Work Text:
Andrés loves the beach. He's grown up by the seaside, and it's like a piece of him is missing, whenever he's not near it. He loves the sand when it's hot, loves the tide when it's low, loves the sea when it's stormy, loves unconditionally like only children can.
He loves the star fruit, too. It's native to Argentina, just like his best friend, and Andrés thinks they're both really great. The fruit is sweet and plump, and he was thrilled when Martín first showed it to him. It's expensive, so far from home, but Andrés savours every bite when he gets his hands on one.
"Have some," Andrés offers, carelessly holding out a piece of the fruit to Martín. It's bright yellow, and it's dripping on his fingers. They're at the beach, just before sunset, and the sand is already growing cool.
Martín stares at him like he's gone insane. "No," he says, "That's... no. Have you not heard what they say about the star fruit?"
"No?" Andrés offers, a little offended. He likes sharing things with Martín, and hates being told off. He keeps holding out the fruit.
"They say that if you share a star fruit with someone else, then you're fated to always remain in each other's lives,” Martín says, serious like adults often are. It sounds funny, coming from him. He's just a little kid; far too young to ever be serious.
But Andrés feels a distinct flutter in his heart at the notion of always. "Okay?" he offers, "That's... that's great, though, isn't it? Friends forever?" He shakes the fruit demonstratively. "Come on," he says, "Take it. My arm's getting sore."
Martín frowns, moving away just half a step, his toes sinking in the wet sand. "No, I... My parents shared one at their wedding. That's not a decision you make lightly."
"I didn't know you were so superstitious," Andrés huffs, "And I'm not making it lightly! I want you in my life, forever and all that."
He's twelve. To be completely honest, he doesn't know what he's talking about. He thinks he knows everything about the world, but he's just a kid. He has no business tying his life together with anyone at all, not even Martín, whom he likes the best in the world.
But he's twelve, and he doesn't know any of that. He knows nothing but being twelve.
Martín chuckles. "You don't know what forever means. Anyway, it's a story, that's all."
"If it's just a story, then sharing one won't hurt,” Andrés reasons, because he's used to getting his way, especially with Martín. In the end, Martín always wants to make him happy. ”Come on. Take it."
“No, Andrés. I'm not taking it.”
“But I wanna do the forever thing. Either it's a dumb story, or we're friends forever.”
His friend still wavers. "Do you really want that?"
"Are you kidding? I'm just offering you a stupid fruit, but if the stupid fruit means we'll be friends forever– eat it, then."
Martín blinks at him, blue eyes watery. "You swear?"
"Of course. On my seashell collection."
Andrés loves his seashell collection, almost as much as he loves his friend. Martín is great. Martín can't ever leave; Andrés would be so bored and lonely. Even the seaside wouldn't be the same, without him.
Martín smiles. "Swear on your life, too."
"On mine, and yours. Sergio's, too. Anyone else? Mum and dad, and your parents, too."
"Okay… Well, I’ll think about it," Martín says.
"Don't think about it. I just offered up a lot of lives, what more do you want? Eat it, you reaper."
"I–"
"You do want to be friends forever, right?” Andrés pushes.
"Of course."
"Cool. Eat it, then."
Martín sighs, but he slowly moves closer to him again. "You're sure sure?"
Andrés snorts, and presses the piece of fruit to Martín's lips. "I'm certain sure. Open up," he says, "Eat it."
Martín opens his mouth dutifully, and Andrés shivers as he takes a bite. More than anything, he hopes that the stupid story is true. He's twelve, and friends forever is the greatest commitment of his life.
When Martín is thirteen, he withdraws, for all of two hours. They have an argument and then they have a fight, and then Martín threatens a friendship breakup over it.
“Don't be stupid,” Andrés huffs, “We're not doing that. I don't care if you want to kiss boys. All the more girls for me, really.”
“But it's weird,” Martín whines, “Isn't it?”
“It's not that weird. Boys can be cute, too. You can kiss boys, if you want to. So long as I'm still your favourite.”
Martín has just gotten into the teenage habit of rolling his eyes, and he does that now.
“You're annoying,” he complains.
“I thought you were the problem, here,” Andrés teases, “Wanting to kiss boys, and ruining our close bond?”
“I forgot that you're a menace,” Martín mutters.
“I'm hurt – how could you ever forget a thing about me?”
“Shut up, already.”
“Only when you swear to never love another boy more than you love me.”
“Andrés…”
“Swear it.”
Another eye roll.
“Alright, alright. Consider it sworn.”
“Nice,” Andrés hums, “Thanks. I swear it back, by the way. No boy or girl will ever replace you.”
He's thirteen, and he's content to always be Martín's favourite.
When Martín is fifteen, his parents almost move back to Argentina, threatening to take him with them. There's talks of jobs and mortgages and schools, there's even talks of therapy, when Martín starts crying and slamming doors. It's not a good time for anyone involved, and Andrés doesn't know how to fix it. He tries to get his mum to adopt Martín, even though he already gets the sense that he doesn't actually want Martín to be his brother. But that doesn't matter, because she refuses, on the grounds that Martín already has two loving parents, who only want what's best for him.
“Yeah?” Andrés demands, his voice full of venom, “But if they really wanted what's best for him, they wouldn't be trying to take him away from me.”
It's a heavy statement, and he realises that when his mum looks at him like she does; vaguely disappointed.
“You'll make new friends,” she chastises, which is by far the cruelest thing anyone's ever said to him. He doesn't want new friends. It makes Martín sound like he came on a conveyor belt, when he's actually smart and funny and Andrés's world would dim, if he went away.
But Martín doesn't go anywhere, in the end. The universe pulls some strings; his father still goes, but his mum stays, and when Martín gets the choice, no one's surprised by his answer, even if several people are disappointed by it.
“I'm sorry,” Andrés says, in case he's meant to be sorry. In case he's just torn Martín's family to pieces, separated by the ocean. In case their divorce is his fault, somehow.
If the fruit did this. If the fruit kept Martín in Europe, then Andrés… well, he's never going to regret it, not really. He can say he's sorry, but he won't ever actually mean it.
“Thanks,” Martín says, but to be honest? He seems mostly unaffected by it.
He's fifteen, and they don't talk about how Andrés and the fruit tore his family apart.
When Andrés is seventeen, his beloved hermanito’s health takes a turn for the worse. Four months are full of fog, but whenever he's lucid, Martín is there. Even when they have to relocate to San Sebastian for his treatment, Martín just happens to lose his part-time job, and their temporary flat happens to have an extra room, and...
“Do you even have a life of your own?” Andrés asks him, but it's soft. It's appreciative.
“No,” Martín says, nuzzling his cheek, “He'll be okay, Andrés.”
“How do you know that?”
“I'm smart, and I say so. I promise he'll be okay.”
“Promise promise?”
“Certain promise. Get some sleep.”
“But what if he–”
“Shh. Nothing’s going to happen. But I'll sit at his bedside, if it makes you feel better.”
Martín has never seen him cry before, but Andrés is close to tears now.
“Would you?”
“Of course. Sleep, Andrés. I'll be here. He'll be here, too. I swear it.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Martín's smile is warm and gentle. For the first time – maybe it's the lack of sleep, maybe it's the tiredness, maybe it's always been there – Andrés really just wants to kiss his best friend.
“I would do anything for you,” Martín says, quietly, squeezing his hand, “Anything at all.”
Andrés swallows around the feelings, and nods, and turns away from him.
Sergio is sick for four months, when Andrés is seventeen, but he does get better. The only lasting impact is that every now and again, when his best friend is close, Andrés thinks about what it would be like to kiss him.
When he's eighteen, Martín– Martín gets an offer from the University of Barcelona. A stellar offer, because he's stellar, and deserves nothing less.
"You declined it, right?" Andrés asks him, off-handed. He's fully expecting Martín to just say yes, because he has no precedent for them to ever part. There's barely been a day when Martín hasn't been by his side, over the last six or seven years, and Andrés is starting to understand subtle shades of homophobia in his parents’ disapproval of that.
But he doesn't care. He knows what Martín is to him – everything and more.
"Are you kidding?” Martín huffs, ”Of course I didn't. It's one of the best engineering degrees in the whole country."
"It's across the country," Andrés complains. It is literally on the opposite coast. Martín cannot go there, not on Andrés's life.
"I think they'll have different seashells," Martín tries, "I'll bring you one, every time I come back home."
But they— they shared the fruit. That means Martín can't go. Andrés hadn't realised, until this moment, how much weight he's been putting on the thing, how much comfort it brings him. The fruit is a promise, one the universe has to keep. Andrés is owed this; they can't ever part. That's the fate he chose for the two of them.
"I don't want seashells," he says, petulant, "I want you to stay. Don't go."
Martín sighs. "I don't want to go, either–"
"Then don't. It's that simple."
"But I don't have a future, here,” Martín says, his frustration visible as he wrings his hands.
That one, Andrés can't actually argue with. Martín is too bright for their sleepy seaside town. Andrés can paint anywhere, but Martín can't satisfy the cravings of his mind in this place. He's already gone through all the books at their sorry excuse for a library, and he needs to see the world.
Andrés knows that. He's known that for some time; he's just wanted to ignore it.
“But– you can't leave me behind,” he breathes, and it hurts like shards of glass in his lungs.
Martín sighs, lacing his fingers with Andrés's. "Come with me, then.”
Andrés is eighteen, when he gets accepted to study art at the University of Barcelona. He gets accepted on a random late admission, on a scholarship that haphazardly appears; even the degree programme is new, combining art history with landscape techniques, allowing him to paint endless panoramas of the sea.
Andrés is eighteen, and he knows that there's no way for them to ever separate.
He's done something rather drastic to the threads of their lives.
"This is kind of insane," Martín sighs softly, into the dusk of their room. "You know? You and your fruit did this."
He's nineteen, and they're sharing a room in Barcelona, far from home. Rent is so expensive, in the big city. They're laying in their own beds, but the room is so tiny, Andrés could reach out and touch him. Their desks are so close, they bump into each other whenever Andrés works with his right hand.
They both love their studies, and Andrés feels like he's already learned so much more about the world, so much that his sleepy seaside home couldn't ever express to him. Martín was right to choose this, for them both.
"Do you think so?" Andrés asks him. Because he does wonder about that, at times, even though they don't talk about it. Life has tried to separate them, hasn't it? And it has almost succeeded, too, almost.
"I don't know," Martín says, "Not really. Maybe. I don't think I believe in it, anymore – I'm not a kid – but..."
Andrés gets that. Too much coincidence, too many near misses.
"But it's a little too convenient, right? Almost like we really are tied together, no?"
Martín shivers; Andrés doesn't see it, but he can hear it in his voice, in the way it almost cracks when he says, "Yeah."
"Well, if we did that," Andrés reasons, "Then it's for the best, really. We could've been separated, by now. That'd be awful."
"That would be natural, maybe. Childhood friends often grow apart."
"I don't care," Andrés huffs, "I'm keeping you, and I don't care if it's by a freaky fruit spell. You're my best friend."
"You swear you don't mind? Because I feel kind of… guilty."
"Guilty? Why?"
Andrés seems to recall that he's the one who just about force-fed the magic fruit to Martín, actually. If anyone should be feeling guilty, it's him.
But he doesn't regret. He likes his life choices.
"Because I grew up on those stories,” Martín says, ”You know? I should've known better. I did know better. We were just kids, and I let you do that, even though I–"
"I don't mind. I'd do it all over again. Swear on the lives of everyone we know, and my seashell collection."
He still has his seashell collection. Martín was right; seashells are different, in Barcelona. They pick one, every time they go to the seaside. They go to the seaside a lot.
Martín smiles; it's in his voice, too.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. I don't want us to be apart; you know that. The star fruit was… it was a good thing for us to do.”
“I do fucking love you, you know."
"You too," Andrés tells him, softly.
He reaches his fingers out to brush Martín's.
He's nineteen, and he thinks he might be in love with his best friend.
"I think I want to sleep with him," Martín says, quietly. It's a confession, and Andrés ought to be pleased to be trusted with it.
Martín is twenty, and he has a boyfriend.
"I don't like him," Andrés says.
Martín snorts. "Yeah, I've gathered. That's why you're not invited to the ceremony, next Saturday."
"What ceremony?"
"The ceremony where we share a star fruit, undoing the previous star fruit, and then proceed to spend the rest of our lives together," Martín says sarcastically, "Andrés, seriously. Give it a break. He's not my, you know... Soulmate and shit. You're not getting replaced."
"Did you just–"
"And anyway," Martín hurries to say, "It's just innocent fun."
"You shouldn't have sex just because it's innocent fun. Your first time should be... special."
Andrés hates the thought of his best friend, his life companion, giving his body up to the whims of a worthless man.
“I actually wanted to confide in you about this,” Martín sighs, ”Not make this into a committee decision.”
“Well, you absolutely should ask for my opinion, because I think you shouldn't sleep with a guy who doesn't even know who Degas is.”
“I think he was trying to make a joke.”
“Then he's bad at jokes, too.”
"What, so I should save myself for marriage? Remind me – which of us nearly slept with his French teacher?"
(Okay, so maybe Andrés hasn't always made the best decisions. He's twenty, and his feelings are messy.)
"No," Andrés huffs, "I just mean... I don't like him. He's not right for you."
"He doesn't need to be. I just want his dick."
"No," Andrés insists, grimacing, "Don't."
"Can you please not be weird about this?" Martín says, his voice a little shrill. "I just want to have sex. I want to try it. And I know you don't like the guy, but let's face it – you're not going to like anyone."
It's hurts, because it's true, and that makes Andrés defensive. "Fine. What's next? Do you regret sharing the star fruit with me, too? Wish I let you live your life in peace? Am I–"
"God, shut up," Martín groans, "You're so fucking annoying. But I'll never fucking regret that, Andrés. Can you just tell me about what's actually bothering you?"
That would make life easier, wouldn't it? But no, he really can't. He doesn't know what to say or how to explain it, in a way that makes it clear that he values Martín and his friendship, and wants what's best for him, and he'd like it if Martín could consider maybe dating him, instead, but that it's not just reactionary to this whole thing, and despite the recent episode with his French teacher, Andrés has actually felt this way for a while, and...
"No," he sighs.
Martín sighs, too. "Alright, then. Why don't you just let me know when I'm free to sleep around?"
"Would that be okay with you?" Andrés asks, because that's actually the perfect solution.
"I did not mean that literally," Martín huffs, "But... yeah. If that's what you need to be happy, then sure. What fucking ever."
Andrés offers him a tentative grin. "Okay. How about this? Let's make a pact; neither of us sleeps with anyone, until we're both ready."
"Well... If this actually stops you from bedding your teachers, then it's already a win," Martín huffs, "Deal."
"Great," Andrés says, "Deal."
Andrés is twenty, and he buys himself some more time to figure it all out.
“What was that thing with your teacher, anyway?” Martín asks him.
“Confusion,” Andrés says, because he feels he owes Martín at least some of his honesty. He's been having these feelings, and he needed an outlet, and she was very… French.
“Right. Well. Feel free to date, if you want. Even if we're saving ourselves for some arbitrary reason.”
“Mm, thanks,” Andrés hums, “I might consider sharing a star fruit with a girl…”
Martín snorts, pleasantly secure about his place in Andrés's life. “Feel free to try. I'm yours forever, now. So there's that.”
Andrés is twenty, and Martín is his forever.
Martín is twenty, and he's… hot.
It's not the first time Andrés notices this, of course. He's not an imbecile. But it's the first time his body notices it, the first time all of him is made aware of just how attractive his friend really is.
“Is that shirt new?” Andrés says, stupidly.
“Hm? I don't think so. Why?”
“I don't like it,” Andrés says, for lack of anything better. The shirt is fine; he's just having some kind of a gay thing, and he needs to– “Wait, no, I didn't mean you should–”
Too late; Martín has quick fingers, and he's already unbuttoned it.
“Which one should I wear?” he says, discarding it, at least seemingly unaware of what he's doing to Andrés.
“I… you…” Andrés tries, all of his brain snagging at the sight of him. They go to the beach all the time; he's seen Martín shirtless hundreds of times. But his brain doesn't care; this time is different. Martín, shirtless, indoors, his brain says that's hot, now. “The… black one.”
“Which black one?”
Andrés shrugs, helplessly.
Martín finally realises he's acting up.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look hot.”
“You look hot,” Andrés mumbles, before realising that he shouldn't.
Martín stares at him.
Andrés offers him the nearest shirt available, which is unfortunately white, but it'll have to do.
“This one's yours,” Martín points out.
Oh, great. Martín, wearing his clothes? Brain says that's hot, too.
Andrés is nearly twenty-one.
He might be old enough to admit that what he wants with his best friend is everything and more.
"Happy birthday, Andrés."
Sergio hands him a star fruit, and Andrés's heart swells with nostalgia. He's twenty-one, as of today.
"Oh!!" he exclaims, "I haven't seen one of these in forever! Where'd you get it?"
"That market near our house," Sergio sighs, "It's still there. You'd know that, if you ever came to visit."
"Oh, shush," Andrés huffs, good-naturedly, shoving at him as he hugs the fruit to his chest. "It's my birthday! And anyway, it's not my fault I live across the country."
Sergio frowns at that. "You're the one who moved here. You weren't... forced to, or anything. Right? I know you and dad don't always..."
"No one forced me," Andrés says, shrugging, "I just meant that... of course I had to move here, when Martín did."
Sergio looks at him like that doesn't make any sense to him. "What does that mean, though?"
"It means exactly what I said," Andrés shrugs again, "I'll go wherever he goes. For the rest of my life."
He's never admitted this, to himself or to anyone else. But he's twenty-one today, and he wants to try and change that.
"I'm not even going to pretend to understand you two," Sergio sighs, "Would you... if you had to share a star fruit with someone. You'd pick him, wouldn't you?"
Andrés thinks that his little brother might be trying to get him to realise something. But he's late, by a few years.
"Yes," he says, with a smile, examining the fruit. It's so much smaller than in his memories; suppose he's grown. "In a theoretical world, in which I wasn't already spoken for, at the ripe age of twelve," from the corner of his eye, he sees his hermanito's eyes widen at the realisation, "I think I'd take this to him, and ask if he wouldn't want to bind our lives together."
"You—"
"Yes," Andrés says, and it feels wonderful, to tell someone about this. To tell his hermanito what exactly Martín is to him; everything. "Martín told me about it, and in my great wisdom, I thought it was a great idea."
It's been nearly a decade. Almost half their lives. Nine years, Andrés has spent bound to him. He's tilted the world into an axis where that's only going to continue.
"Wow," Sergio says.
Andrés grins at him. "Amazing, isn't it?"
"You two are insane. You got your destinies tied together at twelve?"
"Yeah," Andrés confirms, basking in his phrasing. "I like to think I made him into my soulmate. Registered that with the universe, if you will. Best decision of my little life."
"What was?" Martín asks, from the doorway, keys dangling from his fingers. Oh, he's finally home! Andrés is so looking forward to dinner with him. Martín promised to take him somewhere nice.
"You, obviously,” Andrés says, resisting the urge to bound up to him, ”I was just telling hermanito about our..."
He nods at the star fruit in his hands.
Martín blushes, though his grin doesn't falter, as he joins Andrés by his side. "Oh. Yeah, we did that. We were dumb kids."
"We were supremely forward-thinking kids!" Andrés insists, shoving at him, "Already knew we wanted to spend the rest of our lives together."
Martín rolls his eyes, fondly. "See what I have to live with?" he asks hermanito, "Don't share one of those with anyone, until you're at least fifteen."
Sergio, who is seventeen, snorts. "You two are..."
"Amazing?" Andrés offers.
"Insane?" Martín tries.
“Unbelievable, really.”
“Thanks,” Andrés says, turning to Martín. “Wanna share this? They don't cancel out, right?”
Martín rolls his eyes. “Wouldn't be much of an eternal bond if you could just undo it, now would it? Yeah, of course I'll share it with you.”
Sergio seems to still be reeling from this revelation, as Andrés breaks the fruit and hands Martín a piece.
Love you, he thinks, and he might even say it, if Sergio weren't right there. Andrés is different with Martín than he is with other people; even his family. He's… himself, with Martín, and an expert forgery around everyone else.
Martín meets his eye, as he bites into the fruit. A shiver runs through Andrés's spine. It wasn't like this, when they were twelve. It wasn't… sensual. He was honest and earnest, back then, and nothing more.
It's definitely more, now. Martín's gaze is questioning, hungry. His eyes speak a thousand words, and Andrés wants to answer his every question, even though the only answer he has is yes.
Sergio clears his throat, breaking the moment.
“I think I'll go see… la Sagrada Família. I'll be back later.”
Martín chuckles, his eyes not leaving Andrés.
“Okay,” he says, always treating Sergio like his own little brother, because they've grown up together, too. “Be careful of the pickpockets.”
They're both just stood there, until the door locks behind Sergio.
“Is it just me,” Martín drawls, “Or is the tension in here…”
“I'm in love with you,” Andrés says, still holding four fifths of the star fruit in his hands.
Martín smiles.
“I know,” he says. “I can't remember a time when I didn't know.”
“Really?”
“Mm. Does it scare you?”
“A little.”
“Which part? That we're both guys, or that–”
“You're– you,” Andrés says, and shakes the fruit a little, because he's nervous, “I don't want to ruin…”
“Nothing’s going to ruin this,” Martín hums, calmly, “I promise-swear, on the lives of everyone, and all the seashells. I've been yours since we were twelve. I'll be yours forever. Nothing’s going to change that. We've grown together, and I don't mean that in the way of growing up in the same place. I mean we've grown together, like vines. Entwined.”
Andrés feels tears prickling in his eyes, which is weird and stupid. He's just happy, because he trusts Martín, so this must be the truth.
He'll have to come out to his parents. Unless they already know. Sergio definitely knows. Martín knew, too. Everyone probably knows. Who's he going to come out to? Himself, maybe.
Hi, Andrés. You're gay. Or bi. Gay in any way that matters, anyway.
“Come on,” Martín prompts, his voice teasing, “Let's share this one, birthday boy. You haven't tried it yet.”
“Right,” Andrés says. He goes to break another piece off the fruit, but finds Martín's lips on his instead, tastes the fruit on his tongue. He moans in surprise, as well as pleasure, and he knows that this is it for him; this is always going to be it, for him.
Martín's arm wraps around his waist, pulling him closer. They kiss languidly, and it feels like home in ways Andrés didn't know to expect. Of course, Martín would be his home. He has been just that, for so long. His only home. The only one he wants, and the only one he needs.
“You really had the right idea,” Martín says, when they pull apart, though not really apart, since they're still pressed together, one of Andrés's hands still holding the fruit at his side, “When you got us bound together. I've been happy to be yours, since that day.”
“Me, too. Sorry I tore your family apart, though.”
Martín laughs. “Yeah? I'm not. Better them than us, right?”
It's a wild thing to say, since most people might suggest that the marriage of two adults was more important than the friendship of two kids, but they'd be wrong.
“Yes,” Andrés admits, “Better them.”
“Don't worry about anything,” Martín tells him, with a smile. “I know you're prone to that. But this is fine. This is good. You and me? We're great.”
"By the way," Andrés starts.
"Yeah?" Martín hums, looking up from his textbook.
He really is handsome; he has eyes like the sea. It's really easy to be in a relationship with him, because Andrés loves him so much. Next to nothing has changed, but some things could change.
"I think I'm ready."
"For what?"
Andrés allows himself a pleased grin.
"You're allowed to sleep with your boyfriend, now."
Martín's grin matches his.
"La concha de tu madre," he drawls, setting aside his textbook, hopping up from his chair. "Alright, then. You fucking dick. Let's go. Your bed, not mine!"
They continue to live by the seaside, in Barcelona, Valencia, Génova. When they get married, they share yet another star fruit, because why not?
Those are the constants of Andrés's life; the only constants he needs. Martín, and the crashing waves.