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‘The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’
Martín Berotte was not a liar, no. He would not deny that he had his particular ways to twist the truth, present it a little differently than it truly was, of course, but he never shied away from telling people the honest truth if he felt like telling them - that is, if he considered them worthy of even hearing his opinion. And if he didn’t like something, you’d definitely know, and the reason why, you would hear in a lot of detail too, often combined with a variety of rather impolite words. No, Martín usually didn’t sweet-talk his way out of things, that simply wasn’t his modus operandi (although, unless necessary; he was a thief after all).
But Andrés had always been his exception - for everything, really. He was the man Martín had fallen in love with, had been in love with for almost a decade now, even when Martín had sworn - and kept doing so - that love was fake, the sad hope of desperate young women that read too many romance novels, wishing for something simply unattainable, kept spreading his ”boom boom ciao” theory. But this wasn’t even about that matter, about hiding his love for Andrés for 10 years. Although, keeping that secret could not be seen as lying either: he simply had not said anything, since there was no use anyway, with Andrés being the straightest man on planet earth (or so Andrés pretended to be; Martín definitely had his doubts about this statement).
No, this was not about Martín Berotte’s greatest secret, this was about the fact that his best friend, his soul mate, Andrés de Fonollosa, had found himself a new hobby - cooking. Hypothetically, objectively, that was an amazing idea: Martín himself hated the concept of cooking, considered it a waste of his time. Sure, he knew some recipes, but why make a collegiate pasta with gross, artificial-tasting canned vegetables when you could order the best steak in a Michelin star rated restaurant, and it would be served on your plate without any effort, whilst in the meantime, you’re chattering away with your best friend, drinking great wines? Martín liked ordering in food too. Often, they were busy working on the plan until late, and when he felt he was close to a breakthrough, finding a solution for a problem that had been plaguing them, cooking was far from the one thing that was on his mind. He also simply loved that you could order the most delicious food, and it would be delivered in about the same time as making a much less fancy and tasteful meal by themselves.
Andrés, however, always dramatically opposed the idea of take-out, complaining how receiving food in carton boxes (how horrifying!) was a thing for students, that for real meals, the plating, the atmosphere of the restaurant, the flair and aesthetic was just as important as the food itself. Most of the time, Martín just chuckled, shaking his head. Sure, he also loved beautiful things (he loved Andrés, after all), but in some instances, practicality just was an undeniably important factor too, something Andrés did not like to admit. So, usually he told Andrés that it was either eating take-away or no food at all, because they were too busy to go to a restaurant. Then, he always tried to make it up to Andrés by ordering him something he knew Andrés loved - the tagliolini and lobster pasta from his favourite restaurant, or adding one of Andrés’ preferred fancy wines to the order. If the order sometimes became a little expensive because of that, well, that simply was the price to pay, because the concept of either of them cooking frankly was unimaginable, an impossibility.
Except it wasn’t anymore now. Martín didn’t know how or why exactly it had happened, but one day, out of nowhere, he found Andrés in the kitchen, unpacking what could only be described as an insane amount of shopping bags. “Martín,” his friend had exclaimed upon seeing him, a big grin on his face, “you can finally end that horrible habit of yours to order in food! We can start eating meals at home in a way that is worthy for us - presented artistically, delicious flavours on a beautifully organised platter, instead of the cheap carton boxes that are only suitable for college students.” Martín had no idea what the fuck was going on.
Truth be told, that was more often the case. Though he loved Andrés more than anything, knew him better than anyone else did -arguably even better than Sergio knew Andrés-, it occasionally remained a mystery even to him as to what was going on in his soulmate’s mind. Sometimes, Andrés would ramble for a while, excited like a kid on Christmas day, but missing the obvious point: what he even was talking about. Martín often managed to catch on halfway through, but it still remained confusing for a while. Luckily enough, this time, Andrés saw the confusion in Martín’s eyes - it must have been hard not to see it.
Flabbergasted, Martín spoke: “You are going to cook?”
Andrés had the gall to sound slightly irritated, replying “Yes, of course me, who else? You know Tatiana left me, you really don’t need to rub salt in the wound of my broken heart.”
“I was not referring to Tatiana at all. It’s just… you and cooking? What happened to going to the most expensive restaurants in every city you go to being your third favourite hobby?” Andrés smirked, “My dear friend, why do you consider those two things to be mutually exclusive? One can both create and consume art, why should it be different for meals, when cooking is similar to art, in more than one way? And for all I know, you are even unable to bake an egg. Are you even able to turn on the stove?” Martín chuckled: two could play a game, and he loved teasing his dearest friend. “Maybe I don’t. How about you show me how to turn on that stove then, eh? Since I am a layman who knows absolutely nothing, and you’re such a good cook?”
“Puta madre,” Andrés muttered underneath his breath, making Martín let out a loud laugh, which, in turn, earned him an exasperated look. Martín had been joking just now, but Andrés was beginning to get frustrated after the fourth time of trying – it turned out that switching on the stove was not just a matter of pressing one “on” button. They had moved into the monastery several years ago, but renovations were ever on-going, and even though Martín, like Andrés, could appreciate the aesthetics and the glory of such a historic building, Martín also was a man of practicality. That was why they had a company from the city install a new kitchen last year, including a modern stove, instead of one that you needed matches for. Well, it clearly appeared that lighting the matches was much less of an effort, in comparison to the confusion of turning on a stove. It shouldn’t be hard, Martín thought, it couldn’t be. But his friend was clearly getting increasingly frustrated as he was failing to do such a seemingly easy task. Deciding to save Andrés from any further suffering, he stood up from where he had been sitting on the table (a habit Andrés loved scolding him for), walking up to Andrés, putting his hand on Andrés’ back, tracing his fingers over it, in order to calm him down a little bit. “Hey, how about the manual? Do you know where we left it? I’ll check it and see what it says.”
“Who the fuck uses a manual?”
Martín chuckled: that was just such a typical thing for Andrés to say, with his love for improvisation. It actually was one of their few significant differences – Andrés preferred to improvise, but making it look like he had actually prepared and knew what he was doing, whilst Martín considered preparing, studying, planning things in advance to be extremely important, though he often played it off as casual improvisation. Yes, Martín thought, it was quite a difference, but it meant they fitted together like puzzle pieces – not exactly the same, but perfect complements. Usually, at least. “Cariño, I’m hungry and I was promised a good meal. So, unless you want me to order in anyway, which is completely fine by me, we will use the manual. Because turning on the stove seems quite essential for cooking, eh? Even me, a layman, like you said, knows that.” It earned him a look from Andrés that was partially genuine frustration – at not being able to do something, Andrés hated when that happened – as well as faked anger at Martín, for that statement. So, Martín made an equally fake apology after chuckling fondly, a big grin on his face, just to make Andrés give in and use the manual. Yes, whilst everyone always thought Andrés was the wordsmith out of the two of them, whilst Martín regularly preferred the numbers over words, he still knew how to convince his best friend easily, knew more than anything how susceptible to flattery Andrés was. And of course, Martín had to admit that it was exactly the same the other way around – Andrés barely needed to put in any effort to make Martín join him in whatever idea he had come up with then, even if it might not have been the rational option. Martín considered himself mainly a man of rationality, intelligence and science (though others would definitely disagree with this statement – with such a temper and attitude, you can hardly consider yourself rational, they would say), but around Andrés, he totally let go of that. With Andrés, it was all feelings, and Andrés barely needed to bat his eyelashes to make something happen. Only a “Martín, my dearest friend, I just had the most genius idea…” usually would be enough to make Martín chuckle fondly and go “Okay, let’s do it. Where do we start?”
So, having convinced Andrés, Martín decided to look for the manual, and find out why turning on a stove was an actual complex task. It turned out there was a so-called “child lock” on the stove, which Martín frankly thought was stupid – if children are stupid enough to play with a stove, out of all things, they deserved the burns they were at risk of. No need to make things increasingly complex for adults – the people who were actually supposed to use it. They now managed to turn it on in no time, and Martín was basically shoved out of the kitchen soon enough, Andrés telling him not to be a distraction. Amused by his friend’s antics – Andrés only ever did this when he really, really wanted to focus and perform well, usually he preferred to have Martín by his side at all times – Martín went to the chapel and to go over the Bank of Spain plans, pointedly trying to ignore the smell of burning coming from the other kitchen, ignoring the urge to check up on Andrés. Finally, about 1.5 hours later, Andrés called for him, telling him that it was time to eat “the most delicious meal he would ever taste”. Well, what could Martín say? He was hungry, and definitely wasn’t going to say no to supposedly good food.
A few minutes later, Andrés was looking expectantly at him and it took Martín all the willpower he had to swallow the spoonful of pasta that he had just put in his mouth. He hoped his expression was nothing like what his taste buds felt like – disgusted and very confused as to how someone could mess up a basic pasta. He himself wouldn’t deny he was not a cook either, but at least he had some skills. Martín believed Andrés was an amazing, intelligent, extremely talented person, but he also, undoubtedly, was the worst cook Martín had ever met. However, he tried to smile, make it real, because even though he didn’t like lying to Andrés at all, he also didn’t want to disappoint him, not when his friend seemed so proud and happy about his achievements. “It’s delicious, cariño,” he replied, knowing fully well that he had never eaten something as insanely bad, and considering that Martín had been a student many years ago – broke, lacking cooking skills and knowledge of recipes, and always hungry – that genuinely was an achievement, for sure. But, Andrés didn’t seem to catch onto the lie, basking in the false compliment like a cat in the sunlight. Of course he did, Martín thought fondly: Andrés always reacted to his approval like this. And that beautiful smile, the way it lighted up his entire face, Martín supposed eating this terror food was worth it. Although… maybe not every day. Definitely not every day. Because somehow some of the pasta was still too hard to eat, whilst other parts were severely overcooked, a sticky mess clumped together, and the sauce… Martín couldn’t make out what for God’s sake was in there, but considering the way it tasted… he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the ingredients. Andrés, however, seemed to be truly satisfied with what he made, enjoying it immensely. Martín wondered what the fuck was wrong with Andrés’ taste buds, because Andrés even took a second serving, and -without asking- gave Martín one too. He had really tried his best and seemed so happy, so Martín tried to keep his features schooled and finish the entire plate, even though he wanted nothing more than to vomit.
After dinner, Andrés was lounging on the settee, sipping from his glass of wine. Martín was on the arm chair opposite him, reading an engineering book, when the Spaniard spoke, “I will go to the city tomorrow and purchase more ingredients. I’ll make a four-course meal, and we can invite over Sergio, and Jakov, and Santiago… And I can cook something for the monks too! They will love to finally get such an amazing dinner, instead of those basic meals they usually get.” Martín hoped that right at that very moment, thunder would hit him from above, or that a sinkhole would suddenly appear right below him, suck him in, or… - God knows what, but everything seemed more pleasant than dealing with this. Martín loved Andrés, always had, always would, and definitely in more than just a friend way. He loved that beautiful smile on his face, the glint in his eyes when Andrés had come up with an idea, loved how dedicated Andrés was to those. And if Martín might support and defend Andrés a little too often, simply because he loved him so much, loved to see him all excited about what he was working on, what about it? Usually, Martín didn’t hesitate to tell the truth, if that would benefit him personally, but now? This was different. He would give everything to make Andrés happy. Even if it meant that one day – and more likely sooner rather than later – he would die of food poisoning. And actually, he supposed that everyone would become a better cook over time, though, so maybe it wouldn’t even be that bad. Or at least, he hoped so: he liked living enough, thank you very much. So much that he wondered if it maybe was time to start praying again, after some three decades of doing everything that God had forbidden.
——
Well, Martín hated admitting that he had been wrong, but after nearly two months of ardently praising Andrés for burnt pasta, raw pies and other horrifying food that did not even remind Martín in the slightest of what it was supposed to taste like and that made him slightly concerned with what he had put into his mouth, he definitely had to conclude he had very much been mistaken: apparently not everyone became a better cook over time. Andrés liked to make more difficult recipes now – since he was so very convinced of his skill level, added with an increased belief in his own abilities after all Martín’s appraisal. It was ironic, Martín thought. Maybe this was truly his punishment for everything that he had done wrong in life, because the more he praised Andrés (he still hadn’t caught up on how much Martín actually hated every single thing he had ever cooked), the more enthusiastic Andrés became, the more difficult recipes he wanted to try.
And, oh, how much he failed… One thing that became very clear was that Andrés didn’t care at all about measuring. The ratios of water to the ingredients he was cooking in the pots was far from right, resulting in burned food (and pans, which was also Martín’s problem, because usually he was the one having to clean them: Andrés apparently thought the brown layer at the bottom of the pot was simple decolouring due to normal usage). Furthermore, when the recipe called for a pinch of spices, Martín would either believe Andrés had totally forgone said spices, or ponder whether Andrés had put in the whole jar. Because Martín told him every meal that it was “perfect” or “the best thing he had ever eaten” (and Andrés genuinely seemed to believe that), he could hardly give tips on how to improve the food. And even if he would have managed to find a subtle way to put it, Andrés would instantly have told him off: Martín was the layman, Andrés was the expert now (he really, really wasn’t). So Martín, with his engineer’s precision, loathed seeing Andrés in the kitchen, not even reading the recipe, adding way too much of one thing, and way too little of another, leading to off consistencies, horrible textures and food that somehow tasted even worse than he thought was possible. And still, Andrés himself seemed to genuinely enjoy it, not just the cooking, but eating the food as well. Martín had begun to wonder if his best friend maybe just didn’t have any taste buds at all, because he didn’t know how else someone could be genuinely happy eating those kitchen horrors.
Still, he kept being supportive of Andrés, and at this point, he hoped Andrés would just feed him something so bad that it would finish off Martín’s taste buds permanently. Such were the sacrifices he would make for his friend. Also, he had assumed that by now, his stomach had built up resistance for whatever disgusting, horrible things were passing through there, these days. Or at least, he hoped so. Thus far, he had only been sick once – at the same time as Andrés, both of them having clear signs of food poisoning. Andrés had claimed it was a cold, even though it had been August, with an average temperature of around 30 degrees Celsius that week. Andrés had seemed so convinced of it that Martín didn’t have the heart to tell him he was so, so wrong. Instead, he had kept offering Andrés water, made sure that he rested well enough and checked if his fever didn’t become too high. After all, Martín had been pretty sure that this would happen at some point, and rather sooner than later. So, after half an hour spent reading up on the internet, shortly after Andrés’ first cooking disaster, he had made sure to stack up on water for that inevitable moment. And whilst Martín hated to see Andrés sick (he truly couldn’t care about his own sickness, not when he saw Andrés miserable, cranky and feeling so shitty), he could not deny that there also was a silver lining to the whole situation: Andrés – for once – had listened to his pleas of “please don’t cook, you need to rest, stay in bed, please”, and Martín had ordered in for the first time in weeks. Sitting in bed – like a barbarian, Andrés had told him, from where he was sat up against the headboard of his bed, next to Martín – they ate their dinner. Martín couldn’t care about aesthetics and atmosphere now: they both didn’t feel well enough to go to a restaurant, after all, and Martín was so happy with having great food, in a comfortable place, for the first time in what felt like a long, long time. In fact, he was so happy with his meal that he almost forgot about the food poisoning. If said food ended up in the kitchen sink less than half an hour later because Martín’s body specifically wanted to remind him of said food poisoning, well, that didn’t matter.
——
Both of them recovered soon, and sadly enough, Andrés didn’t lose the will to cook after the incident (especially because he still lived in the assumption that he had no role in them falling ill before). However, as time passed, not all was bad: they had a few successful heists (sadly enough the celebratory dinners afterwards were a little less successful), and one night, when they had been drinking a lot of wine (Martín mainly to wash away the taste of the paella that Andrés had made that day), something had happened that Martín hadn’t dared to dream of becoming reality. He didn’t remember how exactly it happened, the alcohol affecting his memory, but somehow Andrés had moved from his own spot on the couch, and ended up in Martín’s lap. After what could have been minutes, or maybe only a few seconds, of staring into each other’s eyes, they both felt like they were pulled towards each other, lips connecting first in a soft kiss, then in a much more rough one, Martín’s hands in Andrés’ hair, Andrés grabbing Martín’s face, not allowing him to stop kissing him.
Everything evolved from there, and Martín didn’t know how or why exactly, but it seemed some God above had granted him his deepest wish – for Andrés to return his love. It all was so natural, loving Andrés like this, and getting that love returned in a similar way (finally!) and Martín couldn’t say that he had ever been happier. And dating Andrés even was an asset, in a way – now, he could take Andrés out for dinner, as a surprise, so Andrés couldn’t tell him that he'd rather cook. He could walk up to Andrés from behind, eager fingers slipping below the apron, touching Andrés all over, kissing his neck, his shoulders, adding a little scrape of teeth, distracting him as much as possible. Andrés always would keep telling him to not disturb him from his cooking, told him to continue reading his book, or work on the plan, but in the end, Andrés usually would give in, would turn around and return his affections just as enthusiastically. And then, when during such a passionate bout of kissing (or even a bit more than that), the smell of burning started to fill their noses (or once, when the fire alarm went off), Martín could judge, could tell Andrés they couldn’t eat that attempt at dinner now. After all, Andrés was deserving of only the best foods, Martín would say, would tell he was sorry for ruining dinner, but that this wasn’t good enough for Andrés. He didn’t deserve to eat food that was burnt black entirely. No, Martín decided it was better to take Andrés out to a nice restaurant, treat him to some good lobster or pasta, with some expensive champagne, since it was Martín’s mistake after all. And since Andrés loved it, getting spoiled by his love, he usually didn’t make too much of a fuss about it. Of course, Martín wouldn’t do so each day – it would be too suspicious – but at least once a week, he managed to avoid the shittiest dinner imaginable via this distraction technique. The other days, sadly enough, his meals were still the stuff of nightmares, but apart from that, he had to admit that it did have something domestic, Andrés cooking dinner, Martín sitting in the kitchen, going over the plans or reading a book. Domestic, that word Martín had loathed so much: it did feel right now, it felt right when Andrés served him a plate of food, telling him to take a break because he had been working too much, that soft smile on Andrés’ face – the one he reserved just for Martín. It felt right to sit opposite Andrés, hands interlinked, as they talked about everything and nothing, listening to Andrés excitedly ramble about something. Yes, everything felt right in Martín’s life. Well… except for whatever in God’s name was his dinner.
As the weeks passed and the year drew closer to its ending, Andrés suddenly spoke, as he was cooking dinner and Martín was sitting at the dinner table, marking points on the map of a jewellery store they were targeting next: “Martín! I’m cooking our Christmas dinner this year, no more pre prepared foods, isn’t that great? I want to show Sergio how great of a cook I have become!” “Please don’t.” The words had escaped Martín’s mouth before he could even consider them, earning a confused – maybe even hurt - look from Andrés. “What?” Luckily Martín had quick wit, and great intellect (or so he would claim), trying to come up with an excuse. “Well, er, I wouldn’t want you to end up being busy on Christmas Eve and during Christmas. I know much better things to do then, hm? I’ll make sure to hang mistletoe everywhere in the monastery, for that matter. I’m certainly planning to keep you busy enough – don’t put so much effort into cooking. You cook so often already anyway, you deserve a break.” Martín thought his taste buds deserved the break too. “But I love cooking,” Andrés said, and had it been any other person, he would have called that facial expression a pout. He sighed. This was a decision he would regret forever, and that would make him suffer much, not just because of the fact that he would have to eat a lot of horrible food, but also because somehow he’d have to make sure Sergio lied to Andrés. Which, knowing Sergio, would be a hard enough task. Really, if he died beforehand of food poisoning, he would be lucky. Very lucky. But, he went ahead anyway and replied, sighing, “Okay then,” knowing he could never deny Andrés anything. The not-pout on Andrés’ face instantly transformed into a brilliant smile as he grabbed Martín’s face, enthusiastically pressing his lips to his lover’s. “I love you,” he said, when they broke apart, “I love you more than anything, Martín.” Of course, after that, Martín had to show Andrés how much he loved him back, and if the way he showed it to him led to the food once more being burnt to a crisp, well, Martín wasn’t as sorry about the situation as he said he was. Andrés even told him – like always – that this dinner wasn’t that bad, that it still was edible, and Martín had to use all his charm in order to get Andrés to throw away the food. That was the thing – Andrés was very proud of his cooking, loved it so much, and thought it was the perfect way to spoil his boyfriend, who seemingly loved the meals too. “And how could he not?” Andrés had thought: he was a great cook after all, and Martín, well… he didn’t know a thing about cooking. That being said, he did like the little compliments Martín always gave him: they were the reason he started cooking so much more, the reason why he didn’t want to go to restaurants as often anymore. After all, Martín only rarely was this enthusiastic about the food there. Andrés really was completely unaware of Martín’s actual opinion.
——
Christmas was coming soon, though, and Andrés had spent even more hours in the kitchen than usual, trying out different recipes for the meals he was planning to make for the 24th and the 25th of December, each time calling Martín to the kitchen to give his opinion. And because it was too late to start being honest, and because he didn’t want to hurt Andrés, he tasted all the horrible, horrible things his boyfriend had come up with (because by now he was improvising, considering himself to be too good of a cook to use recipe books). It was a great sacrifice, Martín thought, because this way he could at least allow Sergio to have the least shit tasting food.
Sergio arrived at the monastery on the morning of Christmas Eve, and as soon as Andrés went out to purchase the last necessary ingredients in the city (he always wanted to use fresh ingredients, after all), Martín directly went to speak to his boyfriend’s brother. He found him in the guest bedroom, the one that really only was used by Sergio anyway. “Sergio. We need to talk.” The younger man raised his brows, looking at Martín questioningly, searching his face for clues as to what was the matter, analysing what could be going on. “Andrés is going to cook dinner tonight, and tomorrow as well. And, truly, I love Andrés with all my heart, but I have never eaten anything worse than what he cooks. But… I never told him that, I told him I loved it, praised him for the great dinners he keeps making, whilst I hope that that disastrous cooking at least won’t kill me. I know you don’t like lying, hermanito, especially not to Andrés, but can you just do this for me? And for Andrés too, of course. You know how much your brother likes to get compliments. Do you want to ruin his Christmas by insulting his cooking skills?”
Sergio looked both pissed off and torn. “You should have told him directly,” he said, rather coldly. “Sergio, it’s too late for that now, come on,” Martín urged.“This is why you and Andrés should never work together, why you shouldn’t be part of the Mint heist! You push all rationality to the side once Andrés is concerned,” Sergio hissed, “and Andrés does the same with you.” Martín levelled his stare, instantly going from almost desperate to pissed off, “That is what love is, but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” Martín liked Sergio, truly: he was extremely intelligent, so very talented in planning a heist to the smallest details, for analysing their plans, finding faults (no matter how much they hated admitting to those), but Martín wouldn’t allow his boyfriend’s brother, of all people, to talk to him like this. Who did he think he was?!
Their conversation (or, rather, argument) didn’t last much longer after that. As Martín left Sergio’s room, he wasn’t exactly convinced, but he certainly hoped that Sergio would lie, and hence would save Martín from his own lies becoming known to Andrés. If it did come out that he had been dishonest, it would be a gigantic disaster, he thought: first of all, it would mean eating all that disgusting food had been for nothing, and second of all, it would, quite probably, put his relationship with Andrés to the test severely. Since he couldn’t do anything about it, and everything was in Sergio’s hands now, he decided to simply read a book in the kitchen until Andrés came back from his grocery shopping.
That still took quite some time, however, and Martín had started to wonder if he would even get dinner that night (he really, really hoped he wouldn’t). When Andrés finally came back, he instantly started to complain how everything had been sold out, how he had to visit virtually every store in the city - and how some were even closed on Christmas Eve, the audacity!- simply to get the necessary ingredients. Martín chuckled at how stupid his boyfriend sometimes was: what did Andrés expect? It was Christmas Eve, after all. However, sadly enough, Andrés had still managed to find everything he needed, and Martín was now being shoved out of the kitchen, his pleas of “What about the Christmas spirit? Can’t I sit here and read my book?” largely ignored, except for when Martín pointed at the mistletoe above the door frame.
Sadly enough, the passionate kiss they shared at that was the last one for the next few hours, as Andrés busied himself in the kitchen, and Martín was reading a book on the couch, drinking some wine (because maybe drunk, the food would taste less shitty - or so he hoped). When Andrés called them for dinner, sleeves rolled up, flour on his favourite sweater, Martín instantly noticed the smell of burning, and so did Sergio, who eyed Martín with an indecipherable look. “Andrés, did you follow the recipe?” Sergio asked carefully, making Andrés chuckle. “Following recipes is for poor sods that don’t have the creativity and cooking skills to come up with something on their own. I didn’t really plan everything out, but I did have a general idea, and the only way I deviated from it is by cooking the turkey for 2 hours instead of 3 hours and without preheating the oven and thawing the meat, but I doubled the temperature too, so it should be fine. Anyway, don’t doubt my cooking skills, hermanito, I’m sure it will taste amazing! Ask Martín, if you don’t believe me, he hasn’t yet eaten something I made that he didn’t like.” At that, Andrés started putting the food on their plates, ignoring the flabbergasted look on the face of the two men closest to him.
Andrés was the first one to try their Christmas dinner and hummed, clearly self-satisfied with his supposed masterpiece, and because Sergio, unlike Martín, wasn’t yet aware of the probability that Andrés’ tastebuds were either simply not present, or had died at some point due to the sheer atrocity of the food (really, it couldn’t even be called food, it was that bad), the younger brother decided to also take a bite. Sergio, ever well-mannered (Martín assumed Andrés had taught him that), was at least polite enough not to spit it out, but the terror was clearly visible on his face and after swallowing that piece of disaster, he spoke:
“Andrés, this is inedible. It frankly tastes horrible.”
Andrés’ immensely confused “What?” was overlapped by Martín’s loud “La concha de tu madre, hijo de puta!”
“Martín! You tasted this exact same thing before, you told me it was delicious… Tell Sergio that he’s wrong.”
As Martín rapidly tried to come up with something to say (incredible, he was speechless for once!), Sergio intervened first: “No, he doesn’t. He hates your food. Andrés, you really are not a good cook at all, please never enter a kitchen in your life again.”
Once more, Andrés’ “What?” echoed through the halls of the monastery.
When he turned to Martín, the Argentine could see the hurt in his beloved’s eyes, and he decided to take the difficult road - to keep lying. He grabbed Andrés’ hand, stroking it with his own fingers, trying to comfort him. “Baby, I don’t know what your brother is talking about. Your food is amazing, you are such a talented cook, cariño. Sergio probably is just jealous of your cooking talents, eh, don’t worry. I think this is arguably one of the best meals ever, this is worthy of all the Michelin stars in the world combined.” Andrés looked quite shocked and even slightly insecure, and Martín just had to hug him as he said, “Yes, mi amor, really”, whilst glaring at Sergio with the most pissed-off stare he could master. Kissing Andrés on the cheek, whispering “I love you” in his ears, he broke the hug. And just when Martín thought things might not be so bad, Sergio once more decided to fuck him over. “If it is so good, why doesn’t Martín finish his entire plate?”
Two could play a game, Martín thought. “Because you, oh so rudely, interrupted my perfect Christmas dinner by wrongfully accusing my boyfriend of all kinds of horrible things,” he spoke, after which he took a big bite of the stuffed turkey, trying to stifle a gag - after all, Sergio had been right, it was inedible, and it definitely wasn’t cooked entirely, yet burnt in other places. However, Martín Berotte was a brave man (or at least considered himself to be one), so he continued eating, praising Andrés for the amazing food, thanking him for all the effort he had taken, lauding his culinary abilities between each bite (not just for Andrés, also because he felt like he couldn’t eat in more rapid succession because uncooked turkey with whatever was in the stuffing, wasn’t really that great of a Christmas Eve dinner, to put it subtly). However, whilst his mind, his heart, prioritised his love for Andrés over everything else, his body seemed to disagree - he couldn’t help himself from doubling over, retching, then vomiting. Andrés was directly by his side, offering him a bowl, asking if he was okay, telling him he didn’t need to worry about making a mess, asking him how he was feeling, and, after that, cleaning up for him.
Martín, stubborn as he was, told him he was fine and that Andrés could just continue eating, as the both of them, unlike Sergio, did know how to value good food. Looking specifically at him, Martín now ate some of the Roscón de Reyes that Andrés had baked, and put in all the effort he could muster not to spit it out. It appeared Andrés himself had tried to candy the fruit -which had horribly failed-, whilst he clearly was even unable to bake a basic cake: the texture was way too dense, and Martín was slowly beginning to fear salmonella infections as well. Usually, he tried to keep Andrés away from more… dangerous ingredients for their health, like eggs, but of course, denying Andrés of such a traditional dessert today would be unthinkable. Although… traditional wasn’t really what it was: Andrés had definitely changed the recipe, added some spices, as well as some crunchy things Martín was unable to identify, and it really wasn’t for the better. This time, still not feeling so well, Martín wasn’t able to hide the expression of terror on his face. However, luckily enough, Andrés misinterpreted it, and thought it was a sign of Martín actually being ill with the flu. “Martín, mi amor, you don’t have to finish the entire meal. I know you like it a lot when I cook, but I think you are sick. What if we just go to bed now? As you say - I have been cooking the majority of days, the last few months. There will be enough opportunities to taste the masterpieces I made…” Andrés said, hand on Martín’s back, stroking it softly in an attempt to comfort him, make him feel better, and neither of them had even noticed how Sergio, at this point, had walked out of the room.
——
Later, when they were cuddled up in bed, Andrés claimed that he would sacrifice his own health for Martín, that he’d rather get the flu too than not be able to be so close to his love, than not being able to hold him and be held. Martín thought that was super romantic, but he also knew that the risk of Andrés falling ill had nothing to do with Martín infecting him, and only with himself and his cooking disasters. However, he didn’t say a thing, just melting in Andrés’ embrace, getting sleepy with the fingers on his back, drawing patterns - he still wasn’t feeling great, and he was afraid it would get worse tomorrow, but he was slowly getting oh so comfortable, in his beloved’s arms, under the warm duvet. And Martín realised that this was everything he needed in life, got hit by such a feeling of love for Andrés that he thought that the food poisoning and daily horrors that Andrés had the audacity to call dinner would be worth it, if it meant he could have this. If it meant he could kiss Andrés each day, could call him his. If it meant he could wake up with his soulmate each day, and talk about everything and nothing with him. Yes, it would all be worth it.
And if, as he drifted away to sleep, he heard Andrés whisper that he knew this hadn’t been his best meal, that he would maybe try to stick to actual recipes a bit more from now on, perhaps even take an actual cooking class, Martín wasn’t entirely sure whether it was real or if he was dreaming.