Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There is a story in which Andrés kisses Martín and leaves, walks out the door and never looks back.

There is a story in which Andrés and Sergio, no regrets, no remorse, plan a heist on the Royal Mint of Spain so revolutionary it threatens to unravel the fabric of capitalist society.

There is a story in which Andrés - alias Berlín - sacrifices himself in the Mint to save his companions, and he and Martín, estranged for the past two years, never have the chance to say goodbye.

But it is not this story.

When Andrés leaves, Martín drinks the bottle of wine he’d taken out only a minute ago. Then he drinks another. It’s possible - probable - he keeps drinking after that, but he doesn’t remember.

He does remember the tears, the howling, bruising his knuckles on the stone wall of the chapel. He remembers singeing his fingertips in the candles in a futile attempt to burn Andrés’ portrait. He remembers burying his face in Andrés’ pillow and breathing and breathing his scent until his nose can’t distinguish it anymore.

This is how Sergio finds him a day and a half later: passed out on Andrés’ bed, reeking, still wearing the clothes he was when Andrés left him.

Oh, God - Andrés left - him -

“What the hell,” Sergio mutters. He rolls Martín onto his back and pries open one of his eyelids. “What the fuck is going on? Where’s Andrés?”

“It seems your dear brother has departed for good,” Martín says. “You were wrong, Sergio. About him. The plan. And me. It turns out, none of us was faithful.” He laughs until he sobs, then leans over the edge of the bed and throws up into the trash.

Sergio averts his eyes. “What is this, Martín.”

“This?” Martín wipes his mouth. “This is a hangover. Can you make yourself useful and get me some fucking water? Or wine? Or do I have to do fucking everything myself?”

Sergio ducks out, returns with a glass of water. He sits - carefully - on the edge of the mattress and doesn’t watch as Martín swallows it in two gulps.

“You’re sleeping in his bed.”

“Your powers of observation are as strong as ever, my brother,” Martín snarls. It turns into a groan of pain and he lies back on the pillow. “I’m going to go in.”

Sergio turns to look at him.

“Into the Bank of Spain,” Martín says. “I’ll fucking go alone, I don’t care. If they don’t shoot me before I make it to the chamber, I’ll drown standing between piles of gold. Just how I always wanted to go.”

“You’re not going,” Sergio snaps. “What are you, crazy? Andrés is gone. The plan is off.”

“Then I don’t fucking care anymore,” Martín says and rolls over, toward the wall. “Leave me alone. I don’t need you or him.”

Sergio bows his head. For a moment, it seems like he, too, might get up and walk away. But then...

“Come on,” Sergio says in a low voice, and a pair of shockingly strong arms are hauling him off the mattress. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Martín doesn’t resist as Sergio half-drags him to the shower, doesn’t fight back when Sergio undoes his buttons and belt without looking him in the eye. He strips out of the rest of his clothes and lets Sergio wrangle him into the shower, where his screams turn into sobs turn into hoarse whimpers.

Sergio doesn’t say anything when Martín emerges nearly half an hour later, just hands him a towel.

“What the fuck,” is the first thing Sergio says when Andrés picks up the phone.

“Language, hermanito,” Andrés chides with a low chuckle.

“You don’t get to determine what the fuck I say right now, you son of a bitch,” Sergio says.

“Is that any way to talk about our mother?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

There’s a tiny pause. “Why, I’m about to pleasure Tatiana on the beaches of Bali. Can I call you back?”

“Liar,” Sergio says. “Stop fucking with me. In all the times you tried to hide from me, how often did you actually succeed? I will come get you if I have to, and believe me, you do not want me to. Don’t you remember last time?”

“I love and cherish you as well,” Andrés says, and laughs.

“What the fuck did you do to Martín?”

Over the line, Sergio can hear Andrés suck in a breath, then exhale. “And how is my best friend?”

“He’s not your best friend,” Sergio growls, “and certainly not mine. What did you say to him?”

“I did what had to be done,” Andrés says calmly. “Look, you were right. Okay? There were flaws in our plans. But not the ones you so kindly and repeatedly yammered on about.”

“What?”

“We were compromised,” Andrés says, his tone unwavering. “And I couldn’t see it until you pointed it out to me.”

Sergio hadn’t expected, of all things, his brother’s sudden acquiescence. He flounders for a second. “So I - so you - you finally agree that Martín was in love with you?”

“In love?” Andrés laughs, loud and wholehearted. “Brother, I’ve known that since... hell, since the day we met. That wasn’t news.”

“Then what was?” In spite of himself, in spite of the entire goddamn point of this foolish phone call that’s probably exposing Andrés’ location with every passing second, Sergio is distracted, digging his nails into his palm. Somewhere in Andrés’ chapel, Martín is hopefully getting dressed, hopefully not discovering any of Andrés’ liquor stashes that Sergio hadn’t managed to purge.

Andrés snorts. “The things you don’t know about love could fill a book. Several books. I’m not going to spell this out for you over a phone call, okay? Tatiana and I have some unfinished honeymoon business, but let’s meet again in five days. I want to hear about your Royal Mint plan, because I’m sure it’s abysmal and riddled with holes. I’m going to help.”

“Five days,” Sergio repeats flatly.

“Exactly. Oh, and Florence is no longer viable as a hidey-hole, owing to the unfortunate fact that Martín, my love, is about to betray your location to the Italian police. Let’s meet outside of Madrid, yes? I’ve got a neat house in mind we can start to plan. It’s no monastery, but we’ll live in squalor for a while, I suppose.”

Sergio says nothing.

“It’s a shame. I really did like that chapel....”

“I don’t understand,” Sergio says finally.

He and Andrés are sitting outside at a chipped wooden table. A soft breeze stirs their hair, and Andrés is taking measured sips of his coffee.

At Sergio’s comment, he raises one eyebrow. “Well, that’s obvious. Which part isn’t clear to you?”

“The whole thing,” Sergio says. “I don’t - a mitochondrion?”

Andrés laughs and drains his cup. “An appropriate metaphor, isn’t it? Something so small, yet so powerful.”

“You spent,” Sergio’s gaze wanders into the distance, and his hands itch for chalk and a chalkboard, so that he can have a glimmer of hope in understanding Andrés’ thought process, “my entire visit to Italy... regaling me with stories about love. And, and betrayal. Living life ‘to the fullest.’ Pleasure.”

“Stories,” Andrés scoffs. “What is my life to you, a series of fairytales?”

“The opposite,” Sergio says. “But in the face of all of that, what does one percent matter?”

Andrés offers him a rare genuine smile. “He said the same thing, but maybe a little bit more desperately than you.”

“And?”

“And it doesn’t matter at all, don’t you get it?” Andrés suddenly slams the cup down and Sergio jumps. “Don’t you see? I don’t give a fuck. Yes, obviously, I love women. Sure, Tatiana might be upset if I started fucking Martín. Neither of those things would stop me from actually doing it if I wanted to, though I am trying to make my wife happy from time to time, even if you don’t believe me.”

Sergio flushes deep red. “So why not?”

“Why not?” Andrés throws up both hands. “I’m sure we’d be happy as a pair of dogs in heat, rutting against each other. Hell, even kissing him was like...” Andrés breaks off.

“Like?” Sergio prompts quietly.

Andrés’ voice is dry, businesslike. “Like I wanted to consume him. To own him. To make him mine, in every way.”

There’s a moment of silence. Sergio can’t help the thought that in every situation he’s lived through, in every scenario he’s run in his mind, he has never felt anything comparable to what Andrés is telling him.

Andrés could be spinning a yarn, for all Sergio knows.

Andrés breathes out sharply. “But I’m not the problem. Despite all of that, I still love the plan more. Loved,” he corrects angrily. “Martín is the weakest link.”

“I don-”

“Listen!” Andrés says, and Sergio, to his alarm, sees the beginnings of tears glittering in Andrés’ eyes. “Listen! There were two ways this could have unfolded. One, I could have kept ignoring Martín’s feelings for me, the same way I had always done. And you were wrong, by the way. The plan was perfect. But Martín wouldn’t have been. His suppression of his feelings would have eventually led him to sacrifice himself for me - a loss no one could afford - or refuse to let me sacrifice myself, a possibility that had to be preserved at all costs.”

Sergio’s head jerks.

“Oh, will you stop reacting like that when I talk about dying? Grow up. Two, I could have given Martín what he wanted by taking him as a lover. Tatiana would’ve ceased to exist the moment we laid hands on each other,” he says, shaking his head. “But then what? From that moment on, having consummated the relationship, we would’ve achieved the status of something... godlike. Sacrosanct. Forgive me for sounding too egotistical, but... the plan would no longer be life-or-death in his mind. It wouldn’t be anything except some pretty words on a paper.”

Sergio looks at him.

“It’s his Tatiana,” Andrés says. “A delightful diversion until true nirvana can be reached.”

Sergio takes off his glasses and scrubs a hand over his eyes, feeling very tired and very old. His hands are shaking a little when he puts them back on.

Andrés rests a hand on his shoulder. “So you see why I did what I did,” he says, and if Sergio didn’t know better, he would think Andrés is imploring him to understand. “We were doomed either way. I had to tell him it was impossible. I had to show him, kiss him, to give him a taste of that impossibility. And then I had to break him.”

“We don’t kill in hostage situations,” Sergio warns.

Andrés looks at him with something akin to pity.

“You still don’t understand? Only by giving him everything, and snatching it away the next second, did I ensure our plan survived.”