Chapter Text
Long, nimble fingers folding suit coat after suit coat, tears visible in both of their eyes: Andrés de Fonollosa, barely 18 now, had made the rigorous decision to move back to his father, after not having seen him for over six years. He loved his mother more than he could put into words - and regarding how much he spoke, regarding how much poetry he wrote, regarding how he usually always knew what to say, that meant a lot - and he already knew he was going to miss her dearly, but he still thought this was the only possible decision. His mother had found love again, after so many years of hardship, after years of heavy illness and tears, and she deserved to feel young and free again. Andrés was under no illusions: his mother loved him dearly (of course, he thought: how could she not, with such a perfect, lovely son as him?), but he also was aware how much children ruined a couple’s life, no matter if they were already of age, like he was. No, children made you dependent, whilst when you were in love, you wanted nothing more than to do whatever and go wherever you want, impulsively catch the next plane and dance on the streets on the other side of the world, buying your lover expensive gifts in Paris or New York. If Andrés was still at home, his mother would worry, no matter how old he was, no matter if he was alright on his own (it meant he could bring his girlfriends home, after all). He knew very well his parents had never really wanted him, no matter how much they loved him, he had not been planned for, his parents’ lifestyle before he was born made that clear enough: they had travelled the world, and then suddenly settled down. So, now, to apologise for being the nuclear warhead he had been to his mother’s life for 18 years now, Andrés had decided to move all the way from Florence, the city he had grown up in, all the way back to a small town near the outskirts of Toledo, the place where his roots were, too.
When he had proposed this to his mother, she had asked him to stay, told him he didn’t need to leave, that she loved him, that it didn’t matter if she had to stay in the same city that she was born in, for forever, if it meant she could still have him. But both of them knew this was unavoidable. It wasn’t that his step father was a mean, cruel man that hated him, no, not at all: Francesco was a nice person, who gave Andrés everything he could want, from classy three piece suits to stunning leather bound notebooks and art supplies. But the feeling lingered: his mother and Francesco needed to travel, and he needed to go to school, his last year, and then college or university after, if he wanted. And truly, it didn’t bother him all that much that he had to change schools so late: it wasn’t that he had a very tight knit group of friends. No, he had his girlfriend of the moment (though he regretfully was single now), and some people that he vaguely didn’t hate and that also didn’t really hate him. Really, he would only miss his mother, and the art of the city. And maybe he’d miss Francesco, just a bit, but he told himself that was only because the man had a huge fortune which he exploited that to buy the things he wanted and that his mom thought were quite a bit too dramatic for an 18 year old.
As his mother had closed the last of Andrés’ suitcases, she pulled him into a tight hug, wordlessly, and Andrés was grateful to hide his face in her shoulder. When they pulled apart, after a period of time that at the same time felt like a few seconds as well as multiple hours, she looked him in the eye. “I will miss you, darling, I will. I know you’ll be safe with Antonio, but please do call me from time to time, to tell me you’re okay, to tell me about how you are and--” “Mamá, you know I will, and I love you, but I really have to catch my train.” His mother chuckled, “I love you too, my beautiful, perfect son. I’d love to hold you in my arms for hours more, but I think Francesco has been waiting in the car for 10 minutes now, so maybe it is indeed time for you to go.” Andrés hugged his mother once more, and said her goodbye, promising her to indeed call, when she asked for that once more.
The trip to Toledo was relatively peaceful, and before he knew it, the plane was already landing. Deep down, he felt some fear coiling inside him, but he pushed it away, telling himself the feeling in his stomach was just because he was hungry, because he hadn’t eaten anything since in the afternoon, and it was later at night already. When he met his father, for the first time in years, it was a little… awkward. The majority of the ride to his father’s house was filled with silence and short answers (surprisingly; most people wouldn’t think Andrés had it in him) to not too deep questions that his father, of all people, should have known.
Arriving in Illescas, a small town near the outskirts of Toledo, it appeared the house hadn’t changed much over the course of the years, but once he entered the room where he once slept, the difference was striking. His father had changed his old, childish room into something he supposed most boys he knew would like. It was basic, black and white, and Antonio de Fonollosa explained that he had asked the local hardware and interior design store (because of course, those things would be one, in such a small town) to help him. He also told Andrés that, if he didn’t like it, he could go and look for something he did prefer. And he would, because Andrés already knew what he wanted to change about what was to be his room: paint the walls a dark shade of burgundy, buy copies of his favourite paintings (because sadly enough, for now, the real paintings weren’t an option) and buy a lot of little trinkets, buy a dark oak desk and make his room his own personal space. His father, a somewhat rough looking policeman, built relatively strongly for his age - the end of his fifties -, appeared to have nothing in common with Andrés, except their surname: where his father was tall and muscled, Andrés was skinny, and though he was of average height, he was definitely some ten centimetres shorter than his father. Whilst Andrés liked poetry and art, both consuming it and making it, his father appeared to prefer action movies, if the programme currently playing on the television was anything to go by. His father appeared to not give much thought to how he looked, still wearing his police uniform even though they were at the house, even though his working day had ended hours ago. No, it really didn’t look like Andrés was his son: Andrés had taken so, so much more after his mother, a tall, skinny woman with slightly curly dark hair and a passion for art and fashion.
The conversation with his father turned even more awkward when Antonio told him there was only one bathroom, and Andrés sighed. It wasn’t that he had grown up on absurd luxuries, no, not necessarily, but in recent years, when his mother had moved in with Francesco, he’d lived in a house of almost double the size of this one. Andrés was someone who slept relatively early, liked to wake up well-rested in the morning, and this… it meant he would have to get up in the middle of the night to dispose of the waste products in his body, so as to speak, just when he’d gotten used to be able to get a full night of sleep without any disruption. That night, after Andrés had been shown around the house, he went out for dinner with his father in the place they always used to eat, but it mostly was his ego that was fed: so many people told him he had turned into such a handsome young man, and whilst Andrés knew his worth, he still always liked that, being complimented, being praised.
The following day, he unpacked his suitcases, surprising his father with the amount of suits he had, as well as soft cashmere suits and several morning robes. When he said that this was only part of his wardrobe, it looked like Antonio de Fonollosa had never been more confused in his entire life: it appeared his son had more clothes than the clothing store in the village had. He bought Andrés a desk he liked more, and surprisingly, the hardware shop people brought it over right away. Andrés was just installing his art supplies (or rather, only a fraction of it, unable to bring more with him to Illescas), when he heard a car parking on their driveway, just shortly before his father shouted at him if he could come downstairs. When he saw two men - one somewhat older than himself, one of his father’s age - getting out of the car, he begged to whatever deity he didn’t believe in that his wasn’t some social visit of vague acquaintances of his father, or Antonio’s hand at trying to make sure his son had friends in the town.
It appeared he received his wish, even if it was doubtable if he deserved that, because his father announced that the old Jaguar car on the driveway would be his, if he liked it - and if he had his driving licence. Toledo, where he would be going to school, was some 30 kilometres away after all, and there weren’t many buses in the town to get him there. Francesco had demanded Andrés to get a driving licence, last year, and paid for it, even if Andrés had continued to irritate him constantly by telling him he would rather have someone drive him, that he didn’t need a licence to drive if he really wanted to. Now, in hindsight, he supposed he was not mad at his step father’s insistence, because even if it was an old car,or maybe because of it, it still was beautiful, the dark green polish still shining, the seats white leather. No, Andrés wasn’t a fan of cars in general, loathed those boys in his high school classes that wanted to become mechanics and that would always, always be talking about cars, but Andrés did care about aesthetics, and it was undeniable that this car fitted his aesthetics very well.