Archive of Our Own

At the end of the day, maturing, as well as growing old, consists of gradually throwing away dreams.
La casa de papel, 5.2.3

The boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out.
Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

It takes him three years, five months and sixteen days to find Martín.

But since he's never been one for technicalities, Andrés simply smiles and says:

"Martín, my friend. It's been way too long."

--

The truth is this: Andrés isn't prepared.

He thought he'd know what it would feel like. Seeing Martín again. He's gone over this moment more times than he'd like to admit, so often it has begun to feel like a memory.

In one version, Martín breaks down and flings his arms around Andrés, clinging to him for dear life as though he's the savior returned – rev 22:20; the lord is coming.

In another, Martín's anger burns to ashes when Andrés smiles at him and pulls him close, presses a kiss against his temple. I have returned to you, he says, I told you I would. Don't tell me you've lost faith in me.

(In one version – his least favorite – Martín slams the door in his face. Andrés tends not to dwell on that one.)

But the illusion crumbles, as it inevitably must.

Martín is a vision.

He's just as beautiful as Andrés remembers.

His hair is a bit longer, messier; his skin has a bronze tint to it that makes him look like a Grecian hero: Icarus chasing the sun. He's even got the scars to show for it, smattered along his cheeks like freckles.

Andrés tries to catalog every little detail. The star-shaped mole on the side of his neck, the gray hairs at his temple. The lines on his face – around his eyes and at the corners of his lips. Laughter lines so deep they might as well be grooves.

He looks like a different man.

Like a stranger.

Someone whose eyes darken when they recognize him. There's no light, no love.

Andrés rolls his tongue around his mouth. It's hard to form words; they seem to be stuck in his throat.

"You look good," he says eventually. And it's the truth; the door's casing is a deep crimson – it brings out the chestnut in Martín's hair, frames him like a painting.

The silence stretches, and Andrés is starting to get uneasy.

Because Martín still hasn't said anything.

He keeps staring at Andrés with wide, unblinking eyes. Like he's seen a ghost.

"I suppose your social conventions are rusty. You don't get a lot of visitors in your cozy little – ah – cottage?" Andrés prompts. "Usually, a hug among old friends. Cheek kisses are acceptable, too."

Truthfully, Andrés would settle for a handshake. Or even better: to be invited inside, one foot in the door to Martín's new life.

A voice sounds from inside the house:

"Javier, who is it?"

A second later Helsinki appears behind Martín, and well – Andrés didn't expect that.

It… irritates him.

After all, there's a reason why the military discourages fraternization among its men. It's despicable. Dishonorable.

Helsinki doesn't seem ashamed of himself though.

When he sees Andrés, a plethora of emotions flashes across his face. Shock, disbelief, delight. A flash of sorrow, barely-there. It's gone just as quickly, replaced by a wide grin that splits his face from ear to ear.

"Berlin!" He bellows, and it's all the warning Andrés gets before the Serb pulls him against his chest in a bone-crushing hug.

"You're alive?" He asks once he lets Andrés go. The question is redundant, of course. Did Orpheus ask 'Is this hell?' when he crossed the Styx?

Andrés's lips draw into a tight smile.

Alive, yes, but at what cost? Fortunately, Helsinki doesn't seem to care about the how and when and where.

He merely ushers Andrés inside, as trusting as a fool. There's a limp to his step, a drag-and-go that Andrés doesn't remember. It must be from his time in the Bank – a war wound.

"I'll make us some tea," Helsinki announces; his expression softens when he turns to Martín. "Maybe you want to join us, Javier?"

But Martín doesn't move. He doesn't nod or shake his head, doesn't even blink. His body has turned to stone, like the tragic heroes trapped in Medusa's cave.

Andrés is careful not to touch him as he steps inside; you wouldn't touch a marble statue at the museum either.

They taint so easily.

--

Javier.

The name means nothing to Andrés.

Rationally, he knows that Martín had to take on a new identity. But he thought… Surely, Martín's new name would reveal a connection to Andrés. A secret language only the two of them are privy to:

Joan, like Andrés's favorite painter. Long afternoons spent at the Prado, talking about art art art, marveling at the way the sunlight shimmies through the windows, and marveling, too, at the way it makes Martín glow like a beacon.

Fernando, like the song they danced to on a rooftop terrace in Vienna. Champagne spilling over their hands, their pockets bursting with stolen watches and silver bracelets. Move your hips – like so. Come closer. We'll earn our place in the pantheon yet, you'll see.

Camilo, like the son Martín would never have. A phone call that turned Andrés's life upside-down, a sense of crushing dread – alleviated only by Martín's arms around his waist, tight and comforting, and well, if I had a brat I'd name him Camilo, none of that biblic shit. Something about the thought of a little boy with Martín's eyes, his nose, his mind fills Andrés with a deep, dark yearning to this day.

Salvador, like the masks they wore in pursuit of immortality. Years apart, and yet the same: hostages cowering in fear, a hail of bullets, adrenaline surging through their veins. It's a revolution, not a robbery.

But Javier?

Javier heralds a new beginning, and Andrés can see it everywhere: In the notebooks strewn across the table, the pair of socks peeking out from under the couch. The half-empty bottle of Malbec on the kitchen island – Martín's favorite.

And now seemingly Javier's favorite.

What's even worse is how effortlessly Martín's belongings mix with Helsinki's. The leather loafers squashed up against a pair of military boots, Argentine Cuisine buried beneath an edition of Serbian Dishes, the bowl of hard candies next to a carton of milk.

The sight makes Andrés nauseous. To see their lives entwined, a motif spilling from frame-to-frame-to-frame in a triptych.

It puts a strain on Andrés's heart.

Untangling this mess could take years.

Time which he now has.

Time which he hoped to spend differently.

He smiles, deep and wide, to hide his unease.

"A lovely place. Tell me, where's the soccer van for your kids, hmm?"

The quip is meant to hurt, but Helsinki has always been too kind for his own good. He laughs it off, shrugs his shoulders as if to say it's not much, but it's enough.

He serves Andrés biscoitos (rock-hard) and a pot of Darjeeling (too much sweetener). The porcelain looks fragile in the ham of Helsinki's fist, but he's careful not to break anything.

Andrés wonders if he touches Martín with the same awestruck reverence. Or if he has left his shoddy fingerprints all over Martín's body, like doltish smudges on an invaluable piece of art. Has he dirtied Martín? Besmirched him?

Andrés clears his throat.

"He's doing well?" He asks, mustering the same measure of nonchalance one would affect when discussing the weather.

"Oh yes, yes. Very well." Helsinki nods, but his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "This is… not normal."

It's obvious that he blames Andrés for Martín's sudden relapse. Which is invidious. Because how could Andrés have anticipated that kind of reaction?

There's a draft coming from the open door, still.

Andrés sighs, folds his hands in his lap.

"I'm not here to steal him away," he lies.

"He can make his own choices."

"Of course," Andrés agrees. "I'm just passing through anyway. I'm looking for the Professor."

Helsinki nods solemnly. There's a moment of silence, as though he's searching for the right words. Which might as well be what he's doing. Spanish has never been his forte.

A door slams, loud and sudden. Andrés barely manages not to flinch.

Helsinki offers him an apologetic shrug of his meaty shoulders.

"He needs some time alone."

"Of course," Andrés says.

They sip their tea in silence. There's nothing left to say.

--

The first thing Martín says to him after three years, five months and sixteen days is:

"Move."

Without waiting for an answer, he clambers onto the couch and squeezes himself into the narrow space between Andrés and the cushions.

He throws an arm around Andrés's shoulders, weaves his fingers through his hair. Their legs tangle, their breaths mingle. And their hearts beat as one.

Martín presses his face into the crook of Andrés's neck.

And then he inhales.

A drawn-out, life-giving breath. Like a deep sea diver breaking the surface, gasping in air as the sun tickles his face for the first time in an eternity.

Andrés leans into him – and pulls back immediately, grimacing.

"Couldn't you have at least—"

"Don't be such a prude," Martín snaps. "I had to give him some nice memories to remember me by."

Something to remember him by, Andrés likes the sound of that, likes the implication behind the words.

But the point still stands:

"You slip into my bed—"

"Couch. And it's mine, technically."

"—like a man slipping into his wife's arms after he fucked his mistress, and you don't have the decency to take a shower first? It's appalling."

Martín rolls on top of him and grins, tongue poking the chip in his teeth.

"We're a married couple now, hmm?"

"Don't."

But Andrés can't summon any real anger when Martín is staring down at him, suddenly more serious than their banter warrants.

"Tell me we'll be okay."

Andrés blinks up at him. The darkness hides Martín's features; he can only make out blots of gray – like bloated ink on paper or coal smudged to the palm of his hand.

Andrés swallows. And nods.

"We'll be okay."

Impossibly, Martín still believes him.

His grasp tightens. He presses close, and Andrés presses closer still, ignoring the stench of sweat and musk that penetrates his senses. The only thing that matters is Martín's skin beneath his palms, the rise and fall of his chest against his own.

They are a Gordian knot of trembling limbs and beating hearts, and Andrés thinks not even Zeus himself could split them in two.

--

They leave the next day, at the break of dawn.

Martín is freshly-showered, his hair combed back. He exchanged his sweater for a button-up; it makes him look more like the man Andrés used to know. His friend, his comrade, his soulmate.

His engineer.

"Let's go," Martín says, hoisting a small duffel bag over his shoulder and walking out the door – like it's no big deal to leave this life behind. Like it was just a matter of time anyway.

Andrés glances at the door to the bedroom. Closed, not a sliver of light peeking out from beneath.

"Your friend—"

"He'll get over it."

They both know it's a lie.

--

It's a long way to Sergio's.

The road stretches ahead, tightly-wound and coiled like a snake. It'll take them a few days, two – maybe three.

"All roads lead to Rome," Martín says, fingers flexing around the steering wheel. He settled into the driver's seat with the same ease – the same age-old routine – with which Andrés headed for the passenger seat.

It makes something flutter inside Andrés's chest. Something like hope.

Maybe not all is lost, between them.

(Maybe he wasn't lying when he told Martín they would be okay.)

--

Martín's eyes are uncomfortably bright, his tone laced with affection when he speaks about the others. It's something Andrés has rarely ever managed to summon for anyone: genuine fondness.

Sergio, he loves because they grew up together. Because they are brothers, forged in their mother's iron womb.

Martín, he loves because how could he not? Martín is ingrained in his soul, as integral to his survival as his liver, his heart, his mind.

Which brings the list of people he cares about up to two.

Much too few for a man over fifty.

"It'll be nice to see Sergio again," Martín says. "And Raquel too, of course. Haven't seen them in a while. Ever since they've had their brat."

He glances at Andrés.

"Congratulations, I guess. You're an uncle!" He beams, teeth flashing. "Sergio, huh? Who'd have thought?"

The news doesn't rouse anything in Andrés.

Nothing but a sense of emptiness, a hollow ache. It's like the world wants to tell him:

See? Life goes on.

There are little reminders of it everywhere: Helsinki's limp, the gray in Martín's hair. And now Sergio's child.

His life is a dream: He tries to run, but his feet are weighted down with lead. All he can do is hang back and watch as everyone else moves on.

Without him.

"Boy or girl?" He asks. It seems like a safe question, a neutral subject.

"A boy. He's—" Martín cuts himself off, shakes his head. "Nevermind. We were actually there when he was born, Mirko and I. The worst game night of my life! I barricaded myself in the kitchen when it started. Couldn't stomach all that blood and piss and – well, you know."

Andrés's hands clench in his lap.

He wishes Martín would stop talking. But he continues, unfazed by Andrés's silence. Or maybe spurred on by it.

Time seems to have turned him tone-deaf.

"I keep in touch with the others too," he says. "Rio and I go fishing every other month. And Stockholm's phone calls have become bearable now that Cincinatti's a bit older and doesn't wail like a fucking police siren."

Martín sounds like he's talking about his relatives: my nephew, my step-brother, my sister-in-law.

Mi familia.

Andrés tries to imagine it, tries to take this stencil and superimpose it onto his own life.

If it had been him… If he had been there, after the Mint, would he have taken Rio fishing? Would Nairobi have invited him over for a glass of wine?

Would any of them have wanted him in their life?

(He knows the answer.)

The banda seems to have accepted Martín into their lives – into their hearts – more than they did Andrés. He may have had their grudging respect, but it's Martín they'll follow blindly, loyally.

Andrés closes his eyes, leans his head against the window.

"You've made friends."

Despite his best efforts, it sounds like an accusation. And much needier than Andrés would have liked.

"It was hell, in there. It binds you together." Martín draws in a shuddering breath. "I'm glad you weren't there."

Oh, but Andrés was there.

He booked a tour, five months after the heist. He's seen the damage the Dalís did inside the Bank firsthand. They didn't fix all of it; some of the walls still hold gaping holes – even if they have been stuffed with plexiglas. It wouldn't do to erase all the traces of the most magnificent heist mankind has ever seen.

History demands to be remembered.

(Andrés demands to be remembered.)

"It was our plan," he says, bitter to the core.

Because which actor writes a script without imagining himself as the hero? Which artist paints portrait after portrait without immortalizing himself on canvas?

And which self-respecting thief plots a heist – an obra maestra – without taking the lead?

"You weren't there," Martín says again, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "It would have been different, with you."

Andrés knows him well enough to know that 'different', in this case, doesn't mean 'better'.

--

"One room will do," Martín says.

The desk clerk doesn't bat an eye. He beams at them before going back to his computer screen. He's unfazed; probably because he's blissfully unaware of their past and the demons that chase Andrés.

He doesn't know that they used to share rooms and beds and drinks all the time. That they used to be joint at the hip, inseparable.

The mere thought that this stranger can look at them and not see their special bond, the threads of fate wrapped around both of their hearts…

It makes him see red.

Because what if he's right? What if there's truly nothing left between him and Martín?

Three years is a long time.

Maybe Martín has become, to him, a literal stranger. Maybe he's changed into—

"Señor Rodríguez," – the desk clerk smiles and slides Martín's ID across the desk – "have a nice stay."

Martín grabs it and quickly stuffs it back inside his wallet.

He doesn't meet Andrés's eyes.

--

"So how long do we have left?"

Martín doesn't say 'you' – how long do you have left? It's we, like their lives are one and the same. Like there's no Martín without Andrés.

A week ago, Andrés would have believed that to be true.

But now he knows better. Because Martín didn't magically stop existing when Andrés wasn't around. He lived and laughed, and loved another man.

He was happy, without Andrés.

Andrés turns onto his other side, facing away from Martín. Now he's staring at the white wall in front of him. Which is better. Safer.

The bed is too small for two grown men, and Martín's body is a furnace – burning hot to the touch. Andrés fights the urge to fling off the covers and dangle his legs over the edge of the bed.

He heaves out a sigh; it cuts through the tense silence like a knife.

"Does it matter?"

"A year?" Martín pushes. "Or less?"

Andrés considers the question.

Truthfully, they could have twenty years left. Thirty, if he gives up the alcohol. But he loves his wine too much for that.

So yes, he has plenty of time now. He's just not sure he can offer it to Martín.

He isn't sure he wants to, anymore.

So much has changed.

(So much will never be the same again.)

Andrés closes his eyes, allows the darkness to swallow him.

"You've already made your choice," he says. "You left everything behind to follow a dying man. It hardly makes a difference if it's a life sentence or a one-week road trip."

It's not a lie, Andrés tells himself. Technically, he is dying. Martín is, too. Everyone is.

Semantics.

The bed shifts again, and a moment later Andrés feels Martín's arm around his waist. The weight is surprisingly comforting.

Martín moves closer still, presses his forehead between Andrés's shoulder blades. When he speaks, Andrés can feel his lips against his bare skin.

"One week with you is worth more than all the time in the world."

Andrés wishes that were true.

--

"What about Barcelona?"

"Barcelona?"

"Barcelona," Martín says again, hissing the fricative for good measure.

Andrés takes a sip of his juice. He's stalling.

They're having breakfast – one of those continental hotel buffets with stale champagne and a variety of bland-looking cereals. Andrés piled his plate with semi-fresh fruit and a bowl of oatmeal; Martín opted for toast and sausages.

Andrés sighs. Fine. He'll bite:

"What about Barcelona?"

"You've taken me to see Miró so often I practically know the museum's layout by heart," Martín says, eyes shining bright. "We could slip in at night, get your favorites. And afterward: Amsterdam. For a matching Rembrandt."

The juice turns sour on Andrés's tongue.

A feeling of vertigo crashes over him, so harsh and violent it tilts his world on its axis. Only the sailors in the Storm on the Sea of Galilee can fathom the extent of his inner turmoil. The frenzied desperation, the helplessness.

He remembers another life, another meal, another conversation: we have to talk and you bore me.

You're not enough.

Andrés takes a napkin and delicately dabs at the corner of his mouth in a semblance of dignity. He forces a smile, as wide as he can manage.

And then he does what any self-respecting man would do when backed into a corner: he lashes out.

"Why stop there, hmm? Why not have a bacchanalia, too?" He asks, too loudly; heads are turning in their direction. "We'll dance in the woods like savage gods, as naked as the day we were born. We'll kill a deer and wear its hide, and when we fuck we'll roll around in its blood."

He can't stop.

His mind is bedlam – a pandemonium of negativity and destruction that's threatening to drown him. It rises up inside of him, black tendrils squeezing his chest, his heart, his soul, until there's nothing left of him but an overwhelming sense of self-hatred – something Andrés has never known before.

Martín gapes at him. The whites of his eyes are huge, his jaw is quivering with pent-up tension.

Andrés takes a deep breath.

"I'm going to get our things," he announces. "I'll meet you at the car."

The real instruction lies between the lines:

Don't follow me.

--

It's raining when he meets Tokyo again.

Martín steers the car onto a small trail verging off from the main road. The gravel scrunches beneath the tires as mud and dirt burrow into the rubber.

The car comes to a stop in front of a cabin, deep in the woods. It reminds Andrés of the witch's hut from Hänsel and Gretel. Its outsides are bright and bold as though to spite the gray sky; the chimney breathes out a white fog, as billowy as candy cotton.

Martín gets out of the car and slams the door shut behind him with such force that the whole thing rattles.

Andrés watches him jog the few meters to the cabin's door – and yet he isn't quick enough to escape the rain's harsh flagellation. The torrent paints a disgruntled frown onto his face, plasters his hair to his forehead.

He looks like a drowned dog.

Sighing heartily, Andrés detangles himself from the seatbelt and resigns himself to meet the same fate.

And indeed: his clothes are wet and sticky when he ducks beneath the roof's overhang. He turns to Martín – a crabby comment poised on the tip of his tongue – when the door swings open. Martín pushes inside immediately, without stopping for pleasantries.

Which leaves Andrés out in the cold.

With Tokyo.

Her hair is shorter than Andrés remembers, but her eyes retain the same fox-like cunning they held all those years ago.

She looks Andrés up and down.

"You're alive," she says.

"So are you," he says.

Surprisingly, there's no hostility between them. Morbid curiosity, yes. After all, everyone would have agreed that out of their whole banda, they are the two most likely to die a violent death.

The silence is broken by a cacophony of noises: slamming cupboard doors, the clang of glass bottles…

Tokyo arches an eyebrow and jerks her head to indicate the racket coming from – what Andrés supposes to be – the kitchen.

"What crawled up his ass and died?"

Andrés rolls his eyes and pushes past her, into the house.

--

They have an unspoken agreement, him and Tokyo.

They don't talk about the Mint or the Bank, they don't mention Andrés's act of martyrdom, or the shrapnel scars peppering Tokyo's arms and neck.

Instead, they pretend that this is normal. That they are sitting down for mulled wine and homemade cheesecake all the time.

Martín disappeared into the spare bedroom right away, a bottle of whiskey in each hand.

"And how's his…?" She mimes taking a swig.

Andrés frowns. Sure, they've had a glass of wine or two at the hotel. But that's a nightcap, not an excess.

Tokyo's expression softens.

"He crashed, after the Bank," she explains.

Her fingers tip-tap-tip against the rim of her glass. Andrés wants to lunge forward and snap every single bone in her hand to make her stop.

"I guess it's like watching your kid go off to college. Suddenly you don't have anything to keep you going. All you have left is yourself and a pile of memories."

"He had Helsinki."

Tokyo snorts into her wine, and suddenly Andrés resents her a little less.

"Oh yeah, must've been a great relationship," she says. "I love the big guy, but can you imagine what their conversations must have been like? A 'genius' like Palermo – he must have been bored out of his mind."

"There's more to a relationship than titillating conversation."

Tokyo's lips curl into a wolfish smirk with just a hint of teeth, and her eyes darken like she's scented blood.

"Have you two fucked yet?"

"And what makes you think I'd tell you?"

"That's a no then," she sing-songs. "I bet that's why he's like that. He needs a good d—"

"Thank you for the wine, Tokyo. I can see I expected too much of your conversational skills."

He gets up and marches toward the guest room. Tokyo's voice follows him like a persistent stench:

"Don't do it tonight! Keep it in your pants until you're somewhere else!"

--

Martín is still awake.

He's got his back turned to the door – to Andrés – but there's a strain to the set of his shoulders.

Andrés's heart sinks. It's selfish, but a part of him hoped that Martín would already be fast asleep. Because Andrés isn't ready for… this. Whatever may lie ahead.

He crosses the distance to the bed – it might as well be the Rubicon – and slips in behind him. Then he drapes an arm around Martín's waist and pulls him back against his chest.

Martín tenses. Huffs out an annoyed laugh, barely more than a puff of air.

"Do I look like a pregnancy pillow? I'm not your fucking teddy bear, so kindly fuck off—"

"Shut up," Andrés says and surprisingly, Martín does.

Silence rushes in, loud and deafening.

Andrés hesitates. He closes his eyes and wonders if this is what he wants. Wonders, too, if what he wants even matters anymore.

He slips his hand inside Martín's pants, almost shyly, and for the next few minutes neither of them speaks.

The air grows stifling hot, damp with muted gasps and moans and grunts. Martín is burning up, a wildfire, and Andrés leans his forehead against his neck, squeezes his eyes shut.

The moment seems to last forever.

Once it's done, Martín turns around to look at him with bright, trusting eyes. He slowly leans in and slants his lips across Andrés's.

Andrés thinks they might be okay after all.

--

Their lunch consists of stale chips, hot dogs and red bull.

Andrés shifts in his seat, crosses and uncrosses his legs in an attempt to get comfortable. To no avail – these booths weren't made for prolonged sitting.

The gas station is empty save for the two of them and a teenage boy behind the counter.

Martín takes a bite of his hot dog. There's a smudge of Ketchup on his upper lip, as red as blood. Andrés can't look away.

They eat in companionable silence. Martín finishes his lunch with impressive gusto while Andrés sporadically sips at his drink.

"Tell me," Martín says once they're done. It's not a question, which is how Andrés knows he's being serious.

Still, he tries to laugh it off.

"Really, Martín? You want to have this conversation now? Here of all places?"

He sweeps out his arms as if to say look at this, there's chewing gum stuck to the napkin dispenser, the leather upholstery is cracked and dry, and the smell of burnt meat and rotten pastries poisons the air.

Martín grins, just this side of sheepish, but doesn't back down.

"I'm not going to sit there like a fucking fool when you tell Sergio."

He wants to be the first to know. To be the keeper of Andrés's secret. His sin eater.

Andrés sighs, and settles back in his seat.

"What do you want to know, hmm?" He asks, taking care to keep his tone neutral. "How the bullets tore through my flesh? How I prayed for a quick death and was denied? How the pain crippled me and left me bed-ridden for months?"

Martín doesn't bat an eye.

"And after?"

"They transported me to another hospital. You remember that trick I showed you? The dislocated thumb?"

Something like guilt flashes across Martín's face, but it's gone in an instant.

"I escaped," Andrés goes on – his not-so-grand finale. "And now I live to tell the tale."

"And how much of that is true?" Martín asks, cutting straight to the point. He's always seen right through Andrés's pretenses. It's a gift and curse alike.

Andrés smiles and shakes his head, tightens his lips into a thin line. He's said too much already.

Because Martín has said it himself: he can't stomach all the blood and piss and—

Well, you know.

--

"Move."

"Is this going to become a habit?"

Andrés hisses when Martín's feet – as cold as ice – bump against his shins.

"Don't be so prissy," Martín snaps. "It's your own fault for getting us separate bedrooms. Now, warm me up?"

Of course Andrés knows what he means – he's no sheltered young thing; he can hear the flirtation in Martín's tone, the come-on.

He pretends not to.

Instead, he wraps his arms around Martín and pulls him close, tucks his head under his chin. Martín settles.

"Are you excited to see your brother again?" Martín asks a few minutes later. His voice is small and sleepy, melodious in its exhaustion.

Andrés sighs.

"I was excited to see you," he confides in lieu of answering. "It's been so long I'd forgotten what your voice sounded like."

Minutes pass.

"I died. We all did, officially." Martín says quietly. His breath is hot and damp against Andrés's skin. "How did you find me anyway?"

"I know you."

"You know your brother, too."

Andrés shakes his head – as much as their position will allow. His cheek rubs against the crown of Martín's head; his hair tickles Andrés's skin. It's nice. Calming.

"Sergio is a chameleon. He can make himself into anything," he says. "But you… You'd never live far from the sea. You can't resist a good bottle of Malbec, just like you'll always be the first in line at the Automechanika. You're allergic to eggplants, and old black-and-white westerns make you cry.

"So you see," he finishes, "I know you."

His words are met with silence. Andrés thinks Martín may have fallen asleep – until he sniffs and tightens his grip around Andrés's waist, clinging to him.

"I know you too," he whispers fervently, and it's only then that Andrés realizes the true meaning behind his own words.

Ah. He supposes a language is never truly forgotten. It's muscle memory, and now it's all coming back to them: the things only they will understand.

--

Pondering the cruel irony of life (and not for the first time), Andrés sits down on the stone steps leading up to the abandoned house, and tilts his face skyward.

It's raining.

Which, he supposes, is only fitting.

It reflects his mood, anyway. The solitude that has been nesting inside the chambers of his heart for a while now – ever since he woke up in a military hospital, alone and forgotten. It has been gnawing away at his insides, just like the overcast has been gnawing away at the sky, plunging it into a deep purple.

But ah, the incivility of grief.

Martín sits down next to him, stretches out his legs. He pats the pockets of his jackets in search of something, then proceeds to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He lights one.

"You started smoking again," Andrés says.

Martín shrugs. He doesn't even have the decency to look sheepish.

"Got them while we were getting gas." A pause. "Mirko didn't like it when I smoked."

Andrés wrinkles his nose.

"I don't like it either."

Martín offers him a bitter smile, but doesn't stop.

"Wanna look for your brother?" He asks on an exhale; white smoke rises in the air between them. "They probably moved into a bigger place. The garden's too small for two children and a senile grandmother."

Andrés shakes his head.

"No," he says. There's a finality to it that burrows deep into his marrow. It's an ending, a defeat – a failure.

Sergio has moved on.

He has stopped believing in Andrés.

He has turned his back on their past, cutting Andrés out of his life like a parasitic twin.

And Andrés can't blame him.

Because he's no longer the man he used to be. His soul is old and weary, and he knows with sudden clarity that this is the moment he has dreaded all his life:

He has grown up.

There's no point in denying it any longer.

Feeling like he has aged twenty years in the blink of an eye, Andrés gets up and climbs the last few steps to the front-door. It swings open without a fight, and he crosses the threshold with a sense of solitude curdling in the pit of his stomach.

There's nothing there. Just the bare bones of an old house: high beams, glazed tiles, wooden floorboards... Dust bunnies skitter down the hall, chased by the draft coming from the open door.

It's almost impossible to believe that this place used to brim with life. Did Sergio take his breakfast in that nook over there, milk and cookies, his bare feet shuffling along the floor? Did the Inspectora sit on the large windowsill, knees drawn up to her chest as she gazed outside, thinking back to her time with the policía? And did their children run around the house like human whirlwinds, their laughter bouncing off the walls, lively and innocent and—

His gaze catches on a set of notches in the kitchen door, marking the growth of a child.

No.

Two children.

Paulita, and then there's another, shorter one for—

Andrés's breath catches in his throat. Slowly, he reaches out to trace the letters. His finger trembles against the wood.

"They named him after you," Martín says, appearing beside him. "I didn't want to tell you. It's not my place."

And just like that, the storm inside Andrés quietens.

He closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. Dust tickles his nose; it mingles with the lingering traces of cleaning supplies, a damp sterility. And a waft of cigarette smoke, sweet and familiar.

He turns to Martín.

There's a rosy tint to his cheeks, courtesy of the brumal weather. The edges of his hair – slightly damp – are hanging into his eyes. His gaze is piercing as he tracks Andrés's movements around the room, waiting.

He's always waiting. Even if he doesn't think he has anything to gain, that his reward may never come.

Andrés's chest tightens with a longing so strong, so overwhelming, it nearly drives him mad.

Beautiful, brilliant Martín.

The love of his life, still.

The love of his life, always.

Andrés thinks: this place is cold and empty, but it could be a home. He could stop running. He could be happy here, with Martín.

"What do you think?" He asks.

It takes a few long seconds, but then Martín's face splits into a smile so brilliant it puts the stars to shame.

"Well," he says, "the monastery was in worse shape when we moved in."

Andrés's lips twitch. His eyes are burning, and his throat feels too tight all of a sudden.

Still, he pushes on:

"Tell me we'll be okay," he says.

Martín doesn't hesitate. His voice is firm and assertive, glowing with decades worth of love:

"We'll be okay."

And, impossibly, Andrés still believes him.