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The woman at the front desk eyed him up and down, probably with all sorts of theories running through her head, none of them good. Pacino scowled at her. This was a hospital for God's sake, she shouldn't be judging him for who he was visiting.
“Room 225,” she said coldly, pointing toward the elevator.
“Thank you,” Pacino replied, even if he didn't mean it.
Pacino wasn't sure what to expect when he reached the ward Ángel was staying in. No one talked about AIDS in 2020. The only reason Pacino knew about it was because he watched All About My Mother and had to pause the movie to look up what VIH was. Lola hated it when he paused movies like that, because it usually meant he would have to watch the movie a second time, to see it without interruptions. At least she was usually thankful for the information, since she skipped over more of history than he did. He just wished she appreciated the movies a little more, the way Ángel did.
It was a shame Ángel wouldn't live to see All About My Mother. He would have liked it.
It was eerily quiet in Ángel’s ward. Admittedly, the only times Pacino ever visited the hospital were when he was interrogating a wounded suspect, which was a different scenario. Still, he was used to there being a steady stream of visitors and hospital staff traversing the halls. Here, there was almost no one. It was disquieting.
Pacino knocked on the door to room 225. He hoped his friend was in good enough shape to talk. Ángel still had four months left according to the date on his death certificate, but that didn't necessarily mean he was still in good health. Obviously it was bad enough that he was in the hospital.
“Come in.” The call was faint.
Pacino originally didn't want to come here. His encounter with Ángel in 1981 was meant to be his final goodbye. But with everything that happened in the last few months, he couldn't let go of yet another person he loved. Especially not when he had the ability of walking through any door he wanted.
“Jesús, is that you?”
Pacino had to hold back a sob at the sight of his friend. He was gaunt, bald, and had no color left in him aside from the large sarcoma on the side of his neck. When Pacino last saw him, Ángel at least looked healthy, even though he was dying on the inside. Now he was clearly dying on the outside as well. It made the inevitable a lot less deniable. Pacino didn't like it one bit.
“Hey Ángel. I was in town, thought I would stop by,” he lied.
“I'm glad you came. I don't get a lot of visitors these days,” his friend said, little above a whisper.
“Not even a boyfriend?”
“He died three months ago.”
Pacino's face sank, his ill attempt at humor making the worst landing possible.
“While we're on the topic of terrible things,” Ángel said, “I heard your parents got divorced.”
“Yeah,” Pacino replied, reminding himself of those events. For him, that was nearly three years ago. It was much more recent from Ángel's perspective. Such was the drawback of time travel, keeping track of multiple timelines. “They're coping. Mom more than dad.”
“Everything changed so fast,” said Ángel. “I thought it would all be for the better. Guess I was wrong.”
“My parents are better off separated, trust me.” He knew Ángel wasn't talking about Pacino's parents. He was just going to pretend like he was. He wouldn't know what to say otherwise.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Ángel asked, changing the topic.
Of course, that wasn't a topic Pacino liked discussing either. “Yes. No. It's complicated.” He figured “my girlfriend was kidnapped by art thieves in a flying time machine” would only make him sound like a lunatic.
Ángel laughed, which came out sounding more like a wheeze. “It always is with you.”
“It's not like that. She just…had to leave. I'm not sure if she's coming back.”
“You could call her, you know,” Ángel said. “They have this invention called the telephone and you can use it to talk to people in different places.”
“Yeah, yeah, smartass,” Pacino said, rolling his eyes. “I would if I could. I can't. She's…deep undercover.” That was a good explanation, Pacino thought. He should have come up with it sooner. After four years with the ministry, he sometimes forgot he used to be a cop.
“Oh. Sorry. That's rough.”
“Not as rough as dying,” Pacino said. He regretted the words as soon as they came out of his mouth.
Ángel didn't react to Pacino's comment. He looked too tired, too worn down by life, to care about verbal slights. Or maybe that was just Pacino projecting onto him. He knew he wouldn't have cared about words much if he were dying a slow, agonizing death like this.
“There's something I didn't tell her before she left.” Pacino had finally reached the part where he needed to confess to his friend. That was why he came here in the first place. With Lola gone, Ángel was the only person he felt safe confessing to. He didn't know Carolina well enough yet, Amelia was in the 19th century, Julián wasn't a big fan of people these days, and Alonso was Alonso. It was almost like he was 15 again, with only his best friend to turn to. His best friend, who would soon be gone.
The words came spewing out of him, like water from a dam that had just broken. “I like guys. Well. Not just guys. I like girls. Guys and girls.”
“The word you're looking for is bisexual,” said Ángel. “And I already knew that.”
“You already knew that?” Pacino asked, confounded. He had only just figured it out himself, after a rather interesting mission involving Philip I.
“Jesús, I've known you since we were five. Of course I knew you were bisexual. You saw My Dearest Señorita with me in theaters, remember?”
“Well yeah, but that film was a work of art. It got nominated for an Oscar.”
“Not to mention all those James Dean posters you had on your bedroom wall,” Ángel added.
“Okay, I get your point,” said Pacino.
“Well, if you've come to ask me for a threesome, I hate to tell you, but I'm indisposed.”
That got a laugh out of Pacino, the first actual laugh he'd had in a long time. “Shame. You're missing out.”
Ángel coughed, trying to hold it in but failing. Pacino offered him the cup of water sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. Ángel waved him away.
“I had the biggest crush on you when we were teenagers,” he said. “You were far too clueless to notice.” Pacino couldn't argue with that.
“There's something I need to tell you too,” Ángel continued. “I'm not leaving here alive. I don't know how much time I left.”
Unfortunately, Pacino knew exactly how much time his friend had left. He wished he could tell him. He was so tired of keeping secrets.
But Ángel didn't need to be bothered with the details of time travel. Nor did he need the burden of knowing his exact date of death, even if he already knew the cause. That wasn't why Pacino came here anyway.
“I know,” Pacino said. “One day they're going to find a treatment for this thing. And guys like us won't have to hide that we like other guys.”
“Wouldn't that be nice,” Ángel said with a half smile.
Pacino couldn't stand the sadness in the air. He had more than enough of it lately. He wanted to enjoy his friend’s company. Maybe then he could pretend that this wasn't truly goodbye. “What do you say we watch a movie?” he asked, clasping Ángel on the shoulder. “I think they have a VHS machine here.”
Ángel smiled. “Only if it's not Serpico again.”