Chapter Text
Andrés has been waxing absolute poetry about his new friend for months, and Sergio is honestly– getting tired of it. Something about Martín just… sets him on edge.
The two of them are so codependent, you can rarely find one without the other anymore. He doesn't feel like it's healthy. They share thoughts and brain cells and cans of coke and beds. It's no longer a question of whether Andrés likes a film or a type of weather, it's about whether they like it.
What started out as I got into an argument with some guy from Argentina at my favourite café on campus, and we both got thrown out, can you believe it? has quickly turned into them having a shared phone calendar, seemingly just so that they can maximise their time spent together. On multiple occasions, Sergio has observed Andrés consulting it, before committing to so much as getting a coffee on his own.
It's turned into Andrés actually knowing a thing or two about engineering, because it's important to Martín, and their shared brain tells Andrés that now he cares, too. Once or twice, Sergio has also observed them slipping into each other's accents, seemingly oblivious.
Also, they live together, now. Sergio isn't sure how that one happened, because for years, Andrés had been very vocal about not wanting a flatmate, not even letting his short-lived girlfriends sleep over.
Yet within two months, he and Martín got their own little two-bedroom flat not far from campus, cohabitating with a casual ease that should have taken them years to master. Sergio has visited them only a couple of times, because it's so aggressively theirs that being there feels like an intrusion of privacy, even when he's invited.
It's… intense, this friendship of theirs.
And it's also finite, and he's getting a little concerned about his older brother's wellbeing.
"Look," Sergio says to Andrés, one afternoon, interrupting him in the middle of a speech he's making about Martín's excellence.
(While he's in a three-hour lecture about Martín, Martín is in a three-hour lecture about mechanical engineering, and the fact that Sergio knows this speaks volumes.)
"You do realise he'll have to go back to Argentina soon, right?"
Andrés's face falls. "What?" he says, flat but with a frown, like a child being told that not only is Santa Claus not real, but that there's also taxes that have to be paid, and the dinosaurs are all dead, too.
"You're both graduating in a few months. He's here on a student visa. Are you telling me you've seriously not even considered that?"
"I– no?" Andrés says, still looking lost.
"Well. All I'm saying is, maybe you shouldn't grow too, attached, because–"
"Okay, but," Andrés says, frowning, his brain trying to work cogs that are usually being turned by Martín. "Surely there are other visas. They can't just throw him out. He has a life here."
(He says life, but really he means himself, and the worst part is – he's not that wrong, is he? Martín certainly has built himself an entire life here, out of just one man.)
“It's not–”
“It's not fair,” Andrés cuts in, sounding genuinely distressed now. “He's been here for four years, and I only just met him. We could have…”
He trails off, and Sergio takes pity on him.
"You could help him find a job? A proper, legal job." It's a foolish thing to even suggest: both Andrés and Martín openly detest any work that comes with the qualifier of being honest. But maybe this could be something to convince them to turn a new leaf?
"Hm," Andrés mutters, predictably unimpressed.
"Failing that, suppose he could always get married."
It's a joke. He doesn't mean it. It's meant to be funny.
But then, Andrés isn't exactly known for taking a joke.
Least of all when it comes to Martín.
Sergio doesn't see his brother for a few weeks, after that conversation. It doesn't strike him as particularly odd: even though they live in the same city, Andrés gets like this, sometimes. He'll disappear off the face of the earth, investing all of himself in a new artistic endeavour or a whirlwind romance.
And, Sergio has to admit, nowadays he probably invests himself in Martín, the same way he does with everything else: with exhausting zeal.
When Andrés is back at his door, he is beaming, genuinely bright enough to make Sergio squint and take a step back at the sight of him.
“What's–”
"Apologies!" Andrés announces, stepping in through the door, "I'm sure you've missed my delightful presence, but we've been very busy. You know what it's like, this time of year– final exams, projects, what have you. And! We got married!"
He finds the best lighting available, and holds up his hand, showing off to Sergio the wedding ring he's apparently now wearing.
"What do you mean," Sergio says, slowly, not sure if he's both seeing wrong and hearing wrong, although he's not sure why his mind would deem it fit to hallucinate his brother into marrying, when Andrés is plenty impulsive all on his own, having grown even more so ever since he met his best friend. "You got married?"
"Exactly that! For the record, I am sorry we couldn't invite you." Andrés shrugs, studying the ring, "It was incredibly difficult to get an appointment at the courthouse. It was a last-minute thing. Would've loved to have you there! This was on the 9th – write it on your calendar, because we'll obviously celebrate anniversaries, and so on."
Sergio stares at him without knowing what to say – for a moment too long, thus accidentally allowing Andrés to keep talking.
"This is 14 carat, by the way," he says, pointing at the ring, "We went ring shopping together, yesterday – that's why I'm here now, I wanted to show you – and we decided to pool our money and get the nicer one for him, bec–"
"Him?" Sergio repeats, very calmly, not at all loud, "You didn't even tell me you were in a relationship, and now you're saying you married a– man?"
"Hermanito," Andrés chastises him, "Of course he's a man. You've met him. Have you hit your head, or something? My dearest friend, Martín Berrote. Well, Martín de Fonollosa, actually." He grins, wide but almost bashful, the most openly happy Sergio has seen him since he was a child.
He looks… awed.
"You married... Martín," Sergio repeats, testing how those words sound, in that order.
(Maybe not quite as strange as they ought to.)
"Yessss," Andrés confirms, in a hum, "It was your idea, so you can have the credit you're due. Although, since it took me three whole days to convince him, I do think I deserve some recognition, myself."
"What do you mean, my idea?"
Sergio is certain he's never in his life had an idea this, well, unhinged.
"You told me he should marry, so that he can stay in the country. Hence, you're looking at his husband." Andrés motions at himself. "Isn't that lovely?"
Trust Andrés to do something exactly like this. To take an innocent throwaway line and wrestle it into his new life plan. To make Sergio an accessory to his crime, and claim that he'd once endorsed this.
It probably won't go over well, if Sergio tells him that even if he weren't joking about Martín marrying for a visa, he would have obviously meant for some other man to become Martín's husband. In hindsight, Andrés would be far too jealous to trust his friend in anyone else's hands. He'd probably ruin their relationship himself, and certainly wouldn't allow them to ever marry. Couldn't allow someone else to give Martín his last name.
(He's given Martín his last name. Sergio cannot even imagine how that conversation must have gone. What did Andrés say to him?)
“You cannot just–”
“Turns out I can,” Andrés says, and for a moment, something dangerous flashes in his gaze, “And I did.”
"Fine,” Sergio mutters, because he does know when he should step back from Andrés's quickly altering moods. “Whatever you say. But it's not a… real marriage, then?”
Andrés huffs at that. "What do you mean, not real? Of course it's real. We bought rings, went to the courthouse, he took my last name. Now he can stay forever."
He looks so intensely pleased with himself, like he's just robbed the Louvre, except better. A mega-Louvre of all his favourite paintings, with his favourite nearly-engineer by his side.
And of course, Andrés has always been incredibly capable of getting things done, the once in a blue moon when he's actually motivated to do so. It's really no surprise that he managed to wrangle Martín into marriage, because of course his obvious adoration of the man would have told him that it's a great idea, and so he wouldn't let himself be stopped at anything.
On a second thought, maybe Sergio shouldn't have questioned this.
"Did you look into the…" He grimaces, to know that he's even asking this. Any sensible person shouldn't need to be asked. "Logistics of it all?"
"Hm?" Andrés's eyes widen slightly, like logistics is a French dish he hasn't tried yet, and in his head he's already booking a table at a restaurant so that he and Martín can give it a go.
"As in. Can you get divorced?"
Andrés shrugs, wide and theatrical. "No idea! Apologies if this is far too romantic for you, but divorce wasn't the first thing on my mind, when I was getting married. Anyway, say congratulations, Andrés, I'm incredibly happy for you two."
“Congratulations,” Sergio says, just to placate him, even though he's still not so sure if this was such a stellar idea. He wants to renounce any and all credit for it, right now. “How is Martín–”
“Martín de Fonollosa, my husband? He's well, of course. A married man, now. It's possible I surprised him a little, in proposing to him – I should wish to have courted him for much longer, as he deserves – but he is well. We're very happy.”
Talking to Andrés has always felt a little like talking to the Cheshire cat – how does Martín do it, all the time? – but this is getting ridiculous. Andrés has never so much as hinted that he might be interested in men, before Martín, and Sergio is struggling to tell if he's interested in Martín as a best friend he wants to possessively keep to himself, or as a… well, husband.
And does Andrés even know?
“And if you should wish to buy us a wedding present,” Andrés continues, “Though this is not to suggest that your blessing of our union wasn't already the loveliest present of all! – Martín – the man I have recently taken as my beloved, brilliant, wonderful–”
“Yes, I got that.”
“–stellar and altogether perfect husband – has been talking about how we need a new coffee machine. So, you can pitch in.”
Sergio bites back all the things he wants to say, starting with are you sure and ending with and what does Martín think of all this?
“I'll think about it,” he mutters.
A couple of weeks later, Martín Berr– de Fonollosa is at his door, instead.
"Martín," Sergio says, instantly alert, because he's not used to seeing Martín by himself, and the first thing that crosses his mind is that something must have happened to Andrés. "Is everything okay?"
"No," Martín croaks, and his shoulders slump. He doesn't look too happy, looks like he's been sleeping even less than usual; according to Andrés, he's a man who believes that every problem can be solved by coffee and creative engineering. (According to Andrés, he's also the most brilliant man to ever exist; will win the Nobel prize one day [Which one? All of them, allegedly]; has the most fascinating yet earnest opinions on everything; has the loveliest colour eyes imaginable; has single-handedly made Andrés's life at least ten times better and six times more interesting.) "I want a fucking divorce."
Sergio frowns. Martín is like the geometric opposite of Andrés, who'd seemed so thrilled to be married to him, who'd been so busy singing his praises, practically planning their diamond anniversary in between the lines.
“But Andrés isn't… dead in a ditch?”
“What?“ For a moment, Martín's tone is sharp, like the mere thought has put him on high alert. ”No, he's fine. Well, he's insufferable, but he's definitely alive.”
"Uh, okay, well, come in," Sergio offers, and Martín trails in after him. "Do you want to talk– about– him? Or, anything?"
"Sure, why the fuck not," Martín says, kicking off his shoes, "Considering how it's your fucking fault. Imagine this: my fucking– husband, right," he flops onto Sergio's sofa, "Is driving me insane. He won't stop– ugh. You know how Andrés is all, affectionate and shit?"
He's agitated, and gestures with his hands as he speaks, so Sergio gets a glimpse of the famous nicer ring. It does look nice; if there's a couple of things that Sergio hasn't ever been able to judge the two of them for (and he does judge them, rather intensely, for everything else), then their sense of style would be one of them. Mostly Andrés's, but it's bled all over Martín to where it just seems to make sense.
"Yes," Sergio confirms. And coincidentally, he's observed Andrés being even more affectionate with his quote unquote friend. He's always holding conversations with his arms draped across Martín's shoulders, or wrapped around his waist, or their fingers laced together.
(They are a married couple, now. Why doesn't it feel all that strange?)
"He's gotten so much worse," Martín croaks, "It's like... he's some... I don't know. I'm just so fucking tired," he announces. "Can't catch a moment's break. Not even a second. He's always there. And he won't– he won't shut up, you know? It's always oh, Martín, my beloved husband and I'm so happy you're staying and we'll be together forever, and I'm going to murder him, and I'll frame you for it."
"I know my brother can be, a little–"
"He told me," Martín interrupts him, looking haunted, "That we should start sharing a bed. Because it's what married couples do."
"That's–" A bit much, even by Andrés's standards.
"Soon, he's going to spill a glass of wine on my bed, so I'll have to agree to it, and next thing I know, he's going to want to fuck, because we need to consummate our marriage, and then… sorry, you do not want to hear the details of our imaginary sex life, do you?"
"I really don't."
"Well, anyway. This is what's wrong with me. I had to complain to somebody, and I'm…" He shrugs. “I don't have the space in my life for any other friends, as you can surely imagine. Acquaintances, at best, and I'm not telling them about… him.” He manages to make it sound like Andrés as a concept is something intensely private, something he wants to keep to his chest and guard jealously. “And anyway, he's too complicated to even try and explain. You know?”
“Sounds incredibly healthy,” Sergio mutters, because at least Martín has some grasp of the real world, still. A few more years of this, and he'll probably have lost that, too, losing himself entirely in this world of their own creation.
Martín grins, toothy and wide, like their sickening codependency really is a source of pride. His grin shows a gap in his teeth that Sergio wouldn't have ever noticed, if it weren't for the fact that Andrés tends to mention it ardently, at least once a week. “Right?”
“Please tell me you at least looked into the logistics of a divorce."
"Of course I did. I wouldn't get, uh, married, without… Wait, are you telling me–" Martín croaks, when he realises it. "Oh, he has no idea, does he?"
"He told me that he's too romantic to even consider divorce, while getting married."
Martín sighs, but he cannot quite keep it from sounding fond. "That checks out. He's so stupid. The most impractical man I ever met."
"You married him," Sergio reminds him.
Martín makes a slightly strangled noise. "It's– it's not like that," he tries.
"My brother says it's very much like that. Didn't you take his last name?"
"Please don't say that," Martín very nearly shrieks, covering his face with both hands. "You make it sound so much worse."
"Did you not–"
"I did," Martín confirms, dropping his hands. "But it was– you don't understand." For a moment, it looks like he'll actually try and explain it, but then he deflates. “You don't understand," he repeats, quieter, "What it's like, to be his friend."
"You're not just his friend."
"I know, stop rubbing it in. Do you honestly think I wanted this?"
There's such anguish in his eyes, when he says this. And even though Sergio doesn't really know him, has mostly learned about him through Andrés's incredibly biased stories, doesn't actually understand him as a person– he can still understand this. He can imagine the exact way in which Andrés must have coaxed and borderline manipulated Martín into marrying him.
Furthermore, Sergio realises: Martín did want this.
But he didn't want it like this.
He tries not to sound like he pities the man, because Martín de Fonollosa doesn't seem the type to appreciate being pitied.
“You're in love with him,” he says, and all in a moment, it's so obvious. Of course Martín is in love with Andrés. The knowledge feels like learning the proof of a mathematical formula he already knew. He's sure that if he'd actually seen more of Martín, he could have figured this out a long while ago, but Martín has mostly just been a biased story told by a loving tongue, all these months.
Martín shrugs, but he doesn't rush to deny a thing. “In love isn't quite the way I'd phrase it. It's much… deeper than that. But that doesn't mean I wanted to marry him just so I could stay in the country. That's so stupid. What are we going to do when he gets a girlfriend?”
That doesn't seem very likely – Andrés would loathe her within days, if she so much as tried to limit the time he gets to spend with Martín, which is almost every waking hour, and would apparently include the non-waking ones too, if Andrés had his way.
Andrés hasn't even mentioned a girl, since he started talking non-stop about Martín. He seems to have completely forgotten that they even exist. Normally, he could have managed three or four failed relationships in the same amount of time he's been nurturing something with Martín.
“If it's any consolation, I tried to tell him that maybe he shouldn't hang his whole life on you–"
"He absolutely should, though," Martín deadpans, so dryly serious that Sergio isn't sure if he's actually joking or not.
"–and he goes and marries you, instead. I'm just saying," Sergio shrugs, "Andrés hasn't ever really kept friends around, but he very clearly adores you in a way that I honestly find toxic. And…" He debates saying this part, but he's pretty sure Martín needs to hear it. "When he came here to tell me you got married…"
"Yeah?" Martín prompts, and from his expression, he very clearly expects this to hurt.
"I've never seen him that happy," Sergio concludes, "Not since he was seven and got a book on dinosaurs for Christmas, anyway."
"Dinosaurs, huh?" Martín grins, and it softens him. For Andrés, he's probably like this much more often. "We should swap stories, sometime. I could tell you about how we– or, maybe I shouldn't. It was a little bit illegal."
"How illegal?"
"Jail time illegal," Martín offers, with a shrug. “Three years, I'd say. Though we wouldn't get caught, of course. We're not amateurs.”
Sergio is going to pretend he never heard any of that.
"All I'm saying is that while I've never wanted to be a therapist, you might want to hold off on divorcing my brother for a little longer. I'm sure you can figure something out together; he really cares about you."
Martín sighs, his mood darkening again. “I know he does. That's the whole problem. None of this would have happened, if he didn't care. He– he promised me that this wouldn't change a thing, between us,” he swallows, ”But it has.”
There's nothing to really say to that.
“God,” Martín continues, “It's way too late to get cold feet. Should've done that at the altar. Or, courthouse. Whatever. Should've…” he swallows, “I really should've talked to him, before we got married.”
“You can still talk to him, you know,” Sergio prompts, “He cares about your happiness, so if you tell him…”
He trails off, because Martín hoists himself up from the sofa, evidently no longer listening.
“Thanks,” he mutters, but Sergio doubts he's actually planning on talking to his husband.
Sergio attends both their graduations.
At Martín's, he's treated to running commentary, delivered in a low voice, from Andrés. That's the professor we don't like, he says, and that's our favourite, the one who said that Martín is going places. Of course he's going places, he's so smart, my husband. Doesn't he look lovely today? Did you notice, he's wearing my tie? I wanted him to have it, wanted everyone to see. He's mine; my best friend, my husband, my soulmate. He's so wonderful.
At Andrés's, Martín is quiet the whole way through, but his longing is so loud it makes Sergio’s ears ring. His eyes don't leave Andrés for even a moment.
Afterwards, once all the formal and fancy things are done, and they're reunited in the sunny courtyard, Sergio sits in the shade with an orange juice. He observes the two of them from a distance, in between them grinning for photographs: Martín says something to Andrés that makes him light up with the brightest smile. He shows Martín his wedding ring, demonstratively, and Martín rolls his eyes.
Andrés slowly wraps his arms around Martín, and holds him so tightly, like he wants to shield him – or perhaps keep him – from the world. He sighs into Martín's hair, and for a passing moment, when Martín can't see him, but Sergio can, his face falls, and he looks almost unbearably sad.
Sergio decides to leave them alone. This isn't for his eyes to see.
"You might think I've come to you for advice," Andrés greets him, two weeks later, with needless flair.
"I'd actually prefer if you stayed away. If you both–"
"Well, you'd be mistaken," Andrés continues, like he's thin air. "I've just come to talk about things in your vicinity, so that you can feel involved in my life. Because I'm a very thoughtful older brother!"
There's an emptiness to his grandeur, lacking that spark he had to him last time he was here. It all seems performative.
Sergio holds no illusions regarding what this is about, but he notes that Andrés is still wearing his ring, so things are probably not that bad; at least Martín hasn't followed through on his misery-fuelled threats of divorce. Now that – that would be an actual emergency.
He doesn't get the chance to invite Andrés in, because he's already taking off his shoes.
(He’s wearing striped socks – must be Martín's.)
"Will you make me tea? Thank you."
He assumes a spot on the sofa, and if Sergio was paid to guess, he'd say that the way Martín previously slouched on the right while Andrés now sits on the left implies that they're getting quite accustomed to sharing such spaces.
(Who's he kidding? If Martín were here, right now, Andrés would be draped all over him, like a ribbon on a Christmas present.)
But Sergio isn't getting paid for any of this (and he wouldn't actually do this for any amount of money, but unfortunately he does have a soft spot for his brother, and he wants to see Andrés obnoxiously happy again), so he just sighs, and makes that tea. It's only because he thinks that it'll be easier for Andrés to talk, if he doesn't think he's being observed.
"What did you want to talk at me about?"
"Oh, only the woes of married life," Andrés says, pretending at breezy. But surprisingly, he gets right to it. "You don't happen to know what's gotten into my husband, do you? He's being… weird."
"I don't actually know him at all. But what kind of weird are we talking about?"
He doesn't feel like it's his place, to say he's in love with you, so maybe you should consider getting a divorce. He'd much prefer to gently allow Andrés to think this through for himself.
He's already meddled enough, even though he did not intend it. He feels guilty, for the haunted look in Martín's eyes, for the way Andrés is now sighing while trying to express something he doesn't quite understand. Whether or not he meant to, Sergio has shoved them into something they maybe weren't quite prepared to navigate.
"It's just… I don't know. He's… withdrawn. He hasn't even wanted to cuddle all week."
Sergio should be more surprised to learn that he's not at all surprised to learn that to Andrés, a normal we're marrying because you have to stay in the country, since we're incredibly codependent and I need you to stay by my side always -type situation involves cuddling.
"I want to make it better," Andrés continues, "But I feel I'm not… good at that. It's like I'm not reaching him? Normally I don't even need to try. I cooked him lasagne – that's his favourite – last night, and somehow that only made it worse? We had an argument, and I don't even know what it was about. Not lasagne, anyway."
Sergio places the tea (three sugars) on the coffee table in front of him.
Andrés doesn't react to it. He's staring at his own hands, or maybe he's staring at the ring – the end result is the same. He looks like a child who's accidentally broken something, only to learn it was irreplaceable.
"I don't understand how your mind works," Sergio starts. He's always considered that something of a personal shortcoming. Maybe it's because they didn't grow up together, not really, were always being tossed from one parent to another, only occasionally in the same place, but he's never felt like they quite understood each other.
Or maybe they're just fundamentally too different, as people. Maybe there's no amount of shared experiences that could have changed that.
And maybe that's a part of what made him so antagonistic to Martín, for a time. That was before he realised that Martín possesses some unique ability to make Andrés light up that no one else can hope to replicate.
Nonetheless, Martín appeared overnight and out of nowhere, only to understand his brother in ways Sergio had thought were impossible. He makes it seem so effortless, too. He's slotted himself into Andrés's life so perfectly, it makes it difficult to remember, even for Sergio, that they were once two seperate people, two complete people all on their own. Somehow, they've become both less and more; lost pieces of themselves that don't fit this new life, while gaining some strange quality that's so uniquely them.
They make so much sense, together.
And they make each other so happy – except that apparently they don't, right now.
"But you did seem awfully thrilled to be marrying your best friend," Sergio points out.
"Of course I was," Andrés scoffs, "I am. Why wouldn't I be? It's Martín."
"I hope you do realise that's not normal. Even for him, it must be pretty strange."
"It shouldn't be," Andrés says, caressing the ring with his thumb. "We're perfect together, and I want him to be thrilled, too."
(Of course they got married. If Sergio hadn't been the catalyst, it would've been a drunken escapade, or a trip to Las Vegas, or a dare, or literally any other excuse to get them tangled up in every way they can, tied in unfathomable knots. It seems so inevitable, in hindsight. It might have taken a week, or a decade, but it was always bound to happen, like the laws of physics were demanding them to merge.
He shouldn't be too hard on himself. It's not his fault.)
"Then maybe–"
"I shouldn't have married him just so he could stay in the country?" Andrés cuts in, "I'm not an idiot, I've thought of that. But that's…" He sighs. "I didn't do it only so that he could stay, obviously. And I do think it's very romantic. I… care for him so much that I'm willing to enter into a legally binding contract for the rest of our lives, and–"
"Divorces do exist–"
"Not for us," Andrés scoffs dismissively, like he's grown up believing divorce to be a sin, and like it's not an opinion he picked up a few weeks ago just because it suits his new life rather well. Andrés would probably endorse cannibalism, if it got him Martín. "We're catholic."
"We're not, though."
"Well. Martín is."
"Is he, really?"
"Surely we can pretend, for the sake of my argument. We're not getting a divorce, end of discussion."
"If your argument requires pretending–"
"Anyway. As I was saying. It's romantic, and I don't understand how that notion could make him feel anything less than thrilled. Also, had we not done that, we would've had to move to Argentina. Which, don't get me wrong – that would've been fine by me, too. I did offer. I looked into it, and actually – I did already pick out where we'd live, too. I emailed our prospective landlord, and he said we could have it, but Martín decided that getting married was ultimately the better option.”
Mere months ago, Sergio wouldn't have been able to imagine his brother ever moving to Argentina for some man. But now, he just sighs, because of course Andrés would do that, for Martín. He's not just some man. To Andrés, he's everything, and more.
“Andrés…”
“He loves me, too. I know he does. Why is any of this happening?"
(Sergio isn't sure if Andrés hears himself, slipping from a halting I care for him to a yearning he loves me, too.)
"I think everyone knows that, by now. Meanwhile, you're not as open a book as you like to think."
"I'm–" Andrés motions with both arms, a grand gesture that's apparently meant to encompass everything about him, "I'm so loving, aren't I? What's not clicking, here? Would he understand me better if I told him I want to–”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
Andrés grins. ”You know what I was going to say, though.”
“Plausible deniability.”
“Only because you told me not to say it: I want to fuck him. Passionately. I've been having some revelations about myself, lately. Would it help, if I told him that?”
Sergio is going to need therapy. He should invoice the happy couple for it, as soon as they're happy again.
"Andrés. This is getting nowhere. Stop dancing around it, and tell me this: Are you in love with Martín Berr–"
"Martín de Fonollosa," Andrés corrects, "It's a lovely name, so you should use it, as much as possible. He got his new passport on Monday, and I do dare say – it's the most beautiful passport I've ever seen. I put it up on our bookshelf, so I can admire it, even though Martín's told me he needs the space for actual–"
“Will you stop playing?”
Andrés huffs at him, spreading his arms again, like he couldn't possibly convey the gravitas of this with mere words. “I'm not playing. Have you not heard a word I say? Not just today, but… in general. Do I really need to tell you that I'm in love with him? I'm so much more than just in love with him. I married him in a heartbeat, no questions asked. I talked him into it, and I know I maybe shouldn't have, but I only did it because I want him to stay. I need him to stay. I want to be the one to make him happy, and I know I can. Honestly, no offense, but… I don't understand why I'm here, talking to you, right now, when we could be…"
He shrugs, and mercifully doesn't take the chance to again elaborate on what he'd rather be doing with or to Martín.
Though Sergio has to admit, he's a little impressed to learn that Andrés does have this much self-awareness, after all.
“We could be happy,” Andrés sighs, momentarily earnest to the point of losing his flair for drama. “Why aren't we?”
“You should tell him that, you know. All of that, not just the–”
“I cannot believe he needs to be told,“ Andrés complains, ”I married him.”
"He can't just read your mind."
"He absolutely can, I think. It's uncanny, the way my beloved husband understands me."
"I promise you, talking to him will help. Do not make him another fucking lasagne. He's not Garfield."
"Language!" Andrés scoffs, like he hasn't recently married a man who considers fuck to be more of a platitude than a swear. But of course, when Martín swears, it's only endearing, and makes Andrés sigh happily about how passionate he is.
Andrés gets up, and gestures at his untouched tea.
"Thanks," he says, laconically, "Suppose I will go talk to my husband. Not because you told me to, mind. It's just that it's been almost an hour, since I last saw him."
“Do not even try and tell me that you get withdrawals or something.”
“Oh, but I do. My hands start to shake, and I can't think straight. It's miserable. I must go find him at once.”
“Well, good luck, anyway,” Sergio says, and despite his delivery, he means it.
Andrés puts his shoes on, and straightens to talk again. “By the way, I no longer add sugar to my tea,” he says, and grins, bashful and bright, and Sergio is starting to recognise this new expression as something he carries for only one man, “Because Martín doesn't, so we couldn't share, and it was a headache. Literally. Too much sugar gives him a headache. For future reference!” He waves, in a wide arch, almost banging his hand on the wall. ”Anyway, I'm going. Shaky hands, you see. Bye!”
A week passes, and Sergio doesn't hear a word from either of the two. While he doesn't necessarily miss them and their drama, to say that he's a little worried would be…
Well, it would be accurate. He would've thought that Andrés would have been all too happy to gloat, once they'd figured it all out. How could they possibly mess up something so easy, when they're so far gone for each other that they've grown symbiotic?
Since Sergio worries, and he doesn't receive any signs of life, and neither of them answer his calls or texts–
(The reason he even has Martín's number is that sometimes Andrés's phone dies, or goes missing, and then he'll text Sergio from Martín's phone to say that he'll only be reachable through him for the foreseeable future. Sometimes that foreseeable future lasts a week and then some, which sort of makes Sergio suspect that it's not about his phone, after all. It seems much more likely that he just… Wants the rest of the world to leave them alone, sometimes. Wants to stop existing, unless it’s through Martín.)
–he braves the trip to their flat.
It has the kind of fancy poor, starving artist aesthetic that Andrés has always been drawn to. Sergio doesn't know Martín well enough to be able to tell if the place is his style, but he seems comfortable there.
Sergio knocks, and waits for three whole minutes, and knocks again.
Finally, Andrés opens the door, a grin on his lips and his hair sticking up in places in a way Sergio has never seen before, but at least he's dressed. The lights aren't on, rendering their decadent little flat suspiciously dark.
"Did I– interrupt something?"
"Yes," Andrés says, matter of fact.
"Of course not," Martín we-must-keep-repeating-his-last-name-because-Andrés-loves-hearing-it de Fonollosa mutters, at the same time, appearing behind him. He's wearing a shirt that must be Andrés's, though it's wrinkled in a way they rarely are, combined with slacks and one sock. There's the smell of Andrés's cologne on him, almost overpowering.
It's hard to tell with the lighting, but Sergio thinks he might be blushing.
"It's alright, though!" Andrés announces, ushering his brother inside, even though he's just started having second thoughts about that. "We are, as always, happy to see you. What brings you here?"
Sergio gives him a look.
"Right!" Andrés says, snapping his fingers as he seems to remember, "You might’ve tried calling, maybe even texting, and haven't heard back. Well, as you can see," he gestures at Martín as his evidence, probably because he hasn't seen a mirror, and has no idea how he himself looks, "We've been busy, in our married bliss. I'm sure you'd like to know – did you interrupt us consummating our marriage?"
"Andrés," Martín hisses.
"Nope!" Andrés announces, proudly, "Seeing as we already did that, three days ago. Would you like to add that date to your calendar, too? We have admittedly been quite busy since then, though I obviously would not have opened the door for you, if–”
"Please never speak again.”
Sergio did not need to know any of that, thank you very much, even if it was evident even before Andrés put it into words.
He really should have counted his blessings, when the lovebirds were still taking turns angsting on his sofa.
“I'm never shutting up. Besides, you're the one who convinced us to marry–”
“Thanks a lot for that,” Martín mutters, his voice dripping with sarcasm, but his eyes shining with happiness, as his fingers brush Andrés's.
“–in one of the better ideas you've ever had, so it's only fair that you also get to hear how it's going. Swimmingly! We should have done this years ago.”
“You've only known each other for–”
“Ten months, eighteen days. Oh, it's the anniversary, soon! What do you want to do to celebrate?”
He's obviously asking Martín, who looks surprised to be addressed so suddenly, so directly. Or maybe he's surprised by how openly Andrés is willing to discuss this in front of his brother.
“Uh… Maybe we can go back to the café–”
“We got banned,” Andrés reminds him, and that's news to Sergio, but he probably doesn't want to know the details, anyway.
“Right. Well, we'll sneak in. No, wait, we'll break in.”
“Oh, that's perfect.”
They share a look, and unfortunately, Sergio can infer what they might plan to do at that café, after breaking in.
He imagines that this feeling must be similar to the one lawyers get, upon realising that their client very much did commit the crime they're being accused of. He's actually been entertaining getting a law degree, but somehow it doesn't sound at all enticing anymore.
Maybe he'll take up gardening, instead.
Andrés wraps his arms around Martín's waist, and Martín melts into it, and Sergio feels like he's witnessing something intensely private; a glimpse into that world in which only the two of them exist.
He looks away, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"Speaking of anniversaries – March 9th, next year," Andrés announces, "Mark it in your calendar! We're having another wedding-type event.”
(Sergio doesn't get the chance to tell him, that day – but it's already in his calendar.)
“Are we?” Martín asks, sounding genuinely surprised.
“Thought I already told you, last night.”
“I did not know if you were being serious. Considering, uh…”
“Of course I was. I missed out on confessing my undying love for you, last time. Also, first kiss, wedding night, the whole ordeal. Most pressingly,” There's a pause, and Sergio is ill-advised in glancing at them, because he witnesses Andrés running his fingers up Martín's spine. ”As much as I adore you, you're not ever getting another wedding, so you'll have to make the most out of this one.”
Well, now Martín is definitely blushing.
Sergio isn't squeamish, even though Andrés often accuses him of it. He just happens to believe that it's a perfectly reasonable and normal boundary, to not want to know the details of his brother's sex life.
“I'm glad you've figured yourselves out,” he says, “But I've already heard more about your… married life than I ever wanted to, so–”
“What are you, homophobic?” Andrés laments, “We raised you better than that.”
“I regret ever coming here, and I'm going to leave, right now," Sergio concludes.
"That would probably be for the best," Martín responds, and he sounds a little bit apologetic, but mostly he's just beaming. It's very Andrés of him.
“We'll meet you for lunch, tomorrow,” Andrés offers, “Probably. Let's say two–”
“Three,” Martín cuts in.
“–three o’clock, and if we're late by over two hours, then you can just assume we're not coming. Don't call, because we're not answering.”
“I don't even know where my phone is, now that I think about it,” Martín mutters, his gaze sweeping the shadowy interior of their flat. “Haven't seen it for… days?”
“In the sock drawer,” Andrés offers, “So’s mine, by the way. I just… wanted us to be left alone.” He presses a kiss to Martín's temple. ”And anyway, you have no reason to call anyone – I'm right here.”
Contrary to how any normal human being should react to such information, Martín just grins, the kind of gently adoring that suggests that he's perfectly pleased to have his things in Andrés's greedy hands, that he considers them just as safe as if they were in his own, that he'd rather Andrés keep his phone and the rest of him, too. “Yes, you are,” he says, soft and reverent.
It's this odd way in which they love one another – this is what assures Sergio that everything is going to be fine, for the two of them. They've always made a great team, really, so if they're on the same page about this, they can surely make it work.
He is, admittedly, relieved.
“Tomorrow, then,” he interrupts them, even though he knows he's signing up to being tortured by the newlyweds. But at least they won't – hopefully – have this threatening air of we're going to fall back into bed the second you leave about them.
“Thanks for stopping by,” Andrés says brightly, not even pretending to want his brother to extend his stay.
“And thank you, in general,” Martín adds, and smiles, small but genuine.
“Of course. You're… my family.“ Sergio clears his throat. ”Uh, both of you.”
He feels a little wobbly, to declare Martín his new second annoying older brother, but it's worth it, for the way they both give him a matching grin.
“He's so sweet,” Martín sighs, leaning his head on Andrés's shoulder, “We raised him well, after all.”
Andrés nods, sagely. “Of course; we've provided him with such good role models,” he coos.
Sergio rolls his eyes, but he knows well enough not to address that.
Luckily, he had the foresight to never even take off his shoes, so making his escape doesn't take very long.
He's very happy for them, truly.
He's just going to be happy for them from a safe distance.