Chapter Text
Present Day
It's late.
Marcos glances outside the large window of his office as he finishes clearing his desk for the day. Night has fallen on this city that never sleeps but the financial district is still abuzz. From this height Manhattan seems a monstrous maze, the lights spreading in straight lines and out of sight, criss-crossing and never mingling - only interrupted by the dark of the buildings.
He waits until the computer has shut down completely and locks the tower cabinet with his key: it's overkill, sure, but he doesn't trust Tony Crossey, his officemate - always glaring at him for some reason or other, and delaying the numbers for petty reasons until the last possible minute (so he cannot get written up for it but late enough to make everyone's life miserable). Anyway: the day's over. Marcos rubs his face with one hand while he fingers his phone on with the other, checking his texts. Eight unread. Yes, he's late, he knows. He's always late.
He locks the office door too and makes his way to the elevator as he shoulders his coat on, his mind already elsewhere - eager to put all this aside. But no sooner has he pressed the button that he hears the sound of a door opening behind him. Oh god, please, no.
"Marcos, is that you?"
He begs himself to stay calm before he turns to face the voice with a smile.
"Yes, Mr. Cesaretti," he says, and when their gazes meet his face grows hot anyway.
Julián Cesaretti was transferred to the company headquarters straight from the Buenos Aires branch at the beginning of the year to take his seat in the Board of Directors. This threw Marcos's otherwise very boring office life into an upheaval. The suave argentine, older, tall, commanding, and painfully friendly caught his eye at once. Every time Marcos happens to look into his dark eyes he feels a profound disquiet - a need, a longing to get close to him. You just need to get laid, his friends joke when he tells them about him. Ask him to come home with you, they say. Marcos would never. Company fraternization policy aside, as far as he's heard from the secretaries Mr. Cesaretti isn't gay: he's divorced, he has an ex-wife. A typical Latino macho would be offended with Marcos's interest, so he avoids him studiously - flees him, really. But sometimes, like today, it's inevitable to speak to him.
"Call me Julián, please," he says, from the door of his office.
Julián, then, is wearing an impeccable beige suit and a striped brown tie, bespoke evidently. Marcos swallows and fingers his own tie (orange, flamboyant) nervously.
"Julián," he concedes, testing the way the name rolls off his tongue, as it belonged there, as if it'd always been there.
"Good," Julián says. "Do you have a moment?"
Marcos hesitates, glances down at his phone with now ten unread messages.
"I," he mumbles. "I was on my way out. I had... plans."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I was hoping to talk to you about the financial report for this quarter, I have some questions."
Well, providing financial guidance to the members of the Board is part of his job description. Marcos cannot refuse, personal plans or not. He slips his phone in his coat pocket.
"Of course," he says, and walks over to step into Julián's office.
There's a better view than from Marcos's window: not into the city, frantic with life, but out into the sober darkness of the river flanked by lights. Other than that, the room looks perfectly ordinary, decorated with the same ostentatious yet practical furniture of all the Board members offices. Except for this: on the wall nearest to his desk, Julián has hung a photograph of Rome. An unusual picture: not of the Coliseum, as the cliche dictates, but of the ruins of the Forum in the setting sun. Marcos only knows what they are because he used to gobble down everything about Ancient Rome when he was a child, caressing the pictures on his History textbooks and dreaming to go there one day.
"My grandfather was Italian," Julián says, following his glance.
"Ah," Marcos acknowledges, and tears his gaze from the picture reluctantly.
"Hm, we should be better friends, you and I. Don't you think? We're the only South-Americans in this branch."
Marcos bites back a smile. A Brazilian and an Argentinian? He can hardly think of better unlikely friends.
"No," he says, dead serious, and he loves how Julián's otherwise impassive face reflects some surprise. So he adds, with a smirk, "I think there's a law saying we're supposed to hate each other."
Julián lets out a chuckle as he understands. "As long as we don't talk about football, I think we'll be alright."
"I have worse news for you," Marcos says, pushing his luck. "My grandfather was English."
"Oh no!" Now Julián laughs, a fascinatingly cheerful laugh. "I have a double reason to hate you, then?"
"Yeah, I'm afraid so, sorry."
He can tell this little repartie was designed to put him at ease before delving into serious matters, but it surprises him how easy it was to fall into light banter, as if they knew each other well enough to be playful. As if they knew each other all along. Huh.
"Marcos, somehow I feel like I can trust you," Julián says, lowering his voice. "The latest sale was a bad move financially, wasn't it?"
"We haven't finished the report, but it looks like it," Marcos says, cautious. One doesn't need to be in the financial department to see how they're bleeding dollars following the deal. "Mr. Pompfrey was warned repeatedly that this was not the ideal climate for selling but he... he decided to follow his own instincts."
"Yes, of course. Well, I have to say the Board is a little troubled with the direction the company is heading lately. We should be focusing more on the foreign markers. But Pompfrey doesn't seem very interested."
Marcos stays silent. He's noticed, of course. Mr. Pompfrey, in his late seventies, still approaches business as he did forty years ago with increasingly disastrous results. But as the CEO of the company there can be no arguing with him. It doesn't surprise Marcos that the Board is uneasy. The finance department has been uneasy for the past two years.
"There might be some changes soon," Julián continues, his gaze sharp and alert. "I'm about to close a deal with Gallic & Co., as you well know."
"A rogue deal, as Mr. Pompfrey called it."
"Maybe so. But a juicy deal. Don't you agree?"
"Yes. It's too late for this quarter, but the next one will look better because of it. The markets are already reacting favorably." Marcos glances down briefly, because it's difficult to hold his gaze for too long without getting flustered, and then he meets his gaze again. "Close the deal as soon as you can, Julián."
"I will. And I don't think it will come as a big shock to you when I tell you that when the Board next meets, there may be a... certain vote that would put the company into more expert hands."
His own, evidently. He's had time to carve some support with the other Board members. Marcos would have rather not known: now this secret is his to keep. Or to spill, if he so wanted. He's worked for the company for nearly a decade, fresh out of business school, and he's come to know the ins and outs of the complicated network of invisible loyalties. Marcos feels no particular loyalty of his own towards Pompfrey, or anyone really. But would Julián make a better CEO? He doesn't know him that well. He doesn't know him at all. And yet...
"That would be interesting," he says, noncommittally.
"Mmhm," Julián insists, emphatic. "Bcc me that report when it's ready, won't you?"
"Yes. Of course."
What has he agreed to? Julián looks perfectly calm as he studies him, not at all nervous despite what he's admitted to him and what he's made him promise. Marcos knows these kind of men, ruthless, keen-eyed for business with the precision of a surgeon. By the looks of it, Julián is going to seize this chance and won't hesitate about it for a moment. It's just what they need. What the company needs.
Marcos finds that he wants to be on the winning side.
He extends his hand forward, offering it for Julián to shake. He takes it wordlessly: he has a strong grip that envelops his hand completely, and yet there's a subtle gentleness to it. Marcos knows he's liking this too much, so he pretends that he isn't. He stands to leave, and Julián speaks again.
"Sorry if I made you late for your date. Please extend my apologies to her."
Oh, no. No, no, no. Marcos tries to deny it, but he stumbles on the words. What to say? 'Not her. Never her. Actually, I'm gay' seems a little too personal. And it wouldn't clarify the situation. He clears his throat.
"It isn't a date," he ends up saying. Julián raises an eyebrow, inviting an elaboration, so he adds, "A good friend of mine, also Brazilian, has a dance studio in Brooklyn. I'm one of the head dancers in the upcoming show."
"A dancer?" Julián repeats. He sounds shocked. "What do you dance?"
"Oh, just capoeira. I fought to have samba included in the program, but the others refused. Too much of a stereotype, apparently."
"Huh."
This is the second time tonight he's surprised the impervious Julián. Marcos smiles.
"How does someone like you end up in finance?"
"Someone like me?" Marcos repeats, perhaps a little dryly, always on the edge about these types of comments. "What do you think someone like me is?"
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't finance very boring, very cold and calculating? That doesn't sound like you." Julian raises his eyebrows. "A capoeira dancer."
"I don't know what you imagine capoeira dancers are like." Marcos bites back a laugh. "But yes, finances can be a little boring. That's alright. I probably had enough excitement in my past lives."
He said nonchalantly, as a platitude or a joke, but Julián's face changes at once - a flash of wonder in his gaze and his eyes seem wider, full of something irresistible pulling Marcos closer and closer with no hope of escape.
"Well," he says, shaken by the need to get away from that troubling stare. "I've, uh, I've already missed one rehearsal this week. They'll want to strangle me when I get there."
"I'm sorry," Julián says, snapping out of whatever it was that made him look at Marcos that way. He sounds sincere. "Tell me when the show is, I might buy a ticket to make it up to you."
He'd never tell him in a thousand years. He'd fail every single routine knowing he's in the audience. Nevertheless, Marcos says, "I will," and feels cheeky enough to wink at him before he gets out of the office.
Julián's coup is masterful: with the full support of the Board after acquiring Gallic & Co., he wrestles control of the company from Pompfrey and is crowned CEO by unanimity.
To his surprise, Marcos is asked to sit in the next Board meeting - not as a voting member, of course, but as the head financial advisor. This is more power than he ever dreamed of having. He tries to keep a straight face, but when Julián meets his gaze across the meeting room and flashes him a subtle smile, Marcos can't help grinning back.
Julián, impossible to resist, infuses the company with new vigor. The numbers finally stop being red, and the projections start trending upwards. Marcos watches him in silence, drinking in his magnetic charm as he applies it to others (and to himself, he has to admit). His days slowly become more and more full of Julián: last-minute meetings, business lunches, dinners with shareholders. Marcos is busy, almost too busy for rehearsals. When he does manage to stop by the studio, he dances like he's never danced before, and patiently endures all of Henrique's grumbling about not showing up enough and how, apparently, he's insufferable now that he talks non-stop about his 'hot boss'.
He doesn't.
But he does think Julián is handsome, distractingly so.
During meetings, Marcos gets into the habit of looking at his hands. Julián usually keeps them folded in front of himself with regal calm, but occasionally, depending on the tone of the meeting, one of them reaches for a pen and strokes it distractedly, turning it between his fingers. Marcos could watch this all day. Enough to forget to pay attention, sometimes. But he can't afford to be distracted very often in this new position: he's supposed to make the final calls regarding the financial forecasts. Most times, it means simply saying yes to whatever Julián demands (and he demands a lot) and dismissing Crossey's doomsday forecasts.
Today, however, he wonders if they shouldn't be listening to him.
If Pompfrey was too cautious, Julián is too ambitious. He wants to strike fast and buy out all the competitors, but the buzz surrounding anti-monopoly is growing louder. They can't just have one monstrous chimeric conglomerate, accumulating branches with no sense of direction - and with only Julián at the head. Crossey might be a worrywart, and his presentations are invariably dismissed, but Marcos glances at the numbers in his own folder, and knows he must speak up before it's too late.
"I think Tony is right," Marcos says when Crossey finishes his irritated intervention.
Crossey looks at him with some surprise. They've never liked each other. Crossey has infinitely more reasons to hate him considering Marcos was favored by the Board instead of him, with all his years of experience. But he isn't wrong.
"I must advise against this acquisition, Mr. Cesaretti," Marcos goes on, and glances at Julián.
It doesn't look like he's used to being told no. Wide-eyed, clearly surprised, Julián glares at Marcos - his gaze all but expressing, you dare, you dare? That dangerous, angry glint in his gaze only happens to make him more attractive.
Marcos licks his lips, and adds, "If you're dead set on this deal, it would be better to delay it until next year - no need to send the markets into unnecessary panic so soon after your takeover."
He expected stunned silence after this, but the PR department pipes up immediately after him, sharing the same concerns, and so does Production, and several others like the burst of a dam. It's like Marcos staged his own little coup. He didn't mean it like this.
Julián may be charming, but he can't argue his way out of so many different fronts. Evidently displeased, he has to back down - he calls off the meeting with an irritated gesture.
"Stay," he tells Marcos, before he can make it to the door.
The conference room overlooks the city from the very top of the building, giving a vague impression of floating in the air when one stands next to the windows. It's raining. Marcos slides his hands into the pockets of his suit, staring up at the dark clouds until the rest of their colleagues have left. Julián might want to fire him, he supposes. The hassle of having to look for a new job somehow comes second to the unexpected disappointment that he may never see Julián again, ill-tempered or not. He's being silly.
"You're not at all like I expected," Julián says.
Marcos abandons his contemplation out the window and turns to face him. Julián looks as calm as he sounded, though his hands are fidgeting on his lap. This alone is fascinating.
"What did you expect?" Marcos asks, though the burning question on his lips is rather, why did you expect anything ?
"Someone easier to get along with."
"A yes-man, you mean? Someone who wouldn't argue with you? I thought you were paying me to advise you."
"I am." Julián makes a gesture with his lips, some kind of displeased pout, as he seems to ponder on the situation.
Marcos steps closer, but because Julián is still sitting he stops at a respectful distance, not wanting to tower over him. He bends down a little so that they are at eye level. Julián's dark eyes with that soulful, penetrating gaze are disquieting to look into.
"Julián," he says, and he didn't mean for his voice to drop like this, to come out husky as if he were letting him in on a secret. "I wasn't going against you back there. I'm trying to make things easier for you, for your plans. I only want what's best for you. For us. For the company," he adds, tumbling at the end of the sentence because he's decidedly sounding much too personal.
Julián crosses his hands over his lap.
"Hm," he says. "I suppose I'll have to trust you."
"Yes!" Marcos says, lightly. "Trust the scummy brazuca to do his job."
Julián chuckles at this, and Marcos finds himself desperate to touch him in some way, any way. He extends his hand forward for a handshake, like the first day of their association. Julián takes his hand, but it isn't quite a proper handshake, it's more of a brief squeeze, a gesture in equal parts fleeting and intimate. Marcos clears his throat, finding it a bit hard to breathe, and he pulls his hand back. Julián stands up so that they are face to face - rather close. He is slightly taller than Marcos. How he stares at him! No one could bear such an intense look without glancing away - and yet Marcos holds his gaze.
"When is the show?" Julián asks, out of nowhere.
"In two weeks," Marcos answers, a little startled with the unexpected question. He thought Julián would have forgotten by now.
"I want to come."
"Are you sure? I'm not that good."
"Oh, I'm very sure," Julián says, dropping his voice to a low whisper.
Marcos blinks. Is he imagining things? That was pretty damn flirty. This whole exchange has been a little odd, come to think about it. Be normal, he tells himself. Julián probably doesn't mean it that way.
"I can arrange tickets," he says, doing his best to sound offhanded. "For two, I suppose?"
That question is a deliberate challenge, like throwing a glove to request a duel - and Julián picks it up without much effort.
"No," he says, and smiles. He raises both eyebrows and nods. "Just one, for me."
Marcos bites his lip. "I'll see what I can do."
The next morning he slips the ticket in an envelope and drops it off with one of the secretaries. He chose a seat far enough from the stage so that he won't accidentally see Julián while dancing, but still one with a very good view. He probably won't come. A CEO of such a huge company doesn't have time to see an indie show in a small venue.
Still, Marcus hopes.
The show goes well.
The loft-repurposed-to-theater is full to the last seat, the lighting has no last-minute hiccups, and once it begins Marcos forgets all nerves. There's a degree of improvisation, but he's been dancing with Henrique and Joaõ long enough that the moves come smoothly to him, half-dance and half-fight as they twirl to the beat of the drums with acrobatic kicks. The applause after each number is dizzying, invigorating. It's the closest to being alive that Marcos ever feels.
Drunk on his own success, he nearly forgets about Julián. After the show is over, they're all chatting backstage (and really, backstage is too fancy a name for what used to be a staff kitchen in this warehouse) and congratulating each other when Julián steps in, a determined look in his eyes. Marcos becomes very aware that he's shirtless, that he danced all of his numbers shirtless. Julián's gaze glides down his body appreciatively - openly. Marcos tries to keep his cool as he walks over to greet him.
"You came!" he says as he nears him.
"Of course I did," Julián says, and he leans closer to kiss his cheek.
A kiss. For a greeting. Argentinian men do that, don't they? Because elsewhere it's... simply not done. Marcos just stands there, a little stunned, and even more aware of his current state of undress. He can hear a couple of his friends snickering behind them. Some whispers of new boyfriend? as well. Ugh. He rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment, but he's more than a little charmed at the gesture.
"Don't make fun of me," he warns.
"Why would I! That was wonderful. You were wonderful. Exquisite, really. I'm of a mind to fire you tomorrow so that you can be a dancer full time."
Marcos lets out a nervous laugh. "Please don't. But thank you for coming."
"No," Julián says. "Thank you."
He glances at him again, at his bare chest up and down with that searing gaze, and then he bites his bottom lip - not subtle at all. Coming from any other man, Marcos would take his cue. Still, he hesitates, not wanting to be too forward with a colleague (with his boss).
"We're going for drinks afterwards," he says anyway. "Want to join us?"
"I can't." Julián waves his phone. "I'm already late for dinner. Your bad habits are rubbing off on me."
"Ha. Well, apologize to her for me," he hazards, his heart thumping harder.
"Not a her," Julián answers. "Just some very old men interested in kissing my ass to get my money."
"Sounds like a fun time," Marcos teases.
"You have no idea," he says, an eyebrow raised, and leaves as abruptly as he came.
Marcos rubs his face with both hands before he turns to face his friends, who are all laughing out loud.
"Yes, alright, show's over," he grumbles in Portuguese.
"Was that your hot boss?" Henrique says, clapping him on the shoulder. "That man is dying for you."
"Yes it was, and no he's not. He's straight, last I heard."
"If that guy is straight, we're doing samba next show and I'll wear feathers on my head."
"Fuck off," Marcos says, and rolls his eyes.
But he has to admit there's a certain thrill now that wasn't there before.
It takes him several weeks to approach Julián again - not because of a lack of courage, but rather because there is too much work and they are rarely alone. But he does manage to catch him one evening when most people have gone home. He peeks his head into Julián's office after a quick knock. The secretary is gone. Julián looks up from his computer, reading glasses on.
"The Libertadores final," he tells him. "The second leg is on Wednesday."
Julián smirks at him. "I thought we weren't supposed to talk about football."
"I'm feeling adventurous this week," Marcos says, deliberately flirty.
Something changes in Julián's face as he takes off his glasses - interest? Marcos would describe it as hunger, if he dared.
"Who's playing?" he asks.
"Grêmio and River Plate." A Brazilian and an Argentinian team, he couldn't pass this up. Marcos has no particular fondness for Grêmio, but he's willing enough to cheer for them if he's watching it with an Argentinian. "I hope you're not a die-hard River fan?"
"Oh God, no!" Julián says with a grimace. "I'm with Independiente to the death."
Marcos takes a deep breath. "Well. Do you want to watch it together? At my place?"
"That is really adventurous of you." Julián bites an arm of his glasses, pensive, and Marcos forces himself to look calm, perhaps even a little smug. "Where do you live?"
"179th and Broadway."
"179th? Where the hell is that, Harlem?"
"Washington Heights, actually." Marcos lets out a chuckle. "Is that a problem?"
Julián looks bewildered. "Why do you live there? Don't we pay you enough? Don't answer that. I'll give you a raise."
"Julián. It's fine. I like it. It reminds me of home." He shrugs. "But we can watch it elsewhere. A bar close to work or something."
"Yes. Let's leave the adventurous part for something other than the venue."
Oh hoh. It's too easy to flirt with him. Marcos burns with the urge to keep going but he only bites his lip and shrugs.
"There's a place that usually has football on, three blocks up from here," he says. "The Spanish Something. See you there at 8:30? Kick-off's at 8:45."
"Let me look at my schedule." Julián puts his glasses back on and double-clicks at something on the computer. He says, "I'm in DC that morning, but I'll be back by then." He glances up at him. "Meet you there."
On the day of, Marcos tries to focus on work, but the hours crawl by until the evening. He keeps one ear on the office chatter to find out if Mr. Cesaretti made it back, but no one seems to be talking about it. Marcos heads to the bar at the agreed time and wonders if he should text him. But he needn't have worried: Julián is waiting just outside, a tad overdressed. He's evidently just flown back from his meeting in DC. The sidewalk is crowded, full of people walking up and down, but when Julián grabs Marcos's hand and pulls him closer for a kiss on the cheek, it's as if the city disappeared behind them. As he pulls back, Marcos glances at his lips, then meets his gaze: it can't have lasted more than half a second, but Julián acknowledges it and his eyes linger on his mouth as well.
"Shall we?" he says, nevertheless, and gestures towards the bar.
The bar in question is full of business-types like themselves who work in the financial district and are in no hurry to go home. The last matches of the baseball season are playing on TV, along with some American 'football', but the smaller screen has the Libertadores game on. No one is watching it. All the better: they have a quiet corner of the bar all to themselves. Julián buys the first round, some unpretentious Californian wine, and sits himself right next to Marcos to face the TV.
"I hope you're ready to have your Brazilian ass kicked," he says, clinking their glasses together.
"Yeah, you wish," Marcos answers, tit for tat, and takes a sip of wine.
"What's your team, anyway?"
"Corinthians."
Julián hums. "So you're from Sao Paulo?"
"Yes." Marcos glances at him. "We weren't poor, if that's what you're imagining."
"I didn't say anything."
"Most people think that." Marcos hesitates, looks up at the screen then down at his wine. "I guess most people expect a romantic, I don't know, immigrant sob-story," he says. "It wasn't like that at all. Rich parents sent their only child abroad to study, he had good grades, he got an internship and then he liked it here enough to stay in the company."
"Hmm," Julián says with a nod. "Do you often refer to yourself in the third person?"
Marcos chuckles. "Only sometimes. What about you?"
"Oh, I prefer a royal we," Julián says, and it doesn't quite sound like he's joking. "My family was also well off. I studied here too, decades ago: this city was very different back then." He glances around, as if he could see it from this pub, but there are no windows. "But I liked it. Enough to return, when the occasion arose."
Marcos twirls his glass, holding it by the stem. "And where next, Julián?"
"Where next? The world, of course."
He is smiling, but Marcos doesn't doubt one moment that he means it. Nothing will stop him on his meteoric rise. Well. Maybe himself, as he's done once before. It still shocks him that his advice was followed. He wonders what Julián the man is like, whether he is very different from Julián the boss - whether he is just as relentless, just as demanding. He swallows.
"Your parents must be proud of you now," Julián says.
"They're not," Marcos answers, dryly, and stands up to get the second round.
He should tell him clearly. If anything, so that Julián can decide if he's comfortable spending time with him like this. He glances at the screen again while he's being served. The game has been fairly dull until now, and the TV is muted so he can't hear the commentators. Marcos takes both drinks back to the table.
"The reason they're not proud," he says as he slides Julián's glass in front of him, "is that they can't brag about me to the rest of the family, not fully. I'll never bring a girl home. They'll never have grandchildren. Imagine how ungrateful I am in their eyes, they sent me here to study and I 'turned out' gay."
There. He glances at Julián, who doesn't seem surprised in the least. He can even detect some sympathy in his gaze. Marcos lets out a brief sigh of relief. He did not realize he was so tense.
He adds, "We've not spoken in years. At least I can be myself here, I suppose."
"I understand." Julián takes a sip of wine. "Even so, I think it's easier for your generation. In my time, you had to get married, period."
Oh. All this time he's been running under the assumption that Julián got married because he wanted to, not... This changes everything. Marcos doesn't have time to bask in this discovery because Julián slaps the table with enough force to make the wine glasses shake.
"Goal!"
Marcos looks up: yes, River has just scored - from a free kick, apparently. Ugh. He rolls his eyes.
"What do you say now, brazuca?" Julián teases, elbowing him in the ribs (rather hard, actually).
"I say the game isn't over yet."
"Pfft. Away goal, remember? You're done for."
Marcos has never seen Julián like this, impish, almost like a child in his excitement. Very unlike his businessman self. He wants to know Julián, he realizes with a longing so painful it takes him aback. He wants to know this man and laugh with him and earn his unconditional trust. The small dent in his national pride is well worth this.
"Bah," he huffs to save face because he's treacherously considering that he might just endure a 3-0 loss to keep Julián's high spirits. "Whatever."
He pays little attention to the rest of the match, savoring the small details that Julián is willing to share with him, drinking in their closeness this dark little bar where they sit together, sequestered from the outside world. If this were a dance, this would be the part where Julián circles around him, drawing him closer and closer. Marcos would melt in his arms and throw his head back dramatically. It makes him want to laugh.
"What you said the other day, about past lives. Did you mean it?" Julián asks as the match gallops towards minute 90.
"Not really. Why? Do you believe in that stuff?"
"I never thought about it until you brought it up. Now I can't stop wondering."
Marcos smiles at him, humoring him without making fun of him. "What do you think you were?"
"I don't know. A soldier, I think."
"That's a good bet. People had wars all the time, before."
"They still do," Julián says. "And some of them are fought behind a desk these days."
"That's true," Marcos concedes. "I don't see you as a common soldier, in any case. A General, maybe? Or a king."
"A king? Oh, I like that."
"Yeah, as if you needed to have your ego stroked." He empties his drink and glances at Julián with a smirk. "Well, I hope I was Brazilian too, in mine."
"Pshh. Even after River won tonight?"
"Of course. Besides, what is Grêmio anyway? They're not representative of all of Brazilian football. Half the team isn't even from Brazil."
"Uh huh, yes, I'm sure," Julián teases, and Marcos admits to himself that he's fallen terribly, terribly in love with him.
They stay for two more rounds after the match is done before Julián calls it a night: there's work the next day, after all. The sidewalk is no longer as crowded when they step outside. It's chilly tonight. Marcos buttons up his coat before saying goodbye, but he doesn't manage to finish the gesture: Julián grabs both sides of his face and presses their lips together. It's such a forceful, irresistible kiss that Marcos gasps into it before responding just as eagerly. It's just a kiss, just one kiss, but it feels as if the pieces of a long labored puzzle finally start sliding into place - not quite making the full picture, but giving it enough of a sense of how it should finish. Dazzled, Marcos pulls back to stare at Julián, and the intense look in his eyes shocks him all anew. He leans in for another kiss, and then another, until Julián takes a step backwards to put an end to this very public snogging. But Marcos doesn't let him step away too far: he grabs him by the lapels of his coat, keeping him close.
"Let's go to my place," he whispers, not even caring that he sounds a little needy.
Julián lets out a disbelieving chuckle. "To Washington Heights?"
"It's not so bad, really. You'd like it there."
"I'd like anywhere if you were in it." Julián pries Marcos's hands from his coat, gently, and keeps them in his for a brief moment. "But there are many reasons why this isn't a good idea."
"Like what?"
"I'm old enough to be your father."
"So?"
Julián looks amused. "I'm also your boss."
"I don't care," Marcos says.
He can't think of anything that would make him not want this. He leans into the touch when Julián strokes his cheek.
"Come to my place instead," Julián says. "It's closer."
He barely waits for Marcos to agree that he's already looking for a cab to flag.
Julián lives in one of those obscenely luxurious buildings with a solicitous concierge at the front desk like in a hotel. The apartment itself is about four or five times the size of Marcos's despite being only one-bedroom, with a view to die for. Fitting for a CEO, really. And yet there's nothing too intimidating about the furniture or the decorations: it feels surprisingly cozy. Here too, Julián has hung many photographs and posters of the Rome skyline and the ruins - so many that it's closer to a quirk than a coincidence. Marcos inspects the pictures one by one, persuaded that something about them is what makes the place so welcoming.
"Have you been there?" he asks, turning to glance at Julián who is opening a wine bottle in the bar corner. The cork makes a 'pop' sound as it comes off.
"No," Julián answers. "I've had the chance to, but it never felt like the right time. I don't know why. I'll have to go soon enough."
"I always wanted to go," Marcos says, touching the frame of a photograph of a temple with a reverent finger. "I find the Ancient civilizations fascinating."
Should he admit the extent of his obsession with the Romans as a schoolboy? He would feel a little silly to, like spilling an embarrassing secret. Julián comes closer with two wine glasses. It seems like a terrible idea, after all they drank at the bar, but Marcos takes it. It will be worth the hangover. The wine is sweet, fragrant. It comes from Argentina, evidently: he had a glimpse of the bottle when Julián was opening it. Marcos wouldn't praise it out loud (good Lord, as if Julián needed more reasons to have his insufferable national pride stroked today) but he admits to himself that whatever they had at the bar pales in comparison to this wine.
"Greece too, or just Rome?" Julián asks with a strange smile, as if he knew, as if he were making fun of him.
"Just Rome," Marcos admits after one more sip. He chuckles and decides to own it. "I even wanted to learn Latin, but my school didn't offer it."
"Mine did. It wasn't as exciting as I imagined." When Marcos tilts his head, intrigued, he adds, "There's something very tragic about learning a language that's been dead for centuries and that no one will ever speak again."
He looks genuinely melancholic when saying this, vulnerable. Intrigued, Marcos sets down his glass on a table and steps closer to him.
"Hey," he says.
Julián seems to snap out of his reverie and focuses on him.
"It isn't dead. Its children live on: I speak one, you speak another. As long we speak them, it isn't dead."
Marcos rests a hand on his waist. Julián sets his wine glass down too. His eyes are fire, he's so effortlessly charming.
"Come here," he says, and pulls him into a kiss.
When Julián pulls him against him Marcos slides his arms around him - grabs at him. This kiss is much rougher than the ones outside the bar. He ends up against the wall, breathless and aching as Julián presses all of his weight on him. One of his hands slides over the curve of Marcos's ass and gives it such a firm squeeze that it draws a moan out of him. He reaches down to Julian's crotch and cups him, palming him through the smooth fabric of his couture pants until he's able to feel him warm and eager under his hand.
With his back still pressed against the wall, Marcos slides down, slow but deliberate, never breaking eye contact with Julián until he's on his knees. He unbuttons him, licking his lips in anticipation as he reaches inside the pants. Julián's cock, red and thick, very unlike Marcos's darker one, has one vein pulsating on the side of it as he pulls it out. It takes his breath away. It's a little puzzling: he's wanted him for several months now, but this degree of fascination is unprecedented. It's almost as if he were very young and foolish, still able to give with abandon without asking for much in return.
"I feel like I've been waiting to do this for a long time," Julián says, hoarsely.
That's it, that's exactly it: now that Julián has put it into words, Marcos agrees at once. He's also been waiting for this for ages. It's a strange sensation - a bit like déjà-vu.
"Me too," he says, his lips against the droplet of precome on Julián's cock.
He hears him hiss and, encouraged, he swallows him whole, and he feels him hardening more against his tongue. Marcos loves the wet, sloppy sounds of his own mouth as it slides tight up and down Julián's cock, and its salty taste on his lips. He runs his tongue along the vein, and he uses his left hand to keep the shaft in a snug grip when he slides all the way out, teasing the dripping tip with wanton abandonment. He considers finishing him off like this, drinking him all in, but Julián steps back. Marcos looks up at him: he's flushed, wide-eyed, and he's panting so hard he can barely speak.
"My bedroom," he manages to say.
They hardly make it there - the wall, the couch, hell, even the floor seem terribly appealing as not to waste any time. But once on the bed, Julián undresses him with excruciating slowness, undoing button by button and sliding off every little piece of clothing with a look of wonder in his eyes that goes straight to Marcos's own dick. When it's done, he looks just as fascinated to see him naked as Marcos felt when he took him in his mouth. Julián touches him, gropes him, jerks him with a firm and steady pace. This teasing lasts both too long and too little: it seems they've hardly begun this and yet Marcos's had enough of it, he wants more, all of Julián, and he lets his kisses grow needier and more pleading. It isn't like him to be this vocal, to let out these ragged, needy moans just from having his dick stroked. His throat feels already strained when Julián stops touching him to reach for the lube.
There's something wild and unstoppable in Julián's eyes when their gazes meet again, and he presses two lubed fingers against Marcos - who bears down against him eagerly, shamelessly, letting him slip them inside him. The fingers slide in and out with exquisite slowness, stretching him little by little, and by the time Julián finishes fingering him to his heart's content, Marcos is little more than a raw, pliant thing craving more.
"That day when I saw you dancing?" Julián says against his ear as he grabs one of his legs and folds it up. "I wanted to do the filthiest things to you afterwards."
Marcos laughs in between pants. "Yes, well, don't assume I'm too bendy."
"Oh, I think you're bendy enough for me," he says with a smirk, and kneels between his spread legs.
Marcos gasps when Julián starts sliding into him. He is relentless in his assail, and yet there's a hint of gentleness in his eyes - his eyes! People don't look at each other like this during sex, it's too much, Julián's gaze is locked with his as he slowly pushes his way in. Choking with pleasure, Marcos just cannot glance away. When he's finally all the way inside him, Julián reaches with the hand he's not using to prop himself on the mattress and he strokes Marcos's hair off from his forehead. He pulls it a little. The gesture feels loving, familiar, as if they'd done this many times before.
"Julián," Marcos whispers, too overwhelmed to manage anything more coherent.
"Yes," Julián says, as if he understood, and he leans down to smother him with a kiss as he starts fucking him in earnest.
Marcos shuts his eyes tight. With each of the thrusts that tip him closer and closer to bliss it feels like, in another plane of consciousness, the last piece of the long-labored puzzle finally slides in its place.
"Wait, wait, another one, my face looks funny," Marcos says and extends his hand away from himself to hold the phone at a better angle.
"Good God, how many selfies are you going to take? Hurry up and let's go back to the hotel."
"Stop whining and smile."
Julián obliges and smirks for the camera. He is right, though: Marcos just can't get enough selfies of themselves among the Roman ruins. He's in love with this spot in particular, in what used to be the Forum, especially in the golden light of the setting sun. And it isn't just among the ruins, either. Walking aimlessly around Rome and letting the city spill its secrets at its own pace has been the best part of this visit. A small cafe almost hidden in a nook of a quiet street, full of businessmen in suits having a quick coffee before work; a simple restaurant stall serving cannellini beans on a crunchy, delicious bruschetta; an old fountain with a forgotten god's face at the intersection of two streets, its song ancient and grounding. Life is bustling around the ruins, people strolling in the nearby streets next to the ancient monuments with no reverence - embracing them as part of the urban sprawl with indifferent naturality. It's funny that they've not once got lost in this enormous, chaotic city. Marcos hasn't had to look at his phone for a map, navigating the streets with surprising ease, and if he happens to hesitate Julián is there to correct their course. It's only been five days and it feels like they've been here forever.
"Let's stay," Marcos says, staring at the picture he's just taken.
"They're closing in twenty minutes."
"No, not here here. In Rome, I mean."
Julián glances around: none of the other tourists are paying attention to them. He rests his hand on Marcos's waist, discreetly. His gaze lingers on his lips when he speaks.
"And work?" he asks.
"I don't know. Open a headquarters here?"
"Yeah?"
One of the most surprising developments of this relationship is that Julián actually listens to him. Marcos isn't used to having so much sway over someone.
"I'd have to look at the costs," he says, more seriously. "But it doesn't have to be that. I don't really mind what we end up doing for a living. Whatever morning brings, you know? But here... here, it feels like home."
"Yes," Julián says, and looks at the ruins around them. "Yes, it does. It's not a bad idea, the European headquarters here. All the roads lead to Rome, no?"
Marcos laughs. "That's what they say."
"It could work." Julián tightens his grip on him, pulling him into a half-embrace. "We're on an upswing lately. And I'm not just talking about the company." His other hand strokes Marcos's hair, his meaning clear. "The world is ours, Marcos."
"Yes. Ours at last," he answers, and he shivers for some reason as he speaks those words.
He glances up at the ruins of the great temple on the Capitoline Hill, feeling immensely grateful.
Elsewhere, Jupiter Maximus smiles.