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Martín unabashedly enjoys the chill emanating from inside the fridge, all the while wondering what Sergio would say if he knew that Martín just had his junk in there. He snorts to himself, getting the bottle of champagne and looking at the two lone strawberries left in the small punnet before hip-checking the door closed and looking up just in time to make the most startling eye contact with Sergio himself.
Who’s standing in the foyer, luggage and a slack-jawed Raquel in tow.
Belatedly, Martín lowers one hand to attempt to cover his privates, except it’s the hand holding the champagne glasses, and glass is notoriously bad at hiding things. He’s trying to suppress a giggle that’s precisely zero percent nervous, and one hundred percent mischievous.
Sergio looks pissed off. Raquel is rolling her eyes and averting her gaze.
“Can’t say I wasn’t expecting this but not— this,” she says, one hand in front of her eyes. She’s failing to suppress a smile though, so Martín realizes he may not have fucked up that badly.
“You guys have to learn that when you share a space with others, you have to be respectful of them,” says Sergio, looking somewhere to the left of Martin. He seems to be fighting very hard to keep his anger in check. Martín finds it as appealing as catnip is to a cat.
“It’s you who said you’re going to be back after midnight, it’s— what,” Martín asks, whipping his head around to look at the clock on the microwave. “Oh. Wow,” he says, then turns to them. “Would you look at the time.”
Sergio sighs a deep, tired sigh, then turns around to take off his shoes and to wheel the trunks out of the way. He seems to consider the matter closed, and even Raquel is doing her own thing, heading for the kitchen - Martín takes it as a sign to respectfully fuck off.
“What did you do to the kitchen?”
Martín half-heartedly turns, abandoning all pretense that he cares about decency. He just wants to get back to bed, since he’s got some chilled champagne in his hands and a hot man in his bed. Raquel’s objections, whatever they might be, were wholly immaterial to him.
“We just tried to make some dessert,” he says, casting his eye around the counters, and—
Wow.
“This is—” Raquel groans, lifting her foot with a sticky sound, outrage fighting disgust on her face. “What did you even try to do? I’ve baked with Paula since she was a toddler and even she was cleaner than this! What is this, what—” She peeks into a bowl, then disgustedly sets it into the sink. “Did you even get to the baking part of this desert? It’s just batter and flour, and— Did you leave the milk on the counter all night? And the whipping cream?”
“We ended up using the kind from a tube,” he says, shrugging, suddenly feeling defensive. About the wrong thing, he realizes, when he sees the anger on Raquel’s face. So seeing her brother-in-law’s boyfriend’s penis - no reaction, but being faced with a bit of a mess in the kitchen and she loses it? Fine.
“What were you even making,” she asks, “besides a mess. Was any of it even edible?”
Martín can’t help himself.
“No, we ended up eating out.”
A smirk from him. No signs of understanding from the in-laws.
“I thought your brother could cook?” She’s looking at Sergio, who seems visibly uncomfortable to be in that conversation, if not in that house altogether.
“Clean this up,” he says, and turns to head to his room when out comes Andrés, a fucking vision in his slick-shiny robe and his fucking slippers. He even took the time to comb his hair, and comes out of the hallway looking aggressively unsuspicious - for three in the morning. Martín was hanging dong in the kitchen, holding champagne. It was very clear what had been happening.
“I hope you’re not upset, hermanito,” says Andrés, showing zero preservation instinct. Whether he enjoys riling up his brother or he literally can’t go though life without causing trouble, he manages to say one of the few things that are guaranteed to make this interaction last even longer than it should.
It’s been minutes, really, but to Martín it felt like weeks.
He just wanted to get back to bed. That’s it. A very simple man with very basic needs; he needed to get back to his bed, to maybe have a little bit of champagne, maybe some of it pouring down Andrés’ collarbone—
Sergio seethes, but he’s trying so hard to keep his signature clear head. He puts on his Grown-up Face, aiming all of his attention at his brother.
“Andrés, I’m happy that you’re happy - genuinely. You deserve it.” He seems so in control of the situation, that Martín sort of sees it coming even before Sergio smiles imperceptibly. “I’m glad you’re finally getting some meaningful emotional connection.”
Instantly, Andrés’ face changes with the implication.
“But if you’re doing grown-up things, you’re going to have to act like a grown-up. The both of you,” Sergio says, turning to look at Martín.
It feels very final, very commanding in a strangely dad way. Not daddy, but dad.
Still, in that one moment, it sort of works for Martín.
Until Andrés smirks, like a bastard, and asks all innocent-like—
“Oh, act like a grown-up? Like you? But what if I don’t need to lie to and kidnap someone to get them to fall in love with me?”
“Please,” says Raquel, without missing a beat. “Sergio told me the truth in what— days? You’ve been lying to yourself for a decade.”
“Guys,” Martín pipes up. This was a fantastic conversation to witness but it was not what he had in mind for the night. “Can we finish this conversation when everyone’s genitals are covered? I feel like I’m at a disadvantage here.”
Luckily, it works. The in-laws finally head to their room while Andrés gallantly makes room for them to pass. When their door closes, Andrés walks over and gets his hands around Martín’s waist, pulling him closer and planting a kiss on his lips. The champagne glasses clink in Martín’s hand, and he breaks the kiss with a huge grin.
“Feisty,” he says, measuring Andrés up and down. He hands him the glasses while he escapes his arms and turns to get a towel to open the champagne.
“Do you think they’ll mind us popping some champagne after that?” Asks Andrés. “It wasn’t exactly—”
“Nah, it’s fine; we were doing our thing anyway, before they got here. It would be a waste of heat energy at the very least to not drink this right away.” He makes quick work of unscrewing the wire cage and loosening the cork, squeezing his eyes in focus as he digs his fingers in the towel until there’s a vaguely muted pop. He wants to cheer but fights the urge.
The champagne isn’t bad though. It does go excellently with what he planned to begin with - tasting it on Andrés’ tongue. And collarbone.
The whipped cream. Martín smiles through the kiss, chasing Andrés’ lips with the tip of his tongue. That whipped cream has seen places. Places he intends to visit again. When he’s safely hidden in the crook of Andrés’ neck, peppering kisses on the side of his jaw, he slowly starts pulling at the chord of Andrés’ robe.
“Martín, weren’t you here just now? They’re going to throw us out. Our apartment is ready at the end of the week, let’s try and behave—”
“Never,” says Martín, taking that cord and leading Andrés to the bedroom as if on a leash. That should do it.
It does.
They kiss as soon as they close the bedroom door behind them, and Martín’s on his knees before Andrés even opens his robe.
“What did you tell them?”
“Hm?” Martín looks up from the half-hard cock confined in Andrés’ pajama bottoms. He really hoped for silence but—
“Nothing. That we tried to bake. The rest was pretty self-explanatory, I think.”
Andrés laughs, then leans over to kiss him once again before straightening up and pushing his pants lower. Neither of them was shy to ask for what they wanted, or respond to everything with a “yes, and”. That’s how an honest-to-god baking session ended up the way it did.
Martín makes a note to disinfect all surfaces in the kitchen.
And to buy more whipped cream.