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Martín remembered when he first saw Andrés on the news for their suicidal plan in the Mint.
He had been drinking since early that morning, the burning liquid a distraction from his mind. He didn't even remember turning on the television, but he was unable to move his eyes once Andrés was on his screen. His Andrés, or as most the world now knew him, Berlin. Martín dropped his bottle and shuffled towards the television, reaching his hand out to the static screen and tracing the shape of Andrés' face.
For the next few days, Martín barely drank. Rather, watching the news religiously following the reports of not one but two deaths among the assailants. He scowled every time they spoke of Andrés, spreading lies about his friend. His soulmate. Calling him all sorts of despicable things. Martín was a fool, and he knew Andrés was far from a good man, but he was a better man than what the media was painting.
His world came tumbling down when reports of the gang escaping began to appear, with the army closing in on the Mint and shots being exchanged. For hours they reported how one of the robbers had been shot but would not release a name until the army finished their pursuit of the other members. They of course, never caught them. Martín knew Sergio. Every surviving member of his crew was no doubt on a boat by now, under the protection of international law. The Spanish justice system stood no chance. Then he saw the flash of Andrés face on screen before it cut to them removing a body from the Mint in a body bag. Andrés' body. He fell forward on his knees and unplugged the television as fast as he could, his chest suddenly caving in on itself and his vision blurring. The room began to spin, and he stumbled into the kitchen and reached for the first bottle he touched and drank as much as he could before he needed to breathe again.
Andrés was dead.
Martín began to cry, choking on his sobs as he fell to the floor, clutching onto the bottle. He began to claw at his skin, feeling trapped by his grief and the weight of the loss suddenly coming down on his. When Andrés left, he was alive and mostly well. There was a chance that Martín may one day see him again. Now? Now. Andrés was dead. His smart, sharp, and cruel Andrés was gone.
"I'm sure that one way or another, time will bring us back together."
That was the last thing that Andrés ever said to him. He was wrong. Andrés was wrong, time would never bring them back together, instead it made it impossible. He would never see Andrés again. He would never hear him laugh, never see him smile when he finally found a solution to a problem, the way he would talk about the taste of wine and the meaning behind art. Martín would never experience any of that again.
The next year of Martín's life blurred together. Between blackouts and violent burst of anger, he became a shell of his former self. His knuckles seemed to be permanently bruised from hitting different objects during his outbursts, littered with small white scars where he cut them a little too deep. His eyes were dark and sunken, the once bright spark he had now hidden under dark bags and dry, red eyes. He managed to shave most days; he didn't know why he bothered most of the time. Perhaps it was a way to show himself that he did have some control over his life, even if he felt like he was constantly falling.
Martín was dozing off when there was a knock at his door, barely audible over his music. He let out a sigh as he climbed onto his feet and walked over to the door, cursing as he accidentally kicked the leg of the couch. He was hoping it was the new vinyl’s he ordered, swaying his hips to the music a little as he reached the door. The small smile he had vanishing as he opened to the face of Sergio.
They stared at each other for a moment before Sergio spoke his name. Martín bit down on his lip and dragged his tongue across his teeth. The anger bubbling inside him was dangerous but not as dangerous as the grief that was crawling up his throat. He turned back to his room, gazing at the mess he was currently living in before he walked back, leaving the door open for Sergio to follow. He turned when he heard the door close and saw Sergio was a few steps behind him gazing around the room, no doubt judging him some more.
"You want a drink?" He asked Sergio, opening the fridge and deciding to drink some milk. At least he was 80 percent sure it was milk. Sergio just shook his head and Martín shrugging, taking a swig of the milk from the bottle, staring at Sergio as he drank it. Martín looked him up and down. He hadn't changed on bit the past three years, still as shifty as he had always been. This man had been a brother to him for so many years and now all he represented was pain and suffering.
What on earth did he want?
"It was a beautiful heist, huh?" He asked, stepping closer.
"And I'm glad you alive.' Martín continued, though he didn't know if he really meant it. This man was the reason he was alone, and the reason Andrés was dead. Sergio thanked him, shifting awkwardly as he always has and Martín just titled his head further back, "Of course, the rat that hides outside always has a better chance of surviving, right?"
Martín could feel the anger bubbling up inside him. Three years, since he last saw him, and he had the audacity to show up at his door and claim that he was the most exposed during the heist. That he was in the most danger, as if his brother's body was not littered with bullets. He was a coward to the core. Martín said as much as he approached him further, not breaking eye contact with Sergio once.
Martín began to tear up as he began to recall the news clips of Andrés' body on the news, "and because, you had him do the dirty work. Your brother."
Martín grew angrier as Sergio regarded the death as a 'contingency', "A third of your crew died and you did nothing, not a fucking thing!"
He was shaking with anger, his face a few inches from Sergio. He and Andrés had the same eyes, their mothers’ eyes. Martín snapped when Sergio said he felt the same as he did. How could he? He wasn't the one pushed to the side, used and disregarded because his brother had whispered in his ear. It was his fault Andrés had left him. He was the reason Martín was burdened with pain and grief. Drowning his sorrows in alcohol. Martín turned and began to throw his papers off their shelf, shouting at Sergio.
"I wouldn't have let him die!" Martín proclaimed, standing in front of Sergio again, "I'd have gone in and gotten him out. You let him die."
Sergio just stood before him as Martín hurled abuse at him, at his crew, his gaze not breaking, and it just riled Martín further. How could he stand here before him after what he did. He ruined what they had.
"He was my friend." He was now pointing at Sergio, moving closer, "He was everything to me. He was my other half. Look me in the eyes and tell me you never thought of it. That he'd let himself get killed."
Tears were beginning to well in Sergio's eyes, "I didn't consider my brother's death. Not even once."
A tear fell down Sergio's cheek and Martín's bottom lip began to quiver, he had to break eye contact with Sergio as guilt began to take over him.
A small sob escaped his lips and Martín closed his eyes, trying to stop the tears from rolling. He reached forward and hugged Sergio, crying into his jacket as he did so, the grief becoming overwhelming.
"I don't know how to live without him." Martín confessed, clutching to Sergio's jacket and Sergio gripped his robe. The hugged for a moment, Martín's anger cooling as he realised what he had said to Sergio. Sergio adored his brother, sure they fought but he cared for him. He was the only family he had. He had lived with the brothers for years, he knew while they never said it out loud, they needed each other. Martín couldn't begin to imagine how hard his death must have been on Sergio, no matter how angry he was at him. He pulled away and held Sergio's face, stroking his cheek with his thumb.
"I'm sorry, it's not your fault either. You know that, right?" He cupped Sergio's face with both hands, forcing him to look at Martín, "It wasn't your fault, okay?"
Sergio's cheeks were wet with tears, and he looked defeated. Yet, he smiled at Martín.
They spoke for a moment, about themselves before Sergio revealed why he had come.
"I think he is alive, Martín."
Martín dropped his hands from Sergio's shoulder and began to shake his head, taking a step back, "Sergio, please."
"No, listen please!" Martín sat down on his couch, rubbing his eyes. He felt the couch dip down beside him and Sergio placed his hand back on his shoulder, "A member from my gang, Rio, was captured recently. I have had my crew try and find him and they did, but they also think Berlin is with him."
Martín shook his head, "You saw the body bag, the whole world did!" Martín exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air before gesturing towards the dusty television.
Sergio shook his head, and scooted closer, bringing his hands to his lap and rubbing them together, "We only saw the bag. There is no grave, no documents on where the body is buried, nothing."
"So, you think they faked it?" Martín chuckled.
"They have Rio in Algeria, torturing him and no one knows. Why would they give the leader of the gang that robbed them blind a trial when we have already gotten away? Why risk giving us more publicity?"
Martín came to a realisation, "Why not get your own payback..."
"Exactly! So, when they were searching for Rio, they came across Berlin's file and sure enough, the last file in it, regards his transportation to a new hell?"
Martín sat up, suddenly more sober than he has been in years, "So what are we going to do to get him out?"
Sergio smiled, "We're going to use your plan. Yours and my brothers plan."
The heist had been a disaster from the get-go. Martín was currently struggling to see out of both eyes, even though the glass had been removed. Nairobi, Tokyo and Denver were all furious at him, even going so far as to spit venom about him and Berlin. Which was another issue. They didn't know that Berlin was also about to walk through the doors of the Bank of Spain with Rio. Martín was sworn to secrecy by the Professor. They couldn't risk the secret of Berlin getting out, he was their most powerful card at the moment. If it got out that the Spanish government faked the death of a man just to torture him, the country would be in absolute ruin.
Rio came through the door first, his smile bright and full of hope. A few steps behind him, came Andrés. The gang didn't know how to react, the crowded around Rio first, pulling him in for hugs before opening their arms to Berlin. Who limped into their embrace, a small smile on his face. Martín stood at the foot of the stairs, watching everyone embrace, an empty feeling blooming in his chest.
He looked skinner than Martín remembered, his hair thinner and greying. Not that he would ever dare say that too Andrés. His eyes were darker, but they still had their unnerving spark. It was undoubtedly him. Just worn down by the Spanish government.
Berlin looked up and his smile fell when he finally saw Martín. Martín shrugged his shoulders and let out a weak laugh as he met Berlin halfway, his old friend pulling him in for a hug. Martín pretended that he couldn't feel Berlin's hands shake as he gripped onto his jumpsuit. Martín could feel the tears building in his eyes as he pulled away from Berlin, cupping his face in his hands before letting out a breathless chuckle. He stroked his cheek, careful to avoid a small nick on his cheek as he examined his face up close. He knew Andrés was doing the same to him when his cheek was being held and fingers were tracing the healing cuts on his face.
He was real. He was alive. Alive.
Martín went to speak before Berlin cut him off with a tut, "We'll talk later, Palermo." He dropped his hands and gave him a small smile before turning back to the gang to offer an explanation.
It was nighttime, two days later by the time Berlin and Palermo had finally gotten a chance to speak. Nairobi and Tokyo had been attacked by the psychopath Gandía. Gandía had since been contained again and was now being patched up by Helsinki, as was Nairobi who had been shot by snipers. Palermo was exhausted but couldn't waste the opportunity to finally speak to Berlin, to Andrés for the first time in years.
He sat down beside Berlin, who was resting against the wall as he tried to take him injection, the tremor in his hand preventing him from even puncturing the tubes lid. Palermo sighed as he took it from his hand and pulled the medication up the syringe, flicking the top to make sure no air bubbles were trapped, "Pull down your pants."
Berlin raised an eyebrow, but Martín didn't react, he just glared before pinching the skin of Berlin's leg and pushing the needle into the flesh. Berlin let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes as Martín pulled away, cleaning the injection site with an alcohol wipe before giving Berlin the all clear to pull back up his trousers.
"You're still mad at me." It wasn't a question, rather a statement. A correct one.
"And your still alive! I guess we're both stubborn bastard's," Martín shot back, sitting back down beside him but not looking at Berlin. He could feel his chest beginning to tighten and his throat get dry. He wasn't going to give Berlin the satisfaction of seeing him cry over him.
"I did what I had too. I thought it was for the best," Berlin continued, turning to face Palermo. Palermo didn't look back, rather he let out a bitter laugh, "You broke my heart, my soul. If you thought that was for the best, maybe some of your wives were right and you truly are a heartless bastard."
"Martín-"
"Palermo. No real names, no connections, remember?" Palermo shot back, turning to face Berlin who still had a smug smile on his face. Yet, despite his smile there was a sadness behind his eyes.
They stared at each other for a moment, Berlin's eyes exploring Palermo's face before his smile faltered into a small frown, his brows furrowing slightly as he reached his hand out and touched the cuts under Palermo's eyes. Palermo winced but Berlin didn't pull away, he let his hand drag down his face before it fell off and he just sighed, gripping his hands and chuckling.
"You know, the gave me some experimental drugs? Clearly it has kept me alive, unfortunately. Their mad doctors, if you can even call them that said I would make it too old age, but my hand tremors would stay for the most part."
Martín dropped his gaze to the shaking hands, "You would rather be dead, than have to live with some tremors?"
"I'd rather be dead than enduring what I did in the hands of the Spanish government," Berlin answered swiftly, causing Palermo to avoid his gaze again. In his anger he had forgotten Berlin had been in the custody of the Spanish government for over two years. He had witnessed Rio break already after a few months; he couldn't begin to imagine what it must have been like for Berlin. Being kept alive just so he could be tortured and belittled, day in and day out.
Palermo reached out and took one of Berlin's hands and sandwiching it between his own. Berlin titled his head and rested it on Palermo's shoulder, "I thought you were dead," He mumbled.
Berlin gave a brief nod, "You and the rest of the world."
Martín chuckled, "I had a whole speech prepared for when I saw you again."
"Oh yeah?" Berlin smirked, gazing up at him, "No doubt calling me a coward and weak, yeah?"
"I hated you. I despised you for so long, after you left," Martín said so quietly he wasn't sure Berlin even heard but he continued, "The first few weeks I prayed you would come back. That you would see sense and realise that your brother was wrong."
"When you didn't come back, I grew angry and began to curse you. I took everything you had left behind at the monastery and smashed it, what I didn't smash, I burned. Eventually the monastery began to close in on me and I had to leave. I drowned myself in alcohol and easy men but none of it stopped the pain. And for that, I hate you."
"I hated that you made me feel so small, so insignificant. That you played me for a fool just to toss me aside. Not just at the monastery but all your marriages before. When they crumbled, I was the one you would come back to but I was always first you turned your back on every time you fell in love."
Martín could feel Berlin staring at him, he nudged him off his shoulder and stood up. He rubbed his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose as he paced back and forth before Berlin who was just watching him with the same patient look, he always had.
"But what I hated most, " He sighed, dropping his hand, and looking at Berlin through watered eyes, "Is that after all this time I still care for you. As soon as Sergio had told me you were alive, I had forgiven you."
"Martín-"
"I'm going to leave," Martín interrupted, wiping his eyes, "We will talk, but later. I need some air..."
Palermo took a deep breath and began to walk towards the door when he heard stumbling behind him and soon there was a hand clinging to his wrist. He was spun back around until he was staring in Berlin's eyes. Berlin stood in front of him for a moment before snaking a hend up Palermo's back and resting it on his neck. Pushing their heads forward until their foreheads were touching.
"I did what I thought was right, I wanted to protect you from my illness."
Martín scoffed and pushed himself away, "Protect me? Andrés, I was there when you got the diagnosis! I was the one who buttoned your shirts, tied you laces and fixed your suits when your hands started to shake a little too much."
"You didn't want to protect me, you were afraid." Martín spat, poking a finger in Berlin's chest.
"Afraid? Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of being with me? What would everyone say if they heard that the womanizer, Andrés de Fonollosa, is in love with a man. The glorious, Andrés is a fruit, a fag!" Martín laughed, waving his hands about as he moved closer to Andrés again, their noses nearly touching, "You were afraid of no longer being seen as some strong alpha male and that's fine, Andrés, really. It is. But don't disguise your cowardice as something noble."
Berlin stared at him for a moment, his lips stretching out into a smug smile, "You think I was afraid to be seen with a man?"
"What else?" Martín challenged.
Berlin bit his bottom lip for a moment as he thought of what to say before he looked up at the decorated ceiling of the office they were in, "When I first got diagnosed, I thought back to how defeated my father was when he learnt of my mother’s diagnosis. She had cheated on him, and yet he still cried and grieved her even though she was still alive. I remember watching how defeated he was as my mother reached her final days."
"He was grieving a love they once had, and I didn't want that for us." Andrés confessed.
Martín stared at him for a moment, watching as the man closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking at Martín again, "I knew you would stay at my side, no matter how bad I got because of my disease. I know how much it would hurt you to watch me slowly fade. And call me selfish but I couldn't stand the thought of you in pain."
"Couldn't stand the thought-" Martín gasped, "I cried for weeks, I near drank myself to death after you left because of the sheer pain I was in. Hell, I nearly chewed a bullet to try escape the crushing feeling of abandonment. My chest hurts now just thinking of you leaving again."
"I thought it would be better to leave, I thought you would move on!"
"Well, you thought wrong." They were now yelling at each other, their noses still brushing against each other occasionally. Martín's chest was rising up and down rapidly, his mind racing.
"So, what do you want me to say, Martín? To lie and say it is because I am ashamed to be in love with you? Since when have I ever been ashamed of being in love?"
Martín stepped back, his mouth ajar. Andrés stared at him in annoyance, following Martín’s steps, "Huh, do you have no response?"
"You said you love me." Martín muttered. Andrés opened his mouth to speak but swiftly closed it, ducking his head and staring at his shoes for a moment. He worried his bottom lip as he stepped forward to Martín who was still staring at him in shock. He reached his hands up and cupped his face, "Of course I do."
Martín slapped his hand away, his eyes wet with tears once more, "You don't get to do that."
"Do what?"
"You don't get to say you love me after what you put me through!" Martín yelled, punctuating each word with a slam of his foot. He stood for a moment, his bottom lip quivering before he took a step forward and rested his head on Andrés’s shoulder.
"I hate you so much," Martín muttered as he cried into Berlin's shoulder. Berlin pulled him into a hug, nuzzling his face into the crook of Martín's neck as the other man cursed him up and down for all the pain he caused, and he took it. Because he may be a proud man, but he knows he did wrong. And while this one conversation wouldn't fix it, it was a start.
After a few minutes of holding each other, Martín pulled away and rubbed his eyes on the sleeve of his jumpsuit. He stared out the office window for a moment before turning to Andrés.
Andrés cleared his throat, "We will talk more once we're out of here, for now, we both need rest."
Martín nodded his head in agreement and with that Berlin walked out of the room. Martín waited a few moments after Andrés, Berlin, had left before he sat back down on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. His mind was racing with a million different thoughts. He was angry at Andrés, to the point where he considered chasing him down the hall and punching him as hard as he could. But then, he had the painful twinge in his heart when he thought about him. His smile, his laugh, he would be a fool to say he didn’t still have feelings for him.
His ears were ringing and head pounding, so much so that he didn’t notice Stockholm come into the room and crouch down in front of him. He jumped back when her hand rested on his leg, letting out a broken yelp. She looked worried.
“Are you okay?” She asked after a moment and Palermo just shook his head, trying to get his breathing back under control. This was ridiculous. He was meant to be the team leader, and here he was on the brink of a panic attack because his brain is broken.
She scooted closer to him and wrapped both arms around him. Martín leaned into the touch, taking slow deep breaths as she stroked her fingers through his hair. After a few minutes he pulled away, Stockholm still keeping her hand on his arm as she waited patiently.
Martín had no idea why she tolerated him. He had been nothing but rude to her and the other women in the gang. But she had always claimed that Martín didn’t really mean what he said. Which was true but not something he would ever admit too out loud.
“Did you need me for something?” He asked, scratching the back off his neck.
“Just some stuff with the gold but it can wait if you need some time,” She assured, her voice as strong and calm as ever.
Palermo gave her a weak smile and shook his head, “The last thing I need is time to myself, walk with me and explain what is wrong.”
The next time Palermo and Berlin spoke was when they were both in the basement, watching as Martín genius came to fruition and the pump worked its magic. They both pulled each other into an embrace as they jumped up and down, the rest of the gang celebrating around them. Their plan finally coming to an end. They had done it.
Berlin rested his forehead against Martín’s and closed his eyes. Martín couldn’t stop his smile. There plan had worked. The months of planning, the years of hurt, finally seemed worth it. Andrés opened his eyes and his smile brightened when he looked at Palermo.
“You did it.” He remarked. Martín shook his head, “We did it. We finally did it!”
They pulled each other into another hug, Martín pulling away first and planting a small kiss on Andrés’s cheek. They were soon distracted by Denver breaking out into song, the rest of their crew joining in. It wasn’t in their nature to ignore a good song. They held onto each other, swaying as the whole room filled with joy and music and for the first time in a long time, Martín was happy.
It was short lived following the army breaking into the bank and the crew all being ruffed up and bullied by that bastard Gandía and the other soldiers. Yet, with all his brains and genius, Sergio got them out. They all got free, with the gold. They were truly free without consequence. They could never set foot in Spain again, but it was a small price to pay for their freedom. Now, they were all on a boat heading their new home.
Martín sat beside Andrés on the helicopter and despite his best efforts, he fell asleep on his shoulder. When he began to wake up, he overheard the conversation between Andrés and Nairobi.
"-he always avoided speaking about you, not out of anger but pain. You could see it in his eyes."
"A pain I caused, and I will amend, I assure you."
"So, it's true then?"
"What is true, my dear?"
"That you two were together."
"Not exactly."
"But there was something."
"There was, and maybe still is."
Martín felt like he had heard too much, much more than he was intended to hear so he stirred his head and slowly opened his eyes. He gazed around for a moment before lifting his head and stretching out his now aching back.
"Morning sleeping beauty," Nairobi teased before Tokyo cut in, "More like beast."
Martín scowled at her, but he was not awake enough to snap back at her, at least not yet. He leaned back and turned his head to Andrés and gave him a dopey smile before he leaned in and whispered, "We really did it."
Andrés laughed and leaned his head on top of Martín's as he whispered back, "We did."
When they arrived at their new home, an Island off the south coast of Italy, Andrés instantly grabbed Martín and took him into the kitchen to talk while the rest of the gang explored the house. Andrés was just glad they had the sense to give him and Martín some much needed space to talk about where they went from here. In the kitchen, Martín leaned against the counters as he watched Andrés’s pace back and forth for a brief moment.
Andrés was a man of passion and while he was open with his expressions of love, it was a lot harder for him to show vulnerability and repent. The last time Martín had truly seen Andrés vulnerable was after his first divorce when he felt he had realised he didn't truly love his first wife.
"Martín, my friend," He began, stopping to stand in front of Martín, "I am sorry."
Martín was caught a little off-guard and furrowed his brows, "Pardon, what?"
"I said I'm sorry," Andrés repeated. Martín blinked for a moment; he wasn't sure if he had ever heard Andrés say those words. He didn't have a chance to respond, "I truly cared for you, and I still do Martín. I know I have hurt you beyond what words can heal but I hope we can remain friends."
Martín didn't respond again, instead he just stared at Andrés with soft eyes and a rapidly beating heart. Martín worried his hands, ducking his gaze from Andrés, his throat, tightening, "Just friends?"
This time, Andrés seemed to be caught off-guard as his attention snapped back to Martín, "You said you still love me, yes?"
"Yes, I do."
"Now ask me."
"Ask you what?"
"Ask if I love you."
"Jesus, Martín-"
"Do you want to know the answer or not?"
Andrés sighed, resting his hands on his hips, "Do you love me?"
"Against my better judgement, I do," he smiled sadly, looking at Andrés with soft eyes and a full heart.
"Helsinki is the only person I ever spoke to about what happened between us," Martín chuckled to himself, "After you came into the bank, he pulled me aside from everyone and asked if I was okay. He didn't seem convinced when I told him yes and he reminded me that I have a life away from you."
Andrés didn't even notice he was holding his breathe. He knew he was an arrogant and self-centred man, but he hadn't truly considered the possibility that Martín might not want to be around him anymore. The gang acted as if Martín was the worst person in the world sometimes, but he saw how they reacted when he played with Paula or Cincinnati, or how Denver or Rio would come to him for advice on certain issue or how Helsinki and Nairobi spoke to and about him. It was no secret that if he really wanted, he could now move on away from Andrés.
"The thing is, Andrés, is I don't want a life away from you."
Andrés let out a small sigh of relief and scooted closer to Martín so he could hold his face in his hands. Martín leaned into the touch, raising his own hands to hold Andrés' there.
"I want you to know, I'm still angry," Martín spoke, his thumb rubbing Andrés' knuckle.
"I know."
"It might not be like how it was before," Martín added, looking up with concern. Andrés nodded his head before resting his head on Martín's, "No, but it could be better."
Martín just smiled in response, his eyes welling with tears once again, but for the first time in a long time they were tears of joy. Andrés used his thumb to wipe away a stray tear, their eyes locked together. Martín began to lean in closer to Andrés, tilting his head ever so slightly. Andrés followed suit, connecting their lips in a short soft kiss. It was nothing like their first but somehow it was more intoxicating. They both pulled away, but their forehead's stayed touching and they said nothing for a few moments.
Andrés leaned in for another kiss, just a peck on the lips that last barely a second, but it nearly caused Martín's legs to buckle underneath him. He lifted his head and pulled Andrés into a hug and buried his face in his shirt, taking in the smell of him. Andrés' hand came up and stroked the nape of his neck as he muttered soothing and reassuring words into Martín's ear.
Just then, the kitchen door opened, and Sergio walked in. Both men looked at him as he stood frozen like a deer in headlights. He pointed his fingers awkwardly at them and then the door and then back to them, "I-I'm sorry, I thought you two went outside to join the others."
"It's fine, brother and quit acting like you just walked into a brothel," Andrés' scolded which caused Martín to chuckle. Sergio appeared to relax as he fixed his jacket and adjusted his posture while staring between his brother and Martín, "Are you two, okay?"
Both men shared a look, Martín throwing an arm confidently around Andrés' shoulder and they smiled, "Yeah, we're more than okay."