#: shaky hands :) :) :) :) :)
berlermo + sick whump prompts
“You’ve been hiding this from me. Why?”
It wasn’t an accusation, not exactly. There was no malice behind the words. No hatred, no ire. Martín didn’t have enough strength left for it.
He was too exhausted, lying there on the living room floor, feeling empty and drained and like a mere shadow of himself – like someone had shoved a fist into his chest and ripped out his miserable little heart.
There had been so many times in the past when Martín had wanted to punch Andrés, and God knows the bastard would have deserved it. Whenever he had brought home another one of his women like a tomcat dragging in a dirty rat, when he would just up and leave in the middle of the night to chase a flight of fancy, when he wouldn’t listen to Martín’s practical concerns because think about the aesthetics, Martín!
But he’d always held back.
Until tonight.
Martín hadn’t been able to help it. It was as if a switch had been flicked: he’d seen red when he had found the doctor’s note among Andrés’s things.
Helmers Myopathy.
Andrés’s mother's disease.
A death sentence.
Andrés was going to leave him. He’d fuck off and die, like the selfish bastard he was, and leave Martín to wither away by himself.
Next to him, Andrés heaved a sigh. The air rattled inside his lungs, hollow and damp. There was a faint whistling noise when he spoke, too; Martín thought he might have broken his nose when he punched him.
“I never meant for you to find out,” Andrés said matter-of-factly: water is wet, the sky is blue. I never intended to tell you. “But I should’ve known it was pointless. You’re as nosy as Veroni—”
“Don’t!” Martín gritted his teeth. “I’m not one of your fucking wives, I’m so much more. So don’t you fucking dare compare me to them, you fucking piece of shit.”
Something sparked to life inside his chest. Righteousness, a red-born fury.
He had been Andrés’s best friend for the better part of a decade. He’d been at his side, always. Together, inseparable. They’d been destined for greatness, to burn as bright as Icarus chasing the sun.
Where had they gone wrong? In what world did it end like this – without their heist, without their reward.
Nothing.
Fucking nothing.
Martín had written the most beautiful mathematical poem for Andrés – a declaration of love, if you so will – and now he’d never get to show him.
Andrés would never know how far Martín was willing to go for him, what kind of beauty he inspired in Martín. What he’d create in his name and lay to his feet, like a humble offering to a cruel and vain god.
His throat tightened and he blinked furiously, staving off tears. The ceiling blurred into a sheen of white, the hanging lamps turned into glowing stars. Did heaven look like this? Was this what Andrés would see when he—
When he died.
Andrés’s hand found his. Squeezed, as though he wanted to hold on to him after all, as though he wanted it as badly as Martín.
A sob caught in Martín’s throat.
He wanted nothing more than to turn his face and curl up next to Andrés. To have and hold him, so close, so tight, so possessively that not even Death himself would dare to take him from Martín.
“You are right. You’re so much more, you’re—” Andrés trailed off. He was searching for the right words. The ones that’d pacify Martín. The ones that’d mend what had been broken.
(Martín wasn’t sure they even existed. He prayed they did.)
A few beats of silence, then Andrés sighed. Half exhale, half resignation.
“You weren’t supposed to know,” he said again, sounding impossibly tired. “You worked so hard on the plan, I couldn’t let you throw it away. Not for anything in the world, not because of this. Giving up was never an option.”
He hesitated.
Martín's heart pounded in his ears, so loud he thought Andrés might hear it.
“If tonight was my last night,” Andrés went on, intently, “I’d want to spend it robbing the bank of Spain.”
With you.
The words hung in the air between them, unspoken. Always unspoken.
“Don’t take that future away from me, Martín.”
Martín’s chest seized.
His fingers curled around Andrés’s, his grip tight and unyielding.
Andrés never begged for anything, wouldn’t even dare to bat an eye in the face of Death.
But he pleaded now, with Martín.
So how could he refuse him?
(How could anyone refuse Andrés anything he wanted?)
“We’ll do it,” Martín said quietly. A promise, an oath, a vow. “We'll rob the bank of Spain. It’s our right.”
And after…
After, Martín would find a way to keep Andrés. Forever.
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