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There were few things Ángel despised more than the parties that his mother threw, mostly because he knew they were held with the goal of finding him a suitable wife.
Well, that would technically be a lie. The list of things that Ángel hated was quite long indeed. However, at the moment nothing could quite compare to the sublime torture of standing there as the vultures circled around him, young women hiding behind their fans as their parents judged him worthy based on his fortune alone. There were whispers, of course, of the kind of man he was. Spoiled, arrogant, exceedingly rude. With his 29th birthday approaching in two months, the whispers around why he refused to marry had grown more vicious. Some claimed it was normal for a bachelor to prefer to live free of the confines of marriage, while others wondered what dirty secret he was hiding that made him shy away from the respectability that a wife would give him.
“He can’t keep acting like a child forever,” someone had said when they thought he was out of earshot. “Eventually, the boy has to grow up and take responsibility for his life. If his father could see him now, he’d die of shame.”
Ángel knew his father would die of shame if he knew what his son had become, but part of him welcomed that thought. His father, God rest his soul, was a miserable bastard who did little but drink and lord his power over those who had less. When he was young, Ángel thought his father loved him enough to protect him from his mother, but he’d been more than happy to look away from his sobbing child whenever his wife doled out a punishment. There was little Ángel was prouder of than ruining his good name and legacy.
What made the whole exercise worse were the glimpses of Ramiro that Ángel managed to get as he and the other servants quietly offered guests food and wine. Ramiro, ever professional, did not even glance in Ángel’s direction even once. Ángel wished he would. Even a moment of connection, to acknowledge each other, would make this whole night more bearable. He was well aware that he couldn’t be seen joking with or even smiling at Ramiro; that would lead to questions that neither of them wanted anyone to find the answers to. The only thing keeping him from going insane due to the inane chatter around him was the promise of sneaking away once the festivities ended. He could find Ramiro then, and they could surely find a way to turn the evening around.
But the party wasn't going to end soon enough. Time slowed to a crawl as Ángel nodded, listening to the prattle of some spoiled heiress who weaseled her way into conversation with him. She spoke on and on about the latest gossip and who was seen wearing what to whose party. Never once did she outright insult her perceived competition for Ángel’s attention, but she wove in little jabs at them as if he would be scandalized by the idea of some society debutante who wore the same dress to two separate parties. If that was her definition of scandal, then Ángel could almost laugh. His behavior would truly merit the label, though thankfully there were no whispers of that nature tonight. His mother kept those under lock and key, so no one could spread them like wildfire and ruin her chances for marrying her ungrateful heir off.
Ramiro was moving closer to where he stood. Ángel couldn’t help but glance at him for a moment, taking in the sight of his lean form in the uniform he wore. Tearing his eyes away, he let his gaze drop to his glass, trying not to think too hard about how he’d get to remove that stupid uniform later on.
“Don’t you agree, señor?”
Ángel plastered a patronizing grin onto his face, looking up from his wine. “Pardon me, but I’m afraid I missed the question.”
The woman tittered. “I was asking your opinion on the new soprano at the Teatro de Parish. Surely you’ve had time to attend lately — I attended only last week to watch one of the final performances of María del Carmen. I found her a touch grating, wouldn’t you agree?”
There had been tickets bought for Ángel and his mother to see the opera a few weeks back, but his mother had taken ill and so Ángel went alone. He wound up not attending the opera at all, and in fact never made it to Madrid. He’d snuck away instead and spent a few days with Ramiro in some drafty room that Ángel kept rented solely for the purpose of giving the pair of them privacy.
He’d never cared much for opera in the first place anyways.
Still, he had to pretend, so he nodded along. “I found her quite pitchy. I preferred last season’s soprano myself.”
The woman giggled as if Ángel had actually said something funny. “I feel the same! Oh how similar we —"
The sound of glass shattering directly next to them interrupted her. Ángel flinched instinctively at the sound — too often a glass shattering nearby meant that his mother had thrown a glass of wine at his head — as he turned to see what happened.
Ramiro was on his knees, scrambling to pick up pieces of shattered wine glasses. The tray they had previously been on was set to the side as he worked quickly, head bowed down.
"Watch where you're going, boy!" The man who had most definitely bumped into Ramiro snarled in his direction.
In response, Ramiro ducked his head down more. "Beg pardon, señor. My apologies."
“My dress!” The woman Ángel had been talking suddenly shrieked, hands going to her skirts. “Oh, it’s ruined.”
Ángel glanced down. Some wine droplets had splashed across the lower part of the woman's dress. They were hardly noticeable, Ángel thought bitterly.
The woman's head jerked up towards Ramiro, who watched them both with slightly horrified eyes. "I didn't realize you hired incompetent help!"
Ángel gripped his own glass a little tighter. He couldn’t do anything, though part of him wanted to step forward. If word got back to his mother that he’d been seen arguing with his peers in defense of one of the servants, his mother would know why immediately. She’d fire Ramiro and that would be the end of everything.
Ramiro spoke again, his quiet voice betraying his anxiety. “My apologies, señorita. It was an accident.”
"I should have your job for this," the woman sneered. "Ruining my best dress, what a disaster… Señor, deal with him."
Anger burned hot in his own chest, and Ángel longed to give this simpering fool a piece of his mind. But to lose his temper would spell trouble, so instead he set his own glass down on a nearby table before he broke it through sheer force.
"I'll address the matter later," he said to Ramiro, as coldly as he could muster, before turning his back on him. The action felt like a knife in his chest, but instead he offered his arm to his companion. "Let's move elsewhere. I'm sure your dress can be salvaged somehow. It's as beautiful as you are, after all."
As the girl giggled at the fake praise, Ángel glanced over his shoulder. Another servant had appeared, and within a few moments the mess and Ramiro were gone and swept away. Satisfied, the crowd resumed their conversations as Ángel tried to regain a bit more of his composure. As the heiress preened about her wardrobe and her best gowns, all Ángel could see was Ramiro's quietly nervous expression. There was no chance he'd fire him, but if word reached his mother about it, she might take the chance to do so before Ángel could intervene. And then Ramiro would just be gone, as if he never existed. He'd be unable to stay, not without a steady salary, and so he would vanish to another town and Ángel would never see him again.
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from worrying, and instead tried to focus on the conversations at hand.
The rest of the night passed without further event. As the night dragged on, Ángel's would-be paramour had grown bolder, allowing her hand to rest on Ángel’s arm for just a moment too long and had perhaps stepped a bit too close during their dances. When the dancing concluded, he made excuses throughout the remainder of the evening to avoid her out of self preservation. A daughter from the only family wealthier than his own, she was just as desperate to find a husband as Ángel’s mother was to marry him off, which was a dangerous combination.
He had feeling that his mother would pressure him into pursuing her. Ángel already wondered how he might get out of that.
Finally though, the night was over. As the faint dawn light colored the sky overhead grey, the goodbyes had been made, the carriages had left, and finally silence had settled over the manor. The servants began the arduous task of tiding the house back to the usual spotless way his mother demanded it be kept. There was no sign of Ramiro, and had not been since the accident, and so Ángel began to wander towards his rooms, already longing to forget the whole affair.
“Ángel!”
The very sound of his mother’s voice made Ángel nauseous. He straightened his spine before turning to face her, not bothering to pretend to smile. There was no need for him to act like she wasn’t about to berate him for some error or misstep he’d made; he had no interest in acting as though he hadn’t heard it all before.
His mother stood in the foyer, a scowl on her face. She studied him for a moment before sighing. “What have I ever done to you to make you treat me in such a way?”
You beat me, Ángel thought. You stood by as a priest took a whip to my back. You’ve found new ways to tell me I’m a failure each and every day.
He said nothing though.
“I saw you avoiding the Delgado girl this evening.” His mother shook her head. “I thought we’d agreed she’d be a good match for you.”
“I danced with her. Twice, in fact. And we had such marvelous conversations beforehand.”
“And afterwards? I saw you all but run from her. She looked quite saddened.”
“What does it matter?” Ángel fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m sure you’ve already promised her father that I’ll propose by spring, so why should she worry? Besides, she’s going to have to get used to me avoiding her if I’ll be stuck listening to her gossip for the rest of my life.”
His mother’s eyes flashed. “When you marry, you’ll do no such thing. Just because I’ve turned a blind eye in the past to your indiscretions does not mean your wife will. You’ll be expected to fulfill all your duties, including producing heirs. The Delgados will not tolerate a scandal, perhaps less so than I would.”
“You say that as though half the men here tonight don’t visit whores on the side,” Ángel muttered.
“Their tastes aren’t like yours. I pray you’ve outgrown that, but should you stray again…”
She did not need to finish her statement. Ángel knew well enough what she meant. He grimaced slightly, trying not to show his fear. His mother would see it and press further, and the last thing he wanted was her prying into his business. Not now, when there was something for him to lose.
Seemingly satisfied, his mother let out another put-upon sigh. “I’m going to bed. Tomorrow, we’re going to discuss this further.” She turned, then paused. "I also heard one of the servants dropped some wine earlier. I won't tolerate dimwitted fools and inept and clumsy footmen. We'll have to fire him. Which one was it?"
"Mother," Ángel said, keeping his tone lightly annoyed. "We'll run out of available footmen if you keep firing them all. Besides, I saw what happened. Señor Alvarez drunkenly stumbled into him. Embarrassing for the señor, I would say. No need to try and break in a new footman when this one hasn't done much wrong."
His mother tsked slightly. "If you say. But make it clear to him that another accident will not be tolerated. You need to appear tougher, so I'll leave that task to you."
With that, she swept past him, leaving Ángel to stand in the darkened foyer alone for a moment longer. The idea now of going up to his rooms alone, to ruminate on her words, suddenly seemed like an unappealing option, and he didn’t trust that he could make it to Ramiro’s room in the servants quarters unseen with the morning on its way. Instead, Ángel made his way towards the study. There was a bottle of liquor he kept there, ostensibly for drinking in celebration of a successful business deal with other rich and powerful men. It would do well enough for him to drink on his own as he sulked.
He did, however, stop the butler and order him to send Ramiro to speak with him. The butler nodded, asking in a low tone if he'd have to find a new servant after the conversation.
"Not this time," Ángel said haughtily. "But he embarrassed us, so the Señora asked me to speak with him."
With the dim light of the lamps, the rising sun shut out behind thick curtains, the study felt perfectly gloomy to match his mood. Ángel settled in the chair behind the desk, staring at the glass in front of him. What a fucking waste of a night. And today, with its promise of his mother lurking to further ruin his life, did not look as thought it would be any better.
Just as Ángel was getting comfortable in his self pity, there was a timid knock at the door.
Ángel scowled at the door, rising to his feet. He had to pretend just a little more, at least until the door was shut behind them. Then he could make sure Ramiro was alright, could try to fix some of what had happened.
Ramiro stood outside, eyes downcast. Ángel said nothing, waiting until the door was shut to speak. He locked it too, though he doubted anyone would come knocking at this hour. The study was well cloistered from where the other servants were doing their work, and his mother was likely passed out already from the party the night before. Still, the less chance they had of being interrupted, the safer they would be.
He still faced the door when he spoke. "Are you alright?"
When Ramiro didn't immediately respond, he turned to look at him. Ramiro looked exhausted and drawn, eyes still fixed at a spot on the floor. The furrow of his brows and the pinched line he'd pressed his lips into were the only giveaways of his emotions. He looked upset. Ángel felt defensive as a result.
"I couldn't do anything else," he said, unable to hide the tinge of annoyance from his voice. "Don't act like you expected it to go differently."
That made Ramiro look at him, a spark of anger in his eyes. "I understand our roles perfectly. I have never pretended that we're something we're not. What I'm waiting for is to know whether I still have a job."
That stung. Ángel deflated slightly. "You do. Mother did want to fire you but I managed to convince her that it was all Señor Alvarez's fault, and that it wouldn't be worth the fuss to train someone new in your place. So it's done."
That did little to calm the storm on Ramiro's face, though his shoulders relaxed slightly with relief. "Did she suspect anything?"
"We wouldn't be speaking right now if she did." Ángel walked back over to the ornate desk in the room, grabbing another glass. He filled it, then handed it to Ramiro. "You can relax now."
For a moment, Ramiro stared at him, then he took the glass and downed it in a quick motion. "It was humiliating."
"She's a dreadful girl who thinks her dress getting wine on it is the worst thing that could happen to her," Ángel said bitterly. "She's not worth your time."
"That's not the point," Ramiro said darkly. "The point is is that I bow and scrape and serve these people and they treat me like I'm nothing. And I have to swallow down all this shit for it. It's fucking exhausting."
He paused, then his face flushed. "And then watching her with her hands all over you, just clearly thinking she had you wrapped around her finger…"
Ángel knew now was not the time, but he smirked anyways. "Jealous now, are you?"
Ramiro gave him a withering look. "I'm not allowed the luxury of jealousy, Ángel. And I know she's not someone I'd have to be afraid would compete for your attentions in a way that matters."
"And yet?"
"And yet, what happens when you do get married?"
The very word sent a chill down Ángel's spine. It was his turn to drain his glass, face slipping into a familiar scowl. "That's never going to happen."
"Really?" Ramiro raised an eyebrow. "Your mother will never get her wish? You'll never get forced to get engaged to some woman, to make everyone around you richer?"
"Never." Even as he spoke, Ángel knew his bravado was a lie. "Maybe she'll die today and I won't have to worry about it ever again."
"And when that doesn't happen?"
"Jesus, Ramiro, why does it matter? Do you want to get rid of me that bad?"
"I'm worried about what happens with us when you do get married." Ramiro set his glass down so he could march towards Ángel and stand closer to him. "I'm worried about that."
"We'll figure something out!" Ángel set his glass down too, with force. "But why ruin what we've got with worrying? It won't happen tomorrow!"
"But it could happen soon and then…" Ramiro trailed off, lips pressing again into a thin line.
"I don't want to talk about it," Ángel said.
"We should! Am I supposed to just wait around until the night before the wedding, so I can be dismissed and dealt with?"
"Who said that's what will happen?"
"Because I know how the world works. I know that it suddenly becomes much harder for me to sneak in and out of your room when there's a woman sharing your bed. I know that it becomes harder for us to steal a moment of time when there are more eyes on you than before. And when… God, Ángel, am I supposed to just watch you — the real you, the actual, honest person I see when we're together — be crushed further down until you're just gone? I can't do that. Don't ask me to, because it'll break my heart."
Ramiro exhaled when he finished speaking. He held his head high, holding Ángel's gaze. Ángel wanted to look away. He hated how right Ramiro was. Once he was married, he wouldn't have the same freedom to chase Ramiro. He'd be monitored closely, and if he were caught sleeping with a man, his new wife would see it to it that Ramiro would be fired at the very least. He'd lose him for good. There was no world in which Ángel's marriage did not spell the end of what they had.
What they had. That danced too close to a word that Ángel did not want to look at, not like this. He rarely wanted to admit it, because to admit what they had was not just sex would mean he'd have to examine why of all the people he could've chosen, Ramiro chose him. Ramiro wanted him, and not just because Ángel was good in bed. Ramiro seemed to want him for moments beyond that, for companionship. He laughed at Ángel's jokes, and told him he was more than his mother made him to be. He pushed him. He challenged him. He…
Again, that word. Again, Ángel rebelled against naming it.
Instead, he shook his head, the fight leaving him. "Not now. Not… please."
Ramiro's guarded expression shifted. After a moment, he sighed. "I just don't want to lose you."
Ángel wanted to swear that Ramiro wouldn't. That after everything, he would remain by his side for as long as Ramiro wanted him. But again, the word and that fear roared inside him, and instead he covered that with a kiss. He kissed Ramiro hungrily, desperate to distract, desperate to avoid this conversation and the pain waiting there. Ramiro, to his credit, didn't step away. He kissed Ángel back with equal hunger, as if he too were trying to chase away something.
Perhaps he had been jealous.
Ángel settled in the chair behind the desk, pulling Ramiro into his lap. Ramiro followed, straddling him with a sigh as he kissed him again. Ángel grinned, thinking of his father's portrait on the wall and how seeing his son like this, with another man in his arms, would send him to the grave yet again. He let his hands slide over Ramiro, coming down to grab at his ass. Ramiro laughed into the kiss, stopping for a moment to nuzzle his nose against Ángel's before leaning in again. The moment of sweetness felt bitter in the pit of Ángel's stomach, as if he were losing control. How could he give Ramiro, such a sweet and gentle man, what he deserved? Ramiro deserved a life, somewhere safe where he could be with someone who wasn't so… so…
"Get up," Ángel said, nudging Ramiro to his feet. As they stood, he tugged off Ramiro's jacket, then unbuttoned his shirt. There was still the thin layer of Ramiro's undershirt between them, and Ángel huffed his displeasure at being uanable to feel Ramiro's skin in this moment. He longed to strip Ramiro bare, to lay him on the desk and take his sweet time exploring all of him, until Ramiro whined and begged him for more. He wanted to kiss every inch of him as the morning sun peeked through the curtains and turned all of Ramiro to gold. He considered it for a moment, as Ramiro smiled at him, and his heart beat faster at the idea.
But that was too open, too vulnerable, and instead he tugged Ramiro's suspenders off of his shoulders and spun him around. Reaching up, he tugged at the tie that had been choking him all evening. "Give me your wrists."
Ramiro did as told, and Ángel quickly bound them together with his tie. As he did so, he could see Ramiro turn his head slightly to watch him, slightly confused by what was happening. Ángel could not tell him it was because he felt as though if Ramiro touched him, he would shatter into pieces. That he'd fall to his knees and swear undying devotion to Ramiro and Ramiro alone, like he was some knight in the fairy tales he'd loved best as a child. But he was not a noble and purehearted knight,and Ramiro was not some damsel in need of saving. Their story could never be that, no matter what anyone wanted or wished for. So Ramiro could not touch him.
He kissed Ramiro's neck, pressing himself along his back. Ramiro sighed, head tipping back against his shoulder, and Ángel grinned as he nipped gently, careful not to leave a mark where it would be seen above the collar of his uniform shirt. He let his lips trail down, pushing Ramiro's unbuttoned shirt out of the way so he could leave a mark on the spot between his neck and shoulder. Ramiro let out a soft sound at that, eyes fluttering closed. Ángel let his hands wander over his front as he lavished him with kisses, toying with Ramiro's nipples through his undershirt before reaching down to cup him through his trousers. He grinned against the skin of Ramiro's throat as he felt his cock stir at his touch; he considered simply jerking him off, dragging things out slowly as Ramiro was unable to do anything but be touched. And yet, Ángel's own cock ached as well, and it had been several days since he'd had the chance to well and truly fuck Ramiro.
Shifting them slightly, Ángel nipped once more at Ramiro's throat before bending him over his desk. Ramiro let out a small sound as Ángel moved his hands to make quick work of pulling down his trousers and underwear. He turned his face to the side to look up at Ángel, and Ángel winked at him.
"Don't move," he said, before opening a drawer and rummaging around in it. He'd hidden some oil here before, on the off chance he'd have an opportunity like this presented to him.
"There isn't much I can do," Ramiro replied. He tugged at the bindings around his wrists, yet did not try to escape or stand up. Instead he watched Ángel, and when he stood up with a jar of oil in hand, he scoffed. "You're insatiable. Did you hide those everywhere?"
"I don't hear you complaining." Ángel positioned himself behind him, grinding against him. "In fact, you seem to like this a lot. Maybe I should keep you like this more often."
Ramiro couldn't quite hide his shiver, even as he replied "Don't be so smug. It's not as charming as you think."
"Oh, I think you find it very charming." Ángel stopped moving, letting his fingers trace patterns on the bare skin of Ramiro's hips. He pushed Ramiro's shirt and undershirt up so he could expose more skin to touch.
"If I say so," Ramiro said, sounding almost breathless, "will you fuck me already?"
"I don't think you're in any position to make demands like that."
"Ángel…"
Ángel laughed. He tugged Ramiro's hips up, reaching under him to gently stroke his cock. "Ask me nicely."
Ramiro bit his lip, clearly trying not to make any noise. Ángel smirked, pleased by his stubborness, and stroked him again, stopping to rub his thumb over the head of his cock; this made Ramiro let out a small, soft moan. "You're only making this worse for both of us now. 'Cause I really, really want to fuck you."
He stopped stroking him then. "Though, of course, if you don't want me to fuck you, we can just stop. I'll untie you and send you on your way. But only if that's what you really want."
"No." It was more of a moan. "I want you to fuck me."
"Say that again."
"Ángel, please fuck me."
"That's more like it." Ángel smiled, though even he knew it lacked the smugness he wanted to convey. He slicked his fingers with oil, then gently pushed two inside of Ramiro. Their frequent trysts had left Ramiro relaxed, and he no longer needed as much preparation as they had when they'd first started sleeping together. This worked in their favor now, as Ángel could quickly slick his own cock with oil and press inside Ramiro. The sounds of their ragged breathing felt too loud in the silence of the room, but there was no one close by to hear them. Ángel, as a result, felt no fear in letting out a louder moan when he pulled out and thrust back in, gripping Ramiro's hips tightly.
He set a steady rhythm, keeping one hand on Ramiro's hip as he let the other rest on his back, keeping him flat against the desk. Ramiro's eyes were closed and he was panting, letting out soft sounds as Ángel thrust into him. Ángel increased his pace slightly, and Ramiro let out a slightly louder sound, ever so brief. They both knew the dangers of being too loud, though Ángel couldn't say he didn't long for the privacy to really hear what kinds of sounds he could get Ramiro to make. The thought of Ramiro shamelessly vocalizing his pleasure made Ángel's own heart race; he gripped Ramiro's hip tighter and thrust into him harder, drawing a shaky exhale from him.
Ramiro's hands flexed where they were bound behind him, as if he wanted to touch Ángel, and suddenly this was not enough. Ángel re-positioned them, pulling Ramiro up so he was pressed closer to him, hands trapped between them. He wrapped one arm securely around Ramiro's waist, to keep him on his feet and balanced, as he brought his other hand to wrap around Ramiro's cock and stroke him in time with his thrusts.
Ramiro gasped sharply,head tipping back again. He trembled in Ángel's arms, and Ángel couldn't stop himself from once more kissing his bared throat and leaving marks just below the skin uncovered by his collar. Ramiro would spend the next several days with his neck decorated with signs of Ángel's presence. The very thought sent a possessive shudder down Ángel's spine. Even if no one could know, what mattered was that Ramiro was his. That he was the only one allowed to touch Ramiro like this, to mark him, to see him come undone under his hands and mouth and on his cock. It made him feel half drunk with lust. With…
No. Even now, he couldn't say it.
He thrust as hard as he could from his new angle, stroking Ramiro roughly. Ramiro, in turn, let out punched out little breaths, face flushed and hair a mess. His hands twisted behind him, as if he longed to touch Ángel as well. "Please…"
"You feel so good," Ángel panted, nuzzling into Ramiro's neck. "Fuck. I'm close…"
"Ángel." It was the simple act of Ramiro whimpering his name, desperate and needy, that sent Ángel over the edge, and he thrust deep into Ramiro, fucking his come into him. He kept stroking Ramiro through it, and as Ramiro bit his lip hard to muffle his sounds, he came as well into Ángel's hand. Ángel's thrusts slowed, though he stayed buried inside Ramiro, and the arm he'd kept secure around Ramiro's waist came to press against his chest, pressing him slightly closer. In turn, Ramiro relaxed into his arms, turning his face to nuzzle against Ángel. His eyes were closed, and Ángel longed to see them open. Ramiro was beautiful, Ángel noticed that the moment he'd first seen him, but his eyes, clever and kind, drew him in almost immediately.
He loved Ramiro's eyes.
He loved Ramiro.
He loved him. He could not avoid it any further. The feeling burst forth, illuminating the room as if the curtains had been thrown open. And yet even so there was an ugly rush of fear that accompanied this. Suddenly Ángel felt as though he needed to shove Ramiro away from him, to push him until he left. He was not capable of love, or of being loved in return as well. His mother made that clear. His peers, who mocked him or only cared about him as far as his money could go, made that clear. He was a monster, a hideous thing that needed a carefully constructed mask to go about in the world. If he were seen as he truly was, if Ramiro saw him as he truly was, it would be the end of everything good he'd managed to scrape together in his life.
And yet, Ramiro claimed to see someone different. He said he saw Ángel as he was, but when he spoke of that man he said that Ángel was funny and intelligent and sweet. He said that there was more to him than the mask he wore every day. Ramiro would never lie to him, so why didn't he see the truth? That Ángel was incapable of love. That he'd only end up leaving Ramiro hurting and bloodied. That nothing good could come of him touching someone as good and as gentle as Ramiro.
"Ángel?"
Ángel took a moment to hide his face in the crook of Ramiro's neck. God, he loved him so much. It hurt to think about.
And then he pulled all his thoughts inside. With his left hand, he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand and Ramiro's cock clean. He pulled out of him and quickly untied his wrists. Ramiro quickly pulled up his underwear and trousers, glancing back at Ángel nervously. Clearly he sensed Ángel's change in mood, but found himself unsure of how to ask without starting a fight. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then thought better of it, instead busying himself with dressing as quickly as possible. Ángel looked at the ground, his heart pounding. The joy of acknowledging what he felt for Ramiro warred with a sick sense of loathing and fear. He couldn't love Ramiro, because Ramiro was right. When he was married, this would all be gone. A handful of months were left, maybe more if he were lucky. Then Ramiro would be gone, and Ángel would be more alone than ever.
He looked up to see Ramiro trying to smooth down his hair. Almost without thinking, he reached up and began to help, smoothing it back into something close to the usually tidy way he kept it. Ramiro glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"I should go," he said ruefully. "Before they wonder why it's taken you so long to discipline me."
Ángel nodded. He settled back in the chair behind the desk, waiting for the quiet sound of Ramiro's footsteps and the door shutting behind him.
Instead, Ramiro cleared his throat. "What you said before, about your mother dying and being able to forget all this…"
"I should be so lucky."
Ramiro huffed out a bitter sound. "Well, yes. But I… what if we could forget all this? What if we…"
Ángel looked up at him. Ramiro was clearly nervous about what he wanted to say, fidgeting with his hands. But still, he continued. "What if we left it behind us? No more bowing to rich bastards, no more marriage haunting you, none of it. What if we went somewhere else?"
Oh. Ángel blinked, trying to keep a neutral expression even as his heart raced. "Where could we even run that would be far enough?"
"America, maybe." Ramiro shrugged. "I… I don't want it to end either. I don't want you to get married, to that woman or anyone else. So what if we just ran?"
Something close to hope sparked deep in Ángel's chest. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. "I can't say it's an awful idea."
Ramiro's face looked bright with his own hope. "We'd have to talk further, of course, and the planning it would involve…"
"I'd like to talk. More." Ángel almost blushed at how eager he felt.
Ramiro smiled in earnest, and Ángel's heart ached at the sight. "Later, then. When we have time."
He headed towards the door as Ángel's heart pounded. The idea of a future now seemed less miserable. He could picture something now, a small house on a large area of land where they'd have privacy. Waking up every morning to Ramiro in his arms, in a place where they would not have to fill the roles of master and servant. The hope of it all fluttered through him, as intoxicating as it had ever been.
Ramiro stopped at the door, turning once more to give Ángel a small smile.
Months later, after everything had gone to shit, as Ramiro turned to look at him one final time before storming out of their cabin aboard the Kerberos, his eyes heartbroken and furious, Ángel remembered that small smile and the hope he'd had that things could be better.
How foolish he had been.