were.
Joaquin Peña didn't know what horrors would haunt Javí at night, but he knew what they did to him. Javí stirred on the couch, and Joaquin put his book upside down and took off his glasses to rub his eyes. When Javí whimpered quietly, he crossed the room to sit on the floor next to the other man. Javí’s brow furrowed and he made another pained little noise. His breathing had picked up, so Joaquin placed a hand on Javí’s head and let his thumb gently rub his temple. Javí exhaled and visibly relaxed. Joaquin could read the signs that were the beginnings of a nightmare. He knew Javí, and he was relieved that there weren’t as many nightmares as there had been fifteen years ago – when Javí would have woken up screaming, drenched in sweat, disoriented and scared. Joaquin barely knew half of what weighed on his husband’s mind. Javí hated speaking about what had happened to him, but he had told him some things over the years, and Joaquin felt sad for Javí. Colombia had changed him, had broken a good person. “I met you, didn’t I?“ Javí had once told him when he had asked him if there had been anything positive about Colombia.
And yet, they had kept their relationship under wraps. When Flatnix had approached Steve and Javier about seven years ago about a project on Escobar, the two agents had been skeptical. However, the idea behind the mini series had got them hooked: the war against drugs told by the people who had brought down Pablo Escobar. Blancanieves would be shot in Colombia, the cast would be made up of Hispanics, and the whole thing would be in Spanish. Steve had been retired and had been all in, before Javí had got on board. Once he had been convinced of the project’s nature, Javí had been excited and had taken retirement as well to be able to advise the film team. He had met the actors and had scared them with some horrible stories, but he had been pleasantly surprised by the skinny guy that would portray him. Joaquin had met him once and had thought that he looked not a bit like Javier. He was Chilean, and he spoke with a different Spanish accent, but his Texan drawl was quite close to the real man. He was observant and sharp, too, because he had somehow noticed that Joaquin was more than just Javí’s friend. When he had told Javí not to worry, they would keep Joaquin out of the frame, Javí had almost seemed disappointed. He would have loved that shadow of a doubt to appear in the show. And again the actor had put his mind at ease and had pointed out that he would most definitely cast that shadow, and he had winked at Javí. He had been brilliant in the part. Joaquin made a mental note to ask Javí his name again. He remembered a handful of scenes that were just so Javí, for some reason one sprang to his mind in this moment: Film/Javier had promised to look after a witness, and Film/Steve briefly touched his shoulder. Just a friendly pat to say I owe you, take care. And Film/Javier flinched and tried to twist away from Film/Steve’s hand. The body language and the look on his face could have fooled even him. He still didn’t look like Javí at all, but he moved like him. He had been fascinating to watch. And his funny way off-camera had had an effect on Javí too, because one sunny evening in 2018, Javí had taken Joaquin out to dinner and had proposed! It had been a good date, and Javí had been in a light mood. They had talked about the future and what if either of them died. And then Javí had said, “Marry me.“ Just like that. “You’ll get the farm when I die, no hassle. It’s your home, too. I mean, we‘ve been together for twenty years … it’s only logical, isn’t it?“ Only Javí could mess up an engagement by reasoning. But he had thought about rings. He didn’t want them, so he had got gold bangles – reading Colombia no ha sido totalmente una mierda. Colombia wasn’t all … bad. It had made Joaquin laugh, and he had agreed to marry Javí.
“Penny for your thoughts,“ Javí mumbled, and Joaquin realised that his husband had woken. Joaquin smiled, and Javí reached out to gently run his thumb along the scar over his right eye. “Pollito,“ he cooed, and Joaquin smiled at the nickname that had survived even after he had given up Pollard as a name, “Eres hermoso.“ Joaquin shook his head. He didn’t think so, but Javí had insisted even after that bottle had cut across his face that fateful night. Javí had not left his side, had taken him to the hospital, had waited for hours while they were busy trying to save his eye. His sight had suffered, and he had had to wear glasses since. They were so thick that their reflection hid the scar from most superficial glances, but of course, Javí knew him up close. The skin between his brow and his cheek was pulled taut and itched sometimes. When it did, it would cause mild spasms in the muscles underneath and make his mouth twist up into a snarl. Like now. Javí looked at him lovingly and caressed his cheek. Joaquin was glad that the twitching slowly subsided, and he was grateful for Javí not being appalled. Javí knew him up close and he still thought he was handsome. He sat up and pulled Joaquin from the floor to sit next to him. The corners of his mouth lifted into a little smile and he leaned in to kiss Joaquin. “I love you, you know?“ he said quietly, and Joaquin nodded. Yes, he knew. Javí rarely said it, but he let him know in other ways. Javí brought their foreheads together and breathed a sigh of relief while Joaquin’s hand found Javí’s just like it had all those years ago, and he squeezed it. Joaquin tilted his head and pressed another little kiss to Javí’s lips. They were warm and soft, and they tasted like home. This was what love felt like, Joaquin thought, and Joaquin Peña knew love.