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this is the oddest of summers

Summary:

Martín regarded him, found himself smiling. He loved Andrés so much it was at times hard to define himself any other way. And he knew that Andrés loved him too, so much he'd ruin lives for Martín without a second thought, let alone a permission.

If Martín could have one wish, it'd be that this could be enough. That neither of them never needed anyone else, that it could be eternally summer and they could stay right here and never leave.

(This isn't the summer Martín had planned for himself.)

Notes:

'Sup 'sup friends. This one is brought to you by dashwood dearest who batted her eyes and said I could, so I did. She also incredibly kindly helped me with brainstorming more settings - and was right about how lovely Andrés looks under the blue light. Anyway, dear friend, thank you most kindly, I hope you know how wonderful you are and I hope you like this et cetera. 💖 Ti voglio bene. Watch me hurl this story at you like a frisbee and then run off.

And thank you to the wonderful RandmWriter for the fun chats (and sad Berlermo hours) while we worked on our things and for sending me the 1D song Summer Love which is, indeed, perfect for this. From that I nicked the series title. 🎉 Thank you friend, pag-asam for hanging out someday!!! 💖

Obviously the last but not least thanks to my boyfriend who beta'd this (I did reject all of his grammar recommendations in the name of artistic license so I'm the problem if they bother you) and offered his insights which I stole for Martín's insights. Thank you fave 🌟 Tú y yo somos almas gemelas.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Martín's summer was looking great. He had his two jobs and he had his studies, and he had worked out the perfect balance of all of them, allowing for some free time to eat strawberries or get laid or whatever. 

And most importantly, Andrés was finally free of the bitch he had been about to fucking marry

And then Andrés went and announced, with a whole speech and a performance, that he wanted Martín to be his fake boyfriend for the entire season. 

Well.

Martín's summer had been looking great. 

 

"Let's go to the amusement park tomorrow," Andrés suggested. 

He had been so busy spending time with Tatiana lately that Martín had almost forgotten the casual ease with which he voiced his ideas. He seemed to know, before it even happened, that Martín would not turn him down. 

"Great," Martín agreed, realising he could make use of that idea, "We can take Sergio with us."

Andrés didn't reply right away, like he was taken aback by this suggestion, so Martín shrugged, innocently. "Right?" He marked his place in the book with his finger and continued, "It'll be fine, I'm sure people will think we're sweet to bring him with us. I just thought, since he had to miss out on a lot when he was at the hospital…" He trailed off, frowning. "I think it'd be nice."

It was a little selfish of him. Sure, what he said wasn't a lie, but Martín also did not want to be left alone with Andrés, not so soon after his PDA is encouraged watch me show you just how encouraged speech. No. He wanted some space, some stable footing. It would be for the best to take Sergio.

"Yeah, okay. We can bring him," Andrés agreed.

"Great." 

"So that's the first date–" 

"No, we already had that. At Starbucks." Martín was going to hold on to this one forever, simply because it was so unlike the grandiose tales Andrés liked to spin about his life. 

And maybe that also made it seem a little more real. 

Which it wasn't. 

But still. 

Andrés sighed, theatrically. "Must you be this way?" he complained, and took Martín's book away from him in apparent retaliation.

"Yes, of course I must." He didn't bother stealing back his book, had been about to finish for the day anyway. "It's funny." 

"Are we going to have to do anniversaries there now?" Andrés asked, projecting disgust at the idea. "How awful. Do you think we can talk ourselves into a discount, at least?" 

Martín frowned, too. 

Firstly, they had started this "relationship" yesterday

Secondly, there wouldn't be any anniversaries, and yes, Andrés was just talking, because he marvelled at this plan, because it was new and therefore exciting, but he was still dangling these possibilities in front of Martín's face. 

Martín didn't want to talk about it anymore – actually, the coffee shop with its overpriced caramel whatevers, the one they had always frequented, might be forever ruined for him now. 

Andrés didn't notice the change in his mood, or he didn't care. "Well, next year I can pay, so that's something. Then you can stop gloating about it." 

"Yes, because my black coffee is so very expensive." 

Andrés smiled at him. "It does suit you, the aesthetic." 

"That's exactly why I drink it. For the way it looks." 

"That's hardly news. Anyway, mark your calendar. I'll pay." 

"Sure, whatever." Martín didn't even have a calendar that extended to next year, which was fine because he wouldn't be needing one. 

 

Andrés: Tomorrow works. Breakfast here? 

Martín: how did it go? 

Andrés: He already knew. Somebody had seen us, at Starbucks. 

Huh. But Martín knew Andrés would rather not lie to Sergio, not about something like this, so maybe this was for the best.

Martín: and? 

Andrés: He wasn't surprised. Said you're good for me. 

Martín blinked at his phone at that, making sure he hadn't misread or misunderstood. But no. Sergio wasn't surprised. And he had said that Martín–

To be fair, Sergio had not liked Tatiana any more than Martín had. In fact, Martín felt like it was something they shared - the long-suffering looks over the dinner table, while Tatiana and Andrés talked about art and music and culture in a way that was endlessly shallow and all about appearances. 

A shudder ran down his spine at the memory. Even if the bitch had offended Andrés, this was for the best. He could find another one, one that was less intrusive and gave them more space. 

Martín: knew there was a reason he's my favourite

Andrés: That's me. 

Andrés: I'm your boyfriend! Don't be so cruel. 

Martín sighed. If only. 

Martín: sure. see you tomorrow

 

The amusement park was fun, actually. Martín had never been to one before, but he could admit that the engineering of the rides was something to marvel at - the way they were designed to give you the impression of death and then stop just short of actually killing you. 

(Just like Andrés, whom he saw in everything, and who definitely could be the one to end him.)

Andrés engaged him in some flirtation over cotton candy, which was fine because it was mostly just talk, and Martín could handle that, had always been quick with words to the point where fondly bickering with his best friend was his favourite way to spend any afternoon.

They took turns dragging each other to rides that varied from slow to downright terrifying, tried out all kinds of overpriced snacks and took pictures together, with Sergio obediently frowning in the background to complete the illusion of his third-wheeling.

They laughed a lot. 

It was a good day. 

 

During siesta, Andrés came to drag Martín out of the café he worked at. Ágata called him lover boy, which clearly pleased Andrés but made Martín suspicious. Who the fuck had told Ágata? 

"Isn't this the most wonderful city on the planet?" Andrés asked as they walked down the street, past Prado and all its splendour. 

It was. To think that Martín had once desperately wanted to stay in Argentina, and now he'd rather die than go back, rather die than leave. "It's good," he agreed lamely, because to him it was a symbol of things that were difficult to put into words. 

"The best city in the world," Andrés insisted, and Martín knew he meant it.

"I don't disagree." 

"It's ours, you know," Andrés continued. "I feel like every street corner holds a memory." They did, to the point where the city was to be eternally haunted, by winter mornings and summer afternoons alike. 

"Like this one?" Martín asked. It was a shabby little bar now, but it had been an ice cream parlour, once. That's where they had gone, when they were ten and Martín had learned he was staying here, and here wasn't a place as much as it was a person. 

"Of course," Andrés said, and his subdued tone suggested he meant it, that his memories of the day matched Martín's. "Probably the last time you ate a whole ice cream without complaining about how sweet it is." 

"Excuse me for having taste buds." 

"You're forgiven." And without a fucking warning, Andrés moved to kiss him on the cheek, all sweet and affectionate. There wasn't a soul around to see it. 

Martín rolled his eyes, but luckily he found a distraction in the small bookshop they were walking past. 

This is where they'd come, before the first Christmas they'd spent together, when they were twelve. They'd bought each other pencil cases. Martín still had his, actually. It was blue and had stars on it. 

"We should spend Christmas together again this year," Andrés mused, his thoughts traipsing the same streets as Martín's.

Now this - this was a little cruel. Andrés said it like a cute little idea, the same way he had talked about going to Starbucks for their anniversary - like it was something they could do, that they could enjoy, something totally plausible and not at all imaginary. 

"We usually do," Martín scoffed, because they did, had done so every year since his mother died. Andrés loved Christmas with the infectious joy of a child, and they had all these traditions, just the three of them. But last year, Andrés had insisted on bringing Tatiana, and she had casually ruined everything. 

Martín had feigned a migraine, the only thing with the power to stop Andrés from dragging him everywhere, and bailed on Christmas Day.

"Last Christmas wasn't necessarily ideal," Andrés admitted, "We missed having you around. But this year will be better. You can bake those cookies with Sergio, the ones I like. And I can acquire us a Christmas tree." 

"You mean you'll steal one." 

"I never claimed otherwise." 

"I don't know," Martín said, "Maybe I'll have something else to do, have you considered that?" 

"Yes," Andrés said, levelly, ignoring his tone, "Which is why I'm claiming you six months ahead of time. Spend Christmas with me. Well, Sergio too, obviously."

Martín wasn't sure if he could take it. What would it be like, after this? To decorate the flat together, knowing what it was like to kiss Andrés? How could he stand watching Christmas films side by side when he knew how easy it was to be in a relationship? And if, when Andrés got a girlfriend, how could he possibly just be there on the sidelines and watch them and their domesticity? 

But what options did he really have? He wasn't going to be sad and alone again. This was the only family he had, might as well be the only family he'd ever had. He couldn't disown himself just because he was at times miserable. 

"Okay."

"Great, that's settled."

"Where are we going, anyway?" They'd been zig-zagging through the streets for a while now, and it didn't seem like a route that led anywhere, even with Andrés's terrible sense of direction. 

"Hm? Oh, nowhere, I suppose. It's a beautiful day, and I just wanted to tell you exactly what I have - that this is our city," Andrés concluded, "And you belong here, with me."

 

He did love being Andrés's boyfriend, truly. Even if this was fake - and it was, he reminded himself every spare moment that this wasn't his, not really, that he was only renting a space and would be kicked out, eventually - Andrés had still done things for him not many people would. 

Like the easy way he flaunted their relationship - like he didn't even care that everyone would eternally think he was into men. As if that label were a scarf he could just untie if he one day hated the colour, and not a way people would describe him forever. Like it wasn't a bad thing even if they did. 

Martín's first boyfriend had been deep in the closet, and he'd been fucking awful, on top of that. 

When Martín had told Andrés the whole story, weeks later over a bottle of vodka, Andrés didn't bat an eye. 

But a week later, the guy went to jail for arson.

Martín wondered briefly if he was still in the closet. Or in jail. 

"What are you thinking about?" Andrés asked, suddenly interested. 

"The first arson," Martín said. 

Andrés feigned surprise. "I've no idea what that even means." 

"No, of course not. You would never burn down a house." 

"A warehouse, but indeed. I would not." 

"Or frame an innocent man for a crime."

Andrés examined his nails, shrugged. "He got off lightly, if you ask me. If that were now…" he left the words hanging.

Martín regarded him, found himself smiling. He loved Andrés so much it was at times hard to define himself any other way. And he knew that Andrés loved him too, so much he'd ruin lives for Martín without a second thought, let alone a permission.

If Martín could have one wish, it'd be that this could be enough. That neither of them never needed anyone else, that it could be eternally summer and they could stay right here and never leave. 

 

Unknown number: hmu when your new boy realises hes straight and leaves you

Martín had never been so disappointed to see that a plan was working.

He wasn't quite sure who this was, and he didn't have the energy to care. He seemed to remember an ex who had maybe typed like this (abhorrent, so unlike Andrés), but he didn't know what the guy's name was. 

Or what Martín had ever seen in him. 

He deleted the conversation and blocked the number. He had suffered enough for tonight. 

His phone was still in his hands when it pinged with a text from Andrés - almost like he hadn't, in fact, suffered enough, not quite yet.

Andrés: What do you want to do tomorrow? Swimming pool?

Martín didn't want to do anything at all, so he tossed his phone away and went to sleep.

As though by means of cosmic retribution for ignoring the fake boyfriend he hadn't wanted and the very real best friend he would have died for ten times over, he struggled to actually sleep. He had half the mind to text Andrés to say he wanted to end their agreement. He knew for a fact that Andrés would let him, if he insisted. He wouldn't even demand to know why.

Martín fished his phone from under the bed and opened the conversation. 

But - he would always know he caved, in a moment of weakness. He would know he gave up on a summer of delightful pretense, of this tender torture, after promising himself that this was more than enough.

He sighed and put the phone away again. To let down not only Andrés but also himself - it just wasn't worth it. 

By the time he woke up, he had worked himself up into a searing migraine that threatened to split his head.

He took his medication and pulled the blackout curtains over the windows, and by the time he was back in a horizontal position he thought he might prefer to die. 

Perhaps this was good for him, though. He deserved a break from the heartache of watching Andrés smile to him like he was the entire universe, and he certainly didn't want to kiss him again, lest his heart break a little more.

His phone buzzed with Andrés's insistence (he had a different tone for Andrés, so he knew when to reply right away and when to ignore him for a suitable amount of time, so as to create the illusion of having a life) every thirty minutes or so, until he finally gathered his strength to text back and announce his present incapacitation. 

Andrés was there soon after, and Martín wasn't even surprised by it. Of course Andrés wouldn't let him have this one afternoon of reprieve, he had to appear there, all soft and caring. He took great pains to keep the flat dark and crossed the room quietly. He sat on the sofa and at least his body language seemed sympathetic.

He tended to Martín with ease, like it was natural: made sure he'd taken his medication, talked about art and artists at a quiet volume and a soothing melody. 

Martín didn't want him there, and yet it was all he wanted, and he allowed Andrés to keep talking in that familiar script he knew all the words to. 

 

Film night was, at least, routine. This was something they did every week whenever Andrés wasn’t in a relationship, and once a month or so when he was, because Andrés flitted in and out of other people's lives, despite being the one constant in Martín's. This was an evening filled with comforting little rituals. Andrés chose the three worst films he could find with an accompanying proud grin, and Martín made popcorn. Andrés told him he should get a microwave. Martín said he was more than willing to let Andrés make his own popcorn in the future. It was an evening that had a rhythm he knew.

"I'm a guest," Andrés insisted, "You can't make me work."

"A guest," Martín repeated, deadpan. He wanted to tell him guests tended to have homes of their own, but he didn't want Andrés to think he wasn't wanted, didn't want to imply as much even as a joke. He was so wanted. 

"You'd let me move in," Andrés… observed? suggested? guessed? Martín wasn't sure what kind of a game he was playing. 

He searched for the right response, something that teetered between accepting and jestful. Something that said it was just a joke, unless–

He didn't have the time to come up with anything, because Andrés continued, "Maybe we could, next year. Think about it." 

"Yeah," Martín muttered, even though he was not going to spare it a thought. Andrés may have thought that this was a great idea now, having recently broken up and with nothing but Martín to occupy his time. But there would come a day, probably sooner rather than later, when he found yet another girl, perhaps prettier than Tatiana or at least more easygoing, and sidelined Martín without considering he might be doing so.

Martín settled on the far right side of the sofa. He always did, and Andrés had never questioned it. Let him believe whatever he wanted - that Martín liked his space, or that he wanted to drape himself over the armrest like Andrés always did.

This week, though, Andrés had either developed some new sense of perspective (not very likely), or he had simply decided that he wanted to change every single small thing Martín found comfort in. Andrés beckoned him closer, and then, like a bear trap, wrapped his arms around Martín and pulled him close. 

Andrés insisted it was fine. It didn't seem fine. It seemed… weird. 

"Because we're in a fake relationship?" Martín asked, sighing. He was so sick and tired of having good things that were only briefly his because of the current status quo, because of the position he had neither earned or wanted. Not like this.

"No," Andrés explained patiently, "It's fine because you're my best friend."

A strange croak escaped Martín's throat before he consciously registered Andrés's words. It had been years since he had allowed himself to be this close to Andrés, and he had thought Andrés wanted it that way. He had been so certain that Andrés loved him, dearly, would take a bullet for him, but that he still had his limits. Martín had thought he was respecting them.

He had clearly been selling his best friend short where it truly mattered.

The first film played, and the only thought Martín had throughout was that maybe he did stand to gain something from this arrangement after all. 

Maybe he already had. 

 

If you asked Martín, his life had begun when he met Andrés, and that wasn't far from the truth. Realistically, he had very few memories from Argentina, and the ones he did have were old and faded, hazy from disuse. They resembled more a film he had once seen, not a life he had once lived. 

But the way Andrés had grinned at him at nine years old, brown eyes and crooked teeth, had said you're not from here and then followed it up with I like it and finally, you sound like a song - this was a memory he held on to so tight that it had received the golden glow and patina only years of fondness could provide. They had become friends because they were different, on the surface, but they had stayed friends because they were the same. 

When he realised he loved Andrés - loved him so deeply he doubted anyone had ever loved him like that - it had seemed like an exercise in futility. How could he not? It was so unfortunate that he couldn't settle for the wonderful best friend he had in Andrés, that he had to lie awake at night and imagine the things he could never have. But it was also inevitable.

 

"Look, this one's from Argentina!" Andrés announced, with all the glee of a five-year old who's just learned to read. 

"That is a piranha," Martín pointed out. It was hardly a romantic little fish that he'd put in an aquarium, if he had one. But he supposed it was at least exotic, so far from home.

"It says here that they're misunderstood," Andrés insisted. "They mostly scavenge." 

Martín shrugged. "Still, I wouldn't go anywhere near one. Ever." 

He wondered if Andrés was like this when he went out with his girls - so fucking much, so exhausting, and yet endearing to a fault. 

"Is this something they frighten kids with? Don't be mean or the piranhas will eat you?" 

"Yeah, something like that." 

Andrés chuckled and drew a line on the glass for the fish to follow. The aquarium had been his idea, obviously. He had declared fish to be "fun and entertaining" like he was pitching the trip to a fellow five-year old. 

Martín was certain he knew - because Andrés had an eye for these things - how he looked. He was wearing the same fucking turtleneck again, because Martín had made the mistake of complimenting it last week, and now it was suddenly Andrés's favourite, because he didn't do anything by halves, even if it was too fucking hot to be wearing anything but a t-shirt. Under the deep blue light and the reflections from the water, he looked like he didn't belong here, like he was a god trespassing in the land of the living, too intrigued by them, even in all their flaws and mortality, to pass up the opportunity. 

Martín didn't know how he looked, in Andrés's eyes, didn't want to know. Probably very fucking blue, and very much like he belonged here. 

After momentarily giving the fish all his attention, Andrés turned to him and brushed his thumb across Martín's cheek, and that was quite literally all the warning he got before Andrés leaned in to kiss him. 

Martín was getting a little bit better at not freezing in place when this happened, and so he forced his hands to Andrés's sides, as if to caress him, hold him in place, something

Something else he did not anticipate was that Andrés was also emboldened - enough to slide his tongue into Martín's mouth. 

Martín was not proud of the sound that came out of him, nor was he proud of the way his tongue met Andrés's - eagerly. 

His eyes were about to slide closed, but then a group of three girls walked past, likely the intended audience of this here little show, and Martín pulled away, stepped back, hit one of those huge fish tanks with a dull thud.

"Now now," Andrés chastised him with a fucking smirk, "You're not meant to scare the fish." He did, however, grasp Martín's elbow firmly, as if he might randomly decide to trip again, weak at the knees. 

"I lost my balance, it's not my fault they're everywhere."

"It's like you, you know." 

"What is?" 

"The piranha. Do you not think so?" 

Honestly, Martín wasn't thinking about anything at all, his head was reeling and he felt like he might prefer to die. 

"Yeah, no, not at all," he sighed. 

"Sharp," Andrés said, moving his hand down Martín's arm, to his sleeve and brushing his fingers before moving away. "And a little misunderstood. Yes?" 

"Absolutely not." 

"Whatever you say. I like him, though." 

The rest of the day passed exactly like that, with Andrés pointing out all his favourite fish and Martín trying to seem less tired by the pretense than he felt.  He hoped he managed to seem at least fondly exasperated - he was, truly - and not downright rude and moody. It was just so hard to watch Andrés, right there and almost within reach, the most beautiful of all the gods. 

Martín longed to be a jellyfish. What a pleasant existence that must be, to have no thoughts of anything at all. 

Andrés didn't try to kiss him again. Martín felt sorrow for not appreciating it when he had.

When they left, after five hours of fish, Andrés bought him a souvenir keyring. It had a piranha on it. 

Martín had to roll his eyes, because it was part of the dance, even as he immediately closed his fingers tightly around it, lest Andrés try to take it away. 

And he knew - they both knew - Martín was going to attach it to the keys to his flat. 

The flat was meant to be his safe place - now this fucking thing was going to haunt him with these memories every single time he opened the front door. 

 

Thursdays, they were fine. Andrés spent Thursdays with Sergio, which allowed Martín time for everything that was the antithesis of him: a job, a smoke, perhaps even a casual conversation with another man.

He had been able to reduce his job at the café to only Thursdays, with the promise that he'd take up weekends again as soon as summer was over. It cut into his savings but was enough to tide him over. He knew Andrés wouldn't demand him to pay for any extravagant dinners, and he would be fine. 

Oh, and he'd had to quit his other job at the restaurant. He had quit his job– but it was a necessary evil. He wasn't going to tell Andrés, because why should he? He had made his own decisions about his own life, and he was the one who was going to pay the price. It didn't concern Andrés. He could handle it. 

 

Andrés read, while Martín studied. Even though Martín was apprehensive about the entire idea, it was a little funny, because Martín only owned a few books. 

All of them classic gay romances. 

All of them presents from Andrés. 

Andrés really did have a strange way of dealing with his best friend's sexuality. Martín chose to be endeared by it, rather than horrified. 

In Andrés's hands currently was Maurice, and Martín did his best to try and ignore the fact. It wasn't like that, for Andrés. He wasn't spoiled for choice here, so he was projecting idle curiosity on the first book that had landed in his hands. There wasn’t a deeper meaning or a life lesson to be learned.

Indeed, Andrés didn't comment on it. 

But he did keep turning the pages.

Martín got no work done, listening to the scratching sound of the paper, like a particularly threatening metronome. 

He couldn't help but notice that when Andrés left to his own flat, the book left with him, without asking.

 

Sergio came to the café. 

Sergio came to the café

"Can you take a break?" he asked Martin without any greeting and okay, what the hell?

Martín had been clearing tables, but he unfortunately couldn't claim to have been very busy, now that the post-siesta rush had come and gone. He waved to Ágata for a five. She scoffed at him from behind the till, but nodded for him to go ahead. 

He decided to take this outside rather than to the back - this did not bode well and he'd rather be overheard by strangers than pitied by his coworkers. He and Ágata got along fine, but they weren't friends, and she would have no qualms about telling everyone everything. 

"Well?" he asked, impatient and admittedly a little agitated, unsure of what to do while he waited for Sergio to spit it out. Normally Martín would use his breaks to smoke (and lately to also pity himself), but what with Sergio's lungs, Martín never smoked before hanging out with him, let alone in his vicinity. 

"It's about Andrés."

"Oh, really? And here I thought you'd missed me." Sergio glared at him, in an expression that made him resemble Andrés, just a little, around the edges if you squinted.

"You're not really dating, are you?" Sergio asked. 

Well, this was not ideal. 

"Why are you asking me, and not him?" Martín countered, to play for time, even though he knew that getting a straight answer out of Andrés was like trying to capture the sea. 

Sergio sighed. "You know how he is. He seems happy with how things are and I don't want to jiggle anything in his brain by questioning it." 

Martín crossed his arms across his chest. He wanted to lie and be loyal to Andrés's little plan, but he also didn't think it right to lie to Sergio, who was essentially not only Andrés's little brother, but also Martín's family. And if Sergio had reached this conclusion on his own… 

"No," he admitted. "He wanted this whole… thing to kill any gossip about Tatiana breaking up with him." 

Sergio nodded, like he suspected as much. He didn't seem to have any follow-up questions. He had come here to confirm a hypothesis, and now he had it. 

"I don't want to assume–" 

"Then don't." 

Sergio shrugged. "He really is happy. Let him have that, even if it's only for now." 

Martín wanted to fucking scream, but instead he merely sighed, again, and ran a hand through his hair. "You know I will." Usually it wasn't so directly in his power, but there was no price he wouldn't pay for Andrés's happiness. If he could entertain Andrés for a season, he would. He could sleep with strangers all autumn long, maybe even find something casual but more constant, a fuckbuddy who wouldn't ask for anything more, but for now he was biding his time. 

"Yeah, I do know. And for what it's worth–" 

"Don't, Sergio." 

Sergio shut up, in the first and likely last small blessing of the day. 

They stood there, both of them trying to make it seem like Sergio hadn't just said that, like he hadn't been about to dangle all these damned possibilities right in front of Martín's eyes.

"How did you know?" Martín asked, finally, couldn't help how he needed to know. He'd thought they'd, not necessarily mastered this, but he'd thought they were getting quite good at it. 

Something softened in Sergio's eyes, and it looked an awful lot like pity. It would have made Martín a little angry, but the truth was that he did feel pitiable. Here he was, playing pretend with his straight best friend. Carrying a hopeless torch for ever. 

If the roles were reversed, and he knew that Sergio was suffering like this, Martín would have pitied him too.

"You look sad, whenever he looks away." 

Sergio reached to pat his shoulder, and then he left. 

Martín stood there, wanting to change the locks and crawl into his bed and stay there until September or perhaps forever.

His phone buzzed in his pocket with what could only be a text from Andrés. 

He ignored it. 

He wished it were raining. 

 

It wasn't necessarily stealing, because out of all the people in this world, Martín would not steal from Andrés

But he might have performed some tactical borrowing the previous day, when Andrés had been around to watch him study, or whatever Andrés did when he just appeared to spend time in Martín's flat. It had been on a whim, but if Andrés couldn't charge his phone, he probably wouldn't insist on them going out.

They could just stay here, where things were kind of domestic but mostly just normal, and where he didn't have to worry so much about what Andrés would do next. 

Andrés: Have you seen my charger? 

Martín: yeah you left it here

Andrés: Oh, convenient! I'll be there in a minute. 

Andrés did, indeed, appear shortly thereafter, carrying a tote bag with the logo of the local art shop. They didn't sell them, but they had made one for Andrés that time he spent three hundred euros there in one week. 

(That was Before, when Andrés still had money to spend.) 

"What's in the bag?"

Andrés rummaged through it, producing Maurice, which he was now carrying around all the time without even pretending otherwise, a vase, a set of paint brushes - his favourite set, Andrés had previously demonstrated to him why the bristles were simply superior - a dressing gown and three shirts. "Some stuff," he said simply.

"Right." 

"Thought I might need them." 

"For what, exactly? A nighttime paint session?"

Andrés shrugged. "Just life. I'm here plenty, aren't I?" 

"Quite. That's why you have your own key." 

Martín had originally given it to him in case of emergencies, foolishly believing Andrés to know what those were. It had taken him only two days to appear out of nowhere to drag Martín to an art gallery with him, because they had an Argentinian artist showcasing his works and how could Martín not have invited him to go already?

The key had, since then, become Andrés's property, and Martín knew he'd never be allowed to live in a flat Andrés didn't have this kind of easy access to. Have fun trying to explain that one to an actual boyfriend, if he ever decided to get one. 

"Well, I hate going back to the flat for no reason, you know that. It's better here."

Martín did know that, had gathered as much over the summer, as Andrés's presence became a rule and his absence both a reprieve and a phantom pain. 

Hearing this still made him feel happy, especially considering that his flat was small and ill-equipped and had nothing going for it other than being his. 

"Yes," he agreed simply. 

With that discussion apparently concluded, Andrés left his bag and went to rummage Martín's cupboards. 

Martín stared at the bag and thought that perhaps crime did, in fact, pay. 

 

The next time Andrés left the flat by himself - to meet Sergio, of course - he returned with more things. 

Martín didn't comment on it this time, but he did locate a cardboard box and hand it over. 

"I'm going to write my name on this," Andrés announced happily. 

"Yeah?" 

"In cat-sized letters. And I'm going to put it in the bedroom." 

He made the simple gesture sound like it meant everything.

 

"Here you go," Andrés said, sweetly, taking a whole flower bouquet out of the paper bag he had arrived with. Flowers of every kind and every colour. 

Martín did not spit out his coffee, but he did swallow it too quickly and burn his throat. He accepted the flowers gingerly, reluctantly handing Andrés the paper cup in return, wishing he could claim a previously unknown allergy and refrain from touching them. 

"Thanks?" he said warily. He could remember very clearly a speech Andrés had once given about how he was never buying his girlfriends flowers, because flowers tended to bring out the worst in a woman - only serving to make her vain and thankless. So why was he giving Martín these? 

"I got a whole lecture about flower language when I bought them, and obviously most of it I've already forgotten," Andrés explained without any regard for the strangeness of the situation, as was his modus operandi, "But I do remember the important ones," here he started going through some choice flowers, slowly lifting each of them up in turn, "Loyalty, obviously. This one was devotion. Sincerity, and of course, eternal love." He said this without any hesitation, smiling broadly like he was particularly proud of himself. 

Martín was not very introverted, but he currently felt the whole shopping mall's eyes on him, not to mention the expectant weight of Andrés's gaze, and he didn't know how to suitably accept this gesture while still remaining firmly on the side of pretending

He decided there was only one thing to do, and gingerly plucked a single red rose from the bouquet. Martín knew nothing at all about flower language, but he doubted anyone could miss this one. 

"Here, this one’s for you," he said about as gently as he could, pressing it into Andrés's free hand. It could surely pass as part of the whole show, which is what this certainly was - Andrés had given it to him first, after all. 

But he had never in his life meant anything quite so much. 

Andrés's eyes widened, slightly, in what Martín imagined was a genuine reaction, before he remembered all the details of their arrangement and grinned at Martín. 

"Why thank you," he said, and if he sounded a little bit breathless, just a little bit in awe–

Well, he had always been a good actor. 

 

"You work too much." 

"I work the correct amount," Martín said, while writing a post-it note for future reference, "Have you considered that you might be working too little?" 

Andrés waved that thought away with his paintbrush. "This is work, for my portfolio. That's all I really need. But you know it would help if–" 

"No." Martín had spent weeks now dodging Andrés's offers to paint him. It wasn't so much about the eternal nature of art, as he had suggested, but rather–

He didn't want to see the way Andrés saw him.

He was sure Andrés would indeed make it fond, maybe even loving. He'd paint Martín in all black, perhaps in the rain, or in a storm of piranhas if he had the choice. He'd paint Martín and make it look so very fond, and it would be almost good enough to fool Martín into thinking Andrés finally saw something else in him.

Andrés stepped away from the easel - oh yes, he'd dragged an easel here, like Martín's flat could fit one without the constant need to step around it - and leaned over Martín and his textbook.

"You did say I could paint you," he reminded Martín. 

"And you can, but I didn't mean right now. When we're back at school." With any luck, this too folly would pass, and Andrés would forget all about it when he had something new to occupy his thoughts. 

(That must be a novel feeling - Martín couldn't even imagine it.)

"Hmm." Andrés grabbed his jaw and turned his head to the side. His fingers were cool, and oily from the paint. 

"What are you doing?" Martín hissed, swatting his hand away and standing up, deciding he didn't care for being towered over after all.

"I'm considering my angles," Andrés said calmly. He brought his hand up again, and this time he drew a line with his finger from Martín's temple down his cheek. 

"Right," Martín said, through gritted teeth because he knew Andrés wouldn't want to be disturbed in this task, since nothing could capture his full attention like art, and then, despite himself, "And?" 

"They're beautiful, each and every one," Andrés announced in a way that could have been considered reverent, in a different context. "I have no idea how I'll capture them all." He sighed; he was so close to Martín now that the words were warm on his face. 

"You're only getting the one portrait. Do your worst." 

Andrés's gaze flitted to his lips, heavily, like he was daring Martín to notice it. If they had been in public, Martín would have taken it as a warning, would have braced himself for another kiss that was sure to leave him wanting and heartbroken. 

But there was no one else here, so Andrés simply drew the tips of all five fingers across his jaw. 

"What if I made a whole set? Thirteen paintings of you. Would you stop me?" 

"Yes." 

"You seem to be the only thing I feel like painting, lately," Andrés said, and the words sounded like flirtation, even if his slightly anguished tone didn't match them. "Obra maestra." He ran his fingers down the side of Martín's throat, and Martín tilted his head upwards to grant access before he had even considered it. The otherwise straight line was interrupted by the shiver that ran through him. 

Andrés stepped away, then, regarded Martín for a moment, grinned at him, returned to his easel and his paints.

Martín stood there, stupidly, and then left the room for a moment of solitude, for an escape from the claustrophobia Andrés's touch brought upon him. 

When he saw himself in the mirror, he realised there was paint on his face, on his throat, on the collar of his shirt. Blue and green, the colours of a spring morning and a near-perfect match for his eyes, in the shape of Andrés's fingers.

 

When Andrés had suggested they climb on a rooftop to try and see the stars, Martín had been so sure that this would be a segue to talk about Argentina again. That Andrés would use this to enquire, very seriously, if Martín would go back because you could see the stars better there. Like he hadn't built his entire life here, like he wouldn't sound like a foreigner to the ears of people who belonged in the city of fair winds.

He could have the stars in Buenos Aires, but here he could have Andrés. 

"So I heard a rumour," he started, deciding to finally share this piece of gossip, the one he had debated bringing up for days, the one that said that they were engaged and madly in love and already planning their honeymoon.

He knew Andrés would love to hear it - nothing would flatter his flair for drama like hearing just how well his little plan was working. He'd prefer to hear it in great detail, to know exactly who had said this and how they'd phrased it and what happened next, but it was another offering with a price for Martín to pay.

What sacrifice would he not have made? 

"Yeah?" 

It was a bad idea, of course, because it prompted Andrés to sketch - not in paint this time, but in words - an entire wedding for them. The perfect picture of lavish but intimate, he talked about fucking chandeliers and still managed to make Martín hate his entire life. 

He missed the time when Andrés would taunt him with promises of black coffees and Christmases, things Martín knew they would go on to have, even if they weren't the same. 

Andrés was growing more cruel. 

 

They played pool at a pub that was more Andrés's style than Martín's - a few decades ago women were still barred entry, something the place seemed to consider a badge of honour, and the clientele consisted mostly of older men who longed to go back to those golden days. 

But it also had style, the classic look of darkened furniture and decades of cigar smoke that no amount of scrubbing could quite make undone.

If Andrés had his way, they would have probably worn suits, or suit jackets at the very least. But Martín had already done that for him once this summer, thank you very much, and he was going to refrain from doing it again until Andrés eventually married some floozy with a short attention span and pretty clothes. 

So here was Andrés, wearing - you guessed it - the fucking turtleneck, the soft texture of which Martín was now unfortunately well-acquainted with. 

If he ever allowed himself to fantasise about Andrés again (he tried to refrain from it, because he was trying to get over him, whenever he wasn't too busy playing pretend), he now had all these textures burned in his memory, just waiting to be summoned - no, to summon themselves, uninvited like Andrés himself - after he turned off the light. He knew things about Andrés he could have gone his whole life without, soft and gentle and with the power to ruin. 

And here was Martín, wearing his black leather jacket, because the nights were no longer warm like they once had been, and it was becoming increasingly difficult not to see the finite nature of their arrangement. 

"This is a nice place," Andrés said, while chalking his pool cue. They were both quite good at pool, in the way only people with a complete disregard for rules could be.  "We should come here again." 

"This is the kind of place you could get thrown out of for being gay," Martín observed bitterly, sipping his watery lager. 

"It's not the 1800s, Martín," Andrés said, like someone who had only pretended to fancy men for the summer. He hit his target and pocketed it. 

"The 2000s can be cruel, too." 

"Wanna bet?" Andrés, too, sipped Martín's beer and looked at him over the glass. 

"What's the wager?" The wager was always the same, if Andrés had the choice, but Martín pretended to consider this anyway. It would be better, for him, to reject this offer outright, but he couldn't reject the light that making it had put in Andrés's eyes. 

Andrés set the glass down, on a table out of Martín's reach. "Ice cream, obviously." 

Martín grimaced. "Okay. But I'll cash it in September, so I can at least eat mine in peace." 

The moment Martín accepted the bet had Andrés immediately changing his manner. "I thought you liked it when I stole your ice cream," he said with the affect of a sad little sigh in his voice, completely unnatural for him.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I do," Martín said. He aimed for a ball that should have been easy to pocket - and missed. He sighed and straightened himself, looking at Andrés, who was grinning. Martín took a step towards him. "It's your taste I object to." 

Andrés leaned his cue against the table. "You shouldn't. I have impeccable taste." God, he did, but then he went and continued, "Just look at yourself." He stepped away from the table, to the side as if in tango. "Can you not see what I see?" 

Martín didn't know how to answer that. Truthfully? He knew he was good-looking, and smart, and Andrés always told him he was also charming and funny. He just happened to be in a different category from his straight best friend, who was everything

"You'd be a fool not to see it," he decided, taking another step closer but still holding on to his pool cue. He had been winning, and now he felt like he was losing. 

Andrés's grin widened; he seemed genuinely pleased. "I fear I have been, for far too long." He stepped closer to Martín, close enough to touch now, hands on both sides of him on the rail. "And you?" 

And he what? If anything, Martín's adoration was like a siren - loud and impossible to ignore. He knew this because he had tried to, for years. "Never," he said, meeting Andrés's eyes. 

Andrés fucking lunged at him then, almost like he wanted to lose this particular bet, Martín's body bracketed between him, his arms, and the pool table. Andrés's tongue was already in his mouth by the time Martín's mind caught up with him.

He brought his hand to the back of Andrés's neck and sent both pool cues clattering to the floor, likely drawing a few pairs of eyes. This time Martín didn't let that stop him, because summer was nearing its end. He met Andrés's tongue, pushed it back in his mouth.

By virtue of circumstance, it was Andrés who ended this kiss, drawing back with a trail of saliva on his lips.

They got some dirty looks, perhaps a scoff, but no one was rushing to have them thrown out. Martín was no longer sure if he had genuinely expected anything different, felt too far removed from his own motivations.

Andrés's self-assured grin softened into a smile. "See? Ice cream's on you - the world keeps spinning." 

It did, and Andrés remained the brilliant sun at the centre of its orbit.

 

They went to a club, since it seemed like a thing that a lot of people did as the nights grew darker. It had been Martín's idea, yes, one last hurrah before the end of summer, one final chance to allow himself to kiss Andrés, to watch him unabashedly, to pretend what they had was something more. To lay to rest the tension that was probably only a projection of his own feelings. 

It did not start out on the right foot, when they ran into Mirko. 

Martín had worked with him for a week, before suddenly having to quit his job for the new post as a fake boyfriend, right after having told the guy he might be up for something casual this summer. It had been such a mess, and this wasn't the way he had wanted to address it. 

And Andrés? He made things worse, was acting like a jealous boyfriend, moody and irritated, stepping in to introduce himself when everything about the situation screamed don't

Martín wanted to spit in his face the knowledge that he'd done all of this for Andrés's benefit, at a personal cost that was high and climbing every fucking minute. 

But he didn't, because he had done it out of love, not in order to gain something. He was here not because Andrés had somehow strong-armed, but because Andrés had asked him, and he had said yes. 

When he saw Andrés again, by the bar looking tired and not at all like he was enjoying himself, even the last of Martín's annoyance washed away. He drew Andrés into a kiss before he had the time to think better of it, and Andrés met it with what could only be described as enthusiasm–

for

the

show

–and Martín allowed himself to enjoy it, as this may well be the last one. 

And then the next one.

 

If you'd think that one of them was going to ruin it all by taking things too far, chances are you would not have guessed it would be Andrés. 

But he had

Martín really had no qualms about his virtue or whatever. But he could never face himself in the mirror again if he let Andrés sleep with him just because he was horny, or drunk, or whatever, and then regret it.

Getting to have that for one night just wasn't worth the horrible cost. 

So he stopped Andrés, gently but firmly. He talked himself out of the only night that might ever be worth remembering, because he could not do that to his best friend. 

For the longest time, he lay awake and pretended otherwise. 

 

He woke up before Andrés the next morning, only to learn that Andrés, who was usually good about keeping to his side of the bed (and allowed to stay for this very reason), had draped his arm across Martín's chest during the night, like a particularly petulant weighted blanket. 

It was still dark with the curtains drawn, and Martín lay there with a sense of foreboding. Andrés would inevitably wake soon, and then they'd have to talk again - hadn't it been bad enough last night? Must they discuss it any further? Ever? Would it not be okay to just laugh it off and say wow, we really were drunk, let's not do that again

He felt so awful he thought he might cry - so he moved Andrés's arm away and went to open the blinds, a little, to survey the light and the damage. It would surely wake up Andrés, and then they could get it done and over with. 

He sat on the edge of the bed and waited, like he wasn't just about to die. He dug his fingers into the bedsheets and debated burning them, if this went badly. 

He allowed Andrés to wake on his own terms, and when his eyes fell on Martín, he hurried to speak. 

"Hey," he said, turning towards Andrés. It was difficult to look at him, the way he didn't seem at ease, the way his eyes searched Martín's for something they failed to find. He still looked devastating and he had, for a brief moment last night, wanted Martín. "Did I wake you? Sorry." His voice didn't feel like his, but rather like something borrowed, something stolen and threatening to reject him. 

"It's okay," Andrés muttered, and Martín felt dread, because okay meant nothing between them. 

"I know you were drunk last night," Martín started, realising the implication and rushing to add, "Or, we both were." It was a betrayal of himself and his love, but he'd rather betray himself than lose Andrés. He tried to clear his voice so as to buy himself some time. "We don't need to be awkward about it, yeah? We don't need to talk about it, either."

"Alright," Andrés responded, just as unconvincing as before. Martín couldn't tell what was going through his mind, because his expression was as blank as ever. He missed the days when he understood Andrés like a clockwork and read him like a formula. 

The only thing that was evident was that this was neither okay or alright

"Good," Martín said, even though it didn't feel good at all. He stood up and brushed off his hands in an effort to shake off the memories of using those same hands to stop Andrés from making a mistake that could cost him dearly. The things he'd done with these hands, over this summer - he wanted to cut them off. "You can have the first shower. I'll make coffee, do you want any?" He didn't know what he was hoping for coffee to solve - perhaps it could offer some normalcy. Perhaps Andrés could comment on how disgusting black coffee was, ask to try it only to complain, and then they could go from there–

"No, I think I'll go home." The word cut like a knife, because only a few hours ago they had talked about moving in together, building a home of their own. Andrés had seemed so genuine, and now he was hurrying to leave. 

"Okay," Martín said in response, quietly. 

Andrés gave him an approximation of a comforting smile, but his eyes were distracted and cloudy. 

Martín allowed him to leave. It was probably for the best for them both, to have some distance. 

 

Martín had this voice in his head, telling him to avoid Andrés for the rest of his life. He didn't want to resolve things - there wasn't anything to resolve, really. Andrés didn't need to explain how he'd been too drunk, how it'd been a while since he got laid, didn't need to spell out that he hadn't actually meant to do that.

That he didn't actually want Martín.

A much bigger part of his brain was occupied by replaying that night over and over again. How Andrés had looked at him, at the club, with such a foreign expression that seemed like he wasn't looking at Martín at all. How he had waited until Martín had closed the door to his flat and not a moment longer before drawing him into a kiss. Not just any kiss, but one filled with lust and anticipation. How he would have clearly been willing to go all the way, had Martín not stopped him. 

But, they had both agreed Andrés had been drunk. It didn't mean anything. 

It had been so good.

But it didn't mean anything. 

How could Martín ever meet his eyes again, having seen the way Andrés had looked at him?

And this wasn't the only memory that plagued him: he could still remember the warmth of Andrés pulling him close on the sofa, telling him it was fine. Martín had been so fucking happy. He should have settled for that, because he wasn't sure if he'd ever have it again. Andrés hadn't been uncomfortable around him before, but what if he would be, after last night?

Would it be better to have back a ghost of his best friend - or nothing at all? 

By the second day, he had developed another migraine. This time there would be no Andrés on his bedside, no stories about depressed artists, no quiet comfort from his presence. Martín lay in the dark and suffered, but he would have taken any number of migraines over the real pain. 

 

It was so difficult to get back to his life, after something like this. His thoughts were constantly running around in small circles, and he couldn't sleep.

Andrés didn't attempt to contact him.

Martín gave him space. Maybe it was hard to come to terms with what they'd done, with what he'd done. 

He glared at the wilting flowers on the corner of his desk. Andrés had taken the rose with him when he left, along with the glass it had lived in. What that meant, Martín didn't know. 

He had, in a moment of weakness, taken loyalty and devotion and sincerity and of course, eternal love and pressed their petals between the pages of his engineering book. 

He had done it to remind himself that Andrés really had meant all of those things. That just because Andrés's love wasn't the kind his soul longed for, it wasn't any lesser. It was deep and true and Martín was lucky to have it. He was so endlessly lucky and if he could still have that, he would not ask for anything more ever again.

He just hoped it would still be his to keep, after all of this. Otherwise the only things he had would be these memories; rose petals, a broken heart, a shirt stained with blue paint, and a stupid fucking keyring. 

 

Finally, after three days spent in purgatory waiting for his judgement, Martín had had enough and texted Andrés himself. He made sure to remind him that it was nearly the end of summer - soon you'll be free was implied - and asked what else he could possibly still want to do. 

Martín didn't want summer to end, but he could still acknowledge it was better this way. He had built his life on borrowed time, and it was high time to get back to what was real and true, to concentrate his efforts on their friendship, the very foundation of which had shook over these past few weeks. 

Andrés's answer came within minutes, a small blessing that meant Martín didn't have to spend the rest of the day fretting over it.

Andrés: Park today? And coffee tomorrow? 

He started typing something else and then erased it, left it at that. Martín didn't psychoanalyse the gesture, was happy to know Andrés still wanted to see him. Maybe this meant that their friendship would be fine - it had been through worse than a stupid drunken mistake. 

But Martín also knew he'd need some time to get over the way his feelings had been rekindled, like Andrés was a matchbox and an oil canister. He'd need time to forget what had once been his, for all intents and purposes, the kind of happiness he had held in his hands and let go, because it was never his to keep. 

 

When they saw each other, halfway between their flats, Andrés was worse than upset - he was very obviously uneasy. He had insisted on this park over literally any other park that would have been closer to Martín's flat, and he had barely said a word on their way here. 

If Andrés was staging some kind of a friendship break-up, well, Martín was about to have his whole life ripped away from him. 

And he would have rather done it closer to his flat, where he could at least retreat to fucking die.

"Well," he started, wanting to beat Andrés to their fake break-up, perhaps show him that there was still a way to move forward, that they could and should remain friends, companions, partners in every sense but romantic. "It's the end of summer. It's been fun, but I suppose we should discuss the terms of our break-up. I think everyone knows by now, including my coworkers and your family friends, so we can surely call it a success." He aimed for jest. It felt hollow. 

Andrés frowned at him, and Martín thought he might throw up. 

"We'll say we decided that we're better off as friends, right?" he rushed to continue, "So we don't need to fake a big falling out."

"I don't want to do that," Andrés said, and was this really what he decided to focus on? 

"So you do want a falling out?" Martín asked, irritated but already looking for a way to make that happen, because if they could still be friends after that, it would be worth it, he could make it work–

"No. I want a relationship." Andrés said, and Martín's entire brain short-circuited, and he momentarily convinced himself Andrés meant a relationship with someone else, that Martín should play matchmaker, or perhaps be his wingman– "This summer… It's been good. I enjoy your company immensely. I think we should have a real relationship."

"Do you?" Martín asked dully, because he couldn't understand it. Andrés had always been so straight and so uninterested, and he had taken all of this in stride like it didn't matter at all. 

Not to mention, he had always enjoyed Martín's company, but that had never meant he wanted to date Martín. Because he was straight, and because he loved Martín like a best friend. 

"Do you not?" Andrés asked it like he genuinely wanted to know, like there existed a world where the answer could be no. 

"I didn't think you'd…" Martín coughed, not wanting to give voice to all the things that kept him up at night, but he was going to have to say this one or they'd never get anywhere, "Want me."

"I thought it would have been fairly obvious the other night," Andrés pointed out.

"You were drunk," Martín insisted. Even if Andrés had wanted something from him, it had been situational, contextual. 

"It was a long time coming," Andrés clarified, "And I haven't stopped thinking about it since." He sat down next to Martín, and Martín felt a shiver run up his spine. 

"Yeah?"  

"Yeah."

For a moment, it was quiet. 

"I've been in love with you for years," Martín said slowly. It cost him everything to speak these words. He hated having to make himself so vulnerable, but Andrés seemed convinced about this, and he deserved to hear it, considering Martín had never put this into words before, even if he had spelled it out in his actions a thousand times. "Years and years. And you've always been so… into women. And I agreed to your disastrous… plan because it was better than nothing. But it was honestly so much worse. I've been miserable. It seemed so real–"

"It was real," Andrés cut him off, making Martín feel faint as the rest of the sentence died on his tongue. "Or, it felt real. It became real." He placed one of his hands on Martín's shoulder and this time moved towards him slowly, as if Martín might ever reject him. 

Martín met him halfway, the same way he always had, the way he always would. He kissed Andrés the way he had wanted to all this time - gently, fondly, to show what had really been in his heart this entire summer, the way his very soul yearned for Andrés. 

"I want this," Andrés said when they broke apart, caressing Martín's cheek, so gentle, so loving, concepts completely foreign. "I want all of this. Do you?"

"Yeah," Martín admitted. "I always have," he said, because it was easier than it's everything I am

"Well, you have me," Andrés said, just like that. He was so calm. He had thought about this over the three days Martín had spent suffering, chances are he'd even discussed it with Sergio.

Martín smiled at him in return. "I still wish you'd let me break the bitch's knees. But I suppose this is good too." It was a weak joke, because he felt weak at the altar of these discoveries, but it made him feel a little more like himself. 

"You've been flirting with me," Andrés said, and– was this really news to him? 

"Obviously," Martín confirmed.

"For years." 

"Yes." 

"Since when?" 

Martín shrugged. "Since I broke my arm," he gestured at it, and Andrés ran his fingers over it. "In third grade. You remember?" Andrés had written his name all over the cast, just Andrés Andrés Andrés, and Martín felt like that had been what his life was like, from there on. Like Andrés had asked gravity to shift and it had accommodated him without a second thought. 

"I was a fiend," Andrés said. 

"You still are, my worst friend." His worst friend, best friend, most beloved companion who had put him through hell this summer and enjoyed every moment. 

"You really do have poor taste," Andrés suggested.

"Don't I know it," Martín sighed. "But anyway, that was the day." He leaned back, finally felt like he could breathe, a little bit. 

Andrés looked at him, like he didn't know where to go from here. He had planned a summer, and now it was turning into autumn. 

"It's fine," Martín said. He pulled Andrés closer, wrapped an arm across his back. "This is fine." 

"It's been a good summer," Andrés said, tentatively.

Martín couldn't help but laugh. "The best," he responded, and thought, in a hopeful manner that had never been characteristic of him, and maybe a better autumn?

 

"Do you like it?" Andrés asked him, full of pride. 

Honestly? The tree was kind of ugly, lopsided at the top and missing several branches on one side. But the branches it did have seemed sturdy, so it seemed like it would hold the numerous ornaments they'd gathered between them over the years. 

"Of course I do. It's…" 

"Misunderstood, yes, exactly. That's why I picked this one. People always leave behind the ones that don't fit their idea of a perfect tree, but I think he's beautiful." Andrés reached to touch one of the branches, but it was clearly just an excuse to wrap his arm around Martín. 

Martín rolled his eyes, but he did so fondly. He hoped Andrés wasn't trying to compare him to his ugly Christmas tree. 

"Martín, the cookies. They're in the oven and they're your responsibility now," Sergio piped up. He had previously banished the two of them from the kitchen, because Andrés kept stealing cookie dough from the counter and kisses from Martín.

"Yes, yes, I am watching them." 

"You are not, you're flirting with my brother."

"Flirting?" Andrés cut in theatrically. "Sergio, we are sharing a loving moment here. I think we're way past flirting."

"I honestly wish you were."

"Are you feeling left out? Are we not paying you enough attention, is that what this is?" 

"Oh no, hermanito, we didn't realise," Martín agreed tonelessly, "Do you want a hug?" 

"Absolutely not, I'm leaving. Feel free to continue, but do not burn the cookies." 

"Wanna bet?" Andrés grinned at him, and then turned to look at Martín again. 

Martín had come to understand, over these months, what Sergio had meant. He had never seen Andrés quite as happy as when his eyes fell on Martín, heavy with all this love and affection. Martín would have done anything to make him look like that, but he didn't need to do anything, this was enough. 

He drew Andrés close for a kiss, in a gesture that had become easier, but still endlessly fond. 

They burned the cookies.

 

Later that night, after they had gone to the store for more butter and finally baked their cookies successfully, mostly because Sergio had given up and stared at them instead of entrusting the task to Martín again, somewhere around midnight or perhaps already after it, Andrés regarded him with a frown. "Is everything okay? You seem quiet." 

Martín found it impossible to give voice to everything on his mind - how happy he was to spend time with his family, tried and true, how loved he felt when they bickered over burnt cookies and crooked Christmas trees and cold streets. The warmth he felt when they looked for a flat to move in together, with two bedrooms so Sergio would always feel welcome there. The eternal summer that now lived in his heart. 

"Yeah," he said instead of all of this, because he could trust Andrés to know, to understand, "Everything is fine."

Notes:

Thought I could wrap this up in 5-6k but working on it sparked joy so I thought wrong. I hope reading it sparked joy too, let me know your thoughts for a place in my heart and my everlasting affections.

Thank you for reading and here's wishing you a lovely rest of the summer (or any season, y'know)!!

PS. Title from Roaring 20s by, you guessed it, Panic! at the Disco.
PPS. Can't believe I forgot last time but I'm ofc on tumblr and I'm nice I think so we can be friends.
PPPS. It's possible I wrote this on my phone over three days approximately a week ago. Or maybe I didn't.

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