Archive of Our Own

The first thing he hears when he wakes up is his brother’s voice. It sounds odd, deeper than he remembers it being. Andrés slowly opens his eyes, looking around the bright, sun-drenched room and sure enough, standing by the bay window with his back to him is his brother. He’d recognise Sergio’s hunched shoulders anywhere.

Sergio is holding something to his face, a mobile telephone apparently and talking very fast and frantically into it. “Yes, I know that’s what the papers reported, it’s what I thought too, but the fact is, he’s very much alive. I know it would mean a lot to him if you came.” There’s a moment of silence as Sergio listens to whoever is on the other end of the line and then he’s talking again, desperation edging his words. “No, I’m serious, Martín. I don’t care what happened between you, you thought he was dead and now he isn’t. Isn’t that enough reason for you to come and see him? To put the past behind you?”

“Sergio?” Andrés asks and his brother whirls to face him, nearly dropping the phone he’s holding.

Andrés almost doesn’t recognise his brother’s face, so much of it is obscured by a beard, but nevertheless, he knows it’s him as he rushes to Andrés’ bedside.

“Andrés, you’re awake. How are you feeling?”

Andrés tries to sit up and gasps as pain shoots through him. “I… what happened to me?”

Sergio frowns. “You don’t remember?”

Andrés shakes his head. “No, and since when do you have a beard, hermanito? It makes you look like you’re forty.”

“I am. I’m forty-four,” Sergio says and Andrés laughs.

“Of course you are and I’m the pope.”

Sergio’s frown deepens. “Andrés… how old do you think you are?”

“Thirty-six,” Andrés says confidently. “We celebrated together in Paris, remember? It was just a few months ago.”

Sergio shakes his head. “No, Andrés. That was twelve years ago. So much has happened since then… you don’t remember the Mint? Our heist? Being captured by the Spanish police?”

“Captured by the police,” Andrés scoffs. “As if I would let those pigs anywhere near me.”

“Andrés,” Sergio says insistently, voice serious. “Listen to me. It’s 2016. Six weeks ago you broke into the Royal Mint in Madrid. You printed hundreds of millions of euros and then instead of meeting me at the other end of the tunnel, you stayed behind to give the rest of us a chance. They shot you Andrés, there was a picture of your body on every news station, newspaper, and social media site in the world.”

Sergio sounds upset but Andrés can’t begin to think of comforting him when what he’s saying doesn’t make sense.

“Sergio I… If I was shot then how am I alive?”

“I don’t know,” Sergio admits. “One of my people got word to me that the police were holding someone prisoner in a private hospital. I thought… I hoped somehow you survived but I didn’t let myself believe until I found you. You’re still healing. But you’re alive, Andrés. You’re alive.”

“If that’s the truth, then why don’t I remember? Sergio, the last thing I remember is… buying tickets to go to Argentina with Genevieve.”

“I don’t know,” Sergio admits. “But retrograde amnesia occurs after trauma and what you went through… well, it was very traumatic.”

“So now what?” Andrés demands. “I just live my life with half my memories missing?”

Sergio shakes his head. “No I’ll… I’ll do some research, try and find a doctor. We’ll fix this. I promise, Andrés.”

Andrés nods, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Hermanito… I know it’s not your fault.”

Sergio’s face twitches in an approximation of a smile. “It’s a lot for anyone to process. Just try not to move too much. You’re still healing from what our nurse tells me are seven bullet wounds.”

“Seven?”

“Well you always were an overachiever,” Sergio says and Andrés rolls his eyes.

“We both know that was you.”

Sergio’s face flushes and Andrés grins.

“So, are you going to tell me where we are? I’m assuming not Spain since you stole me from the Spanish police.”

“Not Spain,” Sergio agrees. “The Philippines. We were going to go here together when we succeeded with the heist. I thought… I didn’t think we’d get to be here together, but I’m glad we are.”

“Me too, hermanito,” Andrés says.

“The others want to see you,” Sergio tells him. “The gang you broke into the Mint with. I know you don’t remember them, but they’re the ones who got you out.”

Andrés has no images in his mind of this so-called gang, can’t remember their names or faces. When he thinks too hard about what he can’t remember, about the gaping twelve-year gap he apparently has, he gets a sharp throbbing above his left eye and a desperate, strange longing in his chest.

Sergio is talking to him, something about not moving too fast and how the others can wait, but there’s something on the edge of Andrés’ memory, something that seems unbelievably familiar and yet so far away.

“Sergio?”

“Hmm?”

“When did I go to Rio?”

Sergio blinks. “Rio de Janeiro?”

“Yes,” Andrés nods. “I… I think I’ve been there? But I don’t remember.”

“I’m sorry. I think you were there maybe eight years ago? But I don’t know. I wasn’t with you for a lot of that time.”

“Could we call Genevieve? Would she know?”

Sergio pulls a face. “You two… you didn’t last. None of your marriages did, actually. I’ve called someone though. A friend. You two spent a lot of time together, he’ll be able to fill in the blanks when I can’t.”

Andrés frowns. “Who is he? When did I meet him?”

“His name is Martín,” Sergio says hesitantly. “You said you remember buying tickets to Buenos Aires?”

“Yes, for my honeymoon with Genevieve.”

“Exactly,” Sergio nods. “And that’s where you met him. In Argentina.”

“And we’re still friends now?” Andrés questions, narrowing his eyes when Sergio twitches. “Right, Sergio?”

Sergio gives a jerky nod. “Of course. That’s why he’s coming. That’s why we can trust him to come.”

“Okay,” Andrés says. “So we wait for this Martín and in the meantime… tell me about your life, about this heist.”

Sergio nods, takes a deep breath, and starts to talk.

-

Sergio is at the airstrip to pick him up, looking rumpled and shifty in a linen shirt and fedora.

“Martín,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Thank you for coming.”

Martín nods stiffly, shouldering his bag. “Let’s not stand about here all fucking day, take me to whatever mansion you’re keeping him in.”

Sergio looks an odd mixture of disappointed and resigned. “Of course.”

They walk across the hot asphalt together where a jeep and a bald, bearded man are waiting.

“Professor?” the man asks, voice accented and his bare arms covered in tattoos. “This is your important guest?”

Sergio nods. “Helsinki, this is Martín. He’s Berlin’s best friend.”

“I was,” Martín interjects. “Now can we stop standing about in the sun and fucking go?”

Helsinki raises his eyebrows and Martín shoves his bag at him before climbing in the back seat of the jeep and slamming the door shut behind him. Sergio exchanges some muffled words with his lackey before climbing into the passenger’s seat.

“You should be nicer to him, you’ll be living with my crew for the next while,” Sergio says.

Martín ignores him, watching as Helsinki rounds the vehicle to throw Martín’s bag in the boot.

“I’ll stay for three days, talk to Andrés and then I’m going home,” Martín says as Helsinki climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

“Three days?” Sergio asks as they pull away from the airstrip. “He’s dealing with a traumatic brain injury. This might take longer than three days. What if Andrés still needs you?”

“He doesn’t need me,” Martín snaps. “He’s never needed me.”

“Then why are you here?” Sergio asks, exasperated.

Martín doesn’t reply, pulling his sunglasses from his pocket and staring out the window at the unfamiliar landscape zipping past.

-

The house – villa – they arrive at looks exactly like the sort of place Andrés used to force Martín to infiltrate with him, looking completely at ease among the people he was looking to rob. It’s white and modern, surrounded by high walls and CCTV cameras that always seem to be looking at Martín.

“It’s nice, right?” Helsinki asks him when they get out of the car.

He hands Martín his bag, setting it gently at his feet when Martín makes no move to take it.

Martín shrugs. “It’s fine. Where am I staying?”

“I’ll show you,” Sergio says. “Then maybe afterwards you can see him?”

Martín gestures for him to go ahead and follows him into the house, his bag draped over his shoulder. Sergio steers him past the open plan living area where three women and two men are sitting. One of the women, with a short, dark bob and darker eyes, turns to stare at him and Martín sneers at her.

He follows Sergio up the stairs, down to the end of a side hallway and into a bedroom which is as nice as any of the hotels he and Andrés used to stay at before… everything.

“Martín?” Sergio’s voice startles him from his thoughts, he’d almost forgotten he was there. “I wanted to thank you… for coming. I know how hard this must be for you and –”

“You don’t,” Martín interrupts. “You have no idea, Sergio, what this is like for me. You’ve never been in love, I don’t even know if you’re capable of it – except you do seem to care for Andrés. And that… that is the only thing we have in common. The only reason I picked up your call. Because after I saw his corpse on every TV, heard his name in everyone’s mouths I felt sorry for you. Because I knew you were the only person who could come close to feeling what I felt. And even you have no idea, can never know, will never know. So don’t stand there and fucking tell me you know how hard this is for me when you’ve never had your heart ripped out of your chest, then stitched back in, and been told to get over it.”

Sergio blinks at him, in that irritating way he has that Martín really hates because he was always the smartest person in every room until Andrés came along and introduced him to his little brother.

“Do you want to see him?” Sergio asks.

“You really think me being here will help?” Martín questions.

Sergio nods. “He needs to remember and you… you’re the only one who knows everything. The only one who knows him.”

“I knew him,” Martín says. “You’re saying you don’t know your own brother?”

“We both know what you two had was different. I knew Andrés better than most others, but not better than you. I couldn’t predict him. I never expected he would try to stay behind, to sacrifice himself.”

There are tears in Sergio’s eyes and Martín hates him for them. Here he is crying as if he isn’t the one who did this to Andrés, who forced him into this plan from which there was never going to be a return.

“He liked to think he was noble,” Martín says. “And he always wanted to die with dignity. What did you expect, Sergio?”

“Not this. Never this.”

Martín waits for something else, another thank you, an apology, but nothing else is forthcoming.

“Fucking take me to him, then,” he orders.

“He’s next door,” Sergio says. “I thought… privacy.”

Martín nods tersely and follows Sergio out of the bedroom and into the room opposite his.

-

Sergio is in an odd mood all day, until after lunch when he tells Andrés that he’s going to pick up Martín. Andrés still doesn’t remember who this man is, but when he thinks of him there’s a feeling that settles low in his gut, tugs at his insides like a fishhook.

A woman comes to sit with him when Sergio leaves. She says her name is Nairobi and she looks at him like she needs to be wary, like she can’t quite trust him even as he lies in a hospital bed, riddled with bullet holes.

“What do you know about me?” Andrés asks her.

Nairobi tilts her head. “None of us knew a lot about the others. I have opinions about you, about what you did inside the mint. I don’t know you.”

Andrés smirks. “Then by all means tell me your opinion of me.”

“You’re a narcissist,” Nairobi says after a moment's hesitation. “And you talk too much. You have a fucking god-complex and you like nothing more than to make everyone bow and scrape for you. You’re a misogynistic pig and you treat women like objects.”

“Do I?” Andrés laughs. “Tell me, Nairobi, did we ever…”

“No,” Nairobi snaps. “I wouldn’t touch you if you were the last man alive.”

“Fair enough,” he says. “Is that all? Any other breathtakingly shallow observations?”

Nairobi stares at him, trying to work out if he’s toying with her. “Yes,” she eventually says. “You’re afraid of dying.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“Yes,” she says. “But I saw your fear up close. You were afraid to die a slow death, so you opted for a quick sacrifice. I respect that fear even if I don’t respect most of the things you did in the mint.”

“A slow death?” Andrés questions. “What are you talking about?”

Nairobi hesitates. “If the Professor hasn’t told you…”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know what it was. But your hands would shake and you were taking medication for it.”

Andrés nods. His mother’s disease was something he knew was always a possibility, he just didn’t think it would hit him quite so early.

“I see.”

“Berlin,” she says slowly and he frowns.

“Who picked our names?” he interrupts.

Nairobi frowns. “We picked our own. The Professor offered some themes and we chose cities.”

“Do you know why I chose Berlin?”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re a private person unless you’re bragging. Maybe your friend knows, the one the Professor is picking up.”

Andrés nods. “Maybe.”

Nairobi stays with him until they hear Sergio’s car pulling up on the gravel outside. She tells him about the training for the heist, about how Sergio recruited them. It’s interesting, this picture she paints of his brother. How infallible she seems to think he is.

When the car doors slam, she nods at him and leaves, presumably to go downstairs.

Andrés waits, listening as he hears people enter the house and then voices, including Sergio’s, in the hallway outside his room. There’s the sound of a door shutting and Andrés sighs, slumping back into his pillow, only to painfully jolt upright when he hears shouting. It’s too muffled for him to make out the words but it isn’t Sergio doing the yelling, he’s pretty sure of that.

A few moments later the door to his room swings open and Sergio walks in, followed by a man who must be Martín. He’s shorter than Sergio, a few years younger too, with light brown hair and blue eyes that have dark rings under them. He’s dressed in a maroon button-down and dark jeans, but both look just the wrong side of too loose on him like he’s recently lost a good deal of weight.

His eyes immediately land on Andrés, studying him while at the same time regarding him with buried emotions that Andrés can’t even begin to guess at. He wonders if he once would have known what Martín was thinking, if that’s how close they were.

“Andrés,” Sergio says, voice and body tense. “This is the friend I was telling you about. Martín.”

Martín’s face twitches, mouth twisting in annoyance as Sergio introduces him. “Sergio said you lost your memory and you want help filling in the blanks.”

Andrés is taken aback by the icy tone of Martín’s voice, audible even as he adjusts to the accent.

“Yes,” he nods. “Thank you for coming. It’s nice to meet you.”

“We’ve already met,” Martín snaps and Sergio clears his throat awkwardly.

“I’ll uh… leave you two to it.”

Andrés nods and Sergio slips out of the door, awkwardly edging past Martín. Martín shoots Sergio a filthy look as he’s leaving, then crosses the room to stare out the window, arms pulled tightly across his chest.

The afternoon sun filtering in through the window lightens his hair and makes his skin glow golden and Andrés’ gut twists with indefinable longing. Martín turns away from the window, his face once more falling into shadow. He looks unhappy, the corners of his mouth turned downwards and his eyes clouded. When he looks at Andrés, his face seems to drop further and the sadness almost overwhelms Andrés even though it’s not his emotion to feel.

“So, what do you want to know?” Martín asks, taking a seat in the armchair next to Andrés’ bed.

In another life, the life Andrés remembers having, his wife would be sitting next to him, holding his hand. Not a virtual stranger who’s apparently outlasted every other relationship he’s ever had.

“What’s your full name, where and when did we meet, what exactly were we to each other? The basics to begin with,” Andrés says and Martín rolls his eyes, looking almost fond.

“Oh is that all?” he mutters and Andrés smirks. “My name is Martín Berrote, we met in Buenos Aires in 2004.”

“Is that where you’re from?” Andrés asks.

Martín narrows his eyes. “You remember that?”

Andrés shakes his head. “No. Just the accent. You sound like the side character on a South American telenovela.” There’s a choking noise from Martín and he stares at Andrés with wide eyes. Andrés frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Martín says. “Nothing. You… you’ve said that to me before.”

“Oh. Well, clearly I haven’t changed that much,” Andrés says, keeping his voice light but Martín’s expression darkens.

“I’m sure you haven’t,” he says, but it seems more to himself than to Andrés. He shakes his head then looks over at him. “What else do you want to know?”

“How close were we?” Andrés asks. “All I’ve been told is that we were friends.”

Martín shrugs. “That’s the truth. We were friends for a long time.”

Andrés frowns. “Were? Why do you say that as if we aren’t friends anymore?”

“People grow apart,” Martín says evasively.

“And you weren’t part of this heist?” Andrés questions.

“No.”

“Did we do other heists together?”

“Yes. Many over the years, we’d planned a big one, the biggest one. But this heist came first.”

Martín sounds wistful though, like most things he’s said so far, the words are tinged with hurt.

“So what was your favourite?” Andrés asks and Martín raises an eyebrow.

“You want to know that?”

“Of course.”

Martín sighs. “My favourite… I suppose our first heist together is the one I think back to most often.”

“Where was it? Argentina?”

“No,” Martín says and there’s almost a smile on his face. “It was in Berlin. You said that anyone could rob well on their home turf and you wanted to test me.”

“Berlin?” Andrés repeats and Martín nods. “Is that the only time we went to Berlin?”

This time Martín does smile. “Yes, we couldn’t exactly go back any time soon. We, ah, made a bit of a mess.”

Andrés laughs and then suddenly he sees flashes of a street with names of expensive designers on the buildings, storefronts lit up even at night. The sound of police sirens in the distance, a large blue sign with a white ‘U’ on it and next to the ‘U’…

“Kurfürstendamm?” Andrés says, fighting back nausea which suddenly washes over him.

“Yes,” Martín says. “You remember?”

Andrés shakes his head and regrets it, groaning. “I don’t know, it just… felt right? I… Something about you makes me remember. Yesterday Sergio said your name and I remembered Rio de Janeiro even though I’ve never been there.”

“You remember Rio?” Martín asks tersely. “What do you remember exactly?”

Andrés shrugs. “The statue, Cristo Redentor, we went up to see it? You and I?”

“Yes,” Martín says, eyes no longer on Andrés, instead fixed on something in the distance. “In 2010. With Veronica.”

“Veronica?” Andrés frowns. “Who is that?”

Martín snorts humourlessly. “The woman you dated after you divorced your third wife. She… lasted longer than the others.”

“Sergio said I was married three more times after Genevieve.”

“Yes. I attended all three of the weddings. Was best man at two of them.”

Andrés raises his eyebrows, doing the maths in his head. “Best man at four and five?”

“Three and four.”

“What happened with number five?”

Martín clenches his jaw. “Well you know, if you’ve seen two of your weddings you’ve seen them all. Besides Sergio was there, you didn’t need me to be your best man.”

Andrés stares at him, somehow certain he lied. “That’s not the truth. What was the real reason?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Martín replies stubbornly.

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. Ask something else.”

“Fine,” Andrés says. “When and where was the last time we saw each other?”

Martín scowls, jaw set angrily. “Two years ago. In the monastery in Italy where we were living.”

“We lived together?”

“Most of the time.”

“When didn’t we?”

“Whenever you moved in with your latest wife or girlfriend.”

Andrés purses his lips, waiting for Martín to look at him again, but he never does. “If you’re not going to answer my questions then why are you here? Why did you come?”

That finally provokes a reaction. Martín turns his head, staring at Andrés with the full force of his pain-filled blue eyes, then gets to his feet. He walks to the door and opens it before responding.

“Because Sergio said you needed me,” he says and then he’s gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

Andrés stares after him and the ache in his chest has nothing to do with the bullets that had apparently torn through it only weeks before.

-

Martín doesn’t come back again, not that day or the next. Sergio hovers by Andrés’ bedside, doing his best to talk about all the things he knew Andrés had done, or that he had experienced with him, but it seems he and his brother hadn’t spent as much time together as Andrés thought they might have - not until they started planning the mint heist in earnest.

The evening of the day after Martín arrived, Sergio is sitting in the armchair and Nairobi is on the couch on the other side of the room with the man introduced to Andrés as Helsinki. Together the three of them are trying to recount as much of what happened in the mint as they can.

Andrés isn’t sure whether he truly remembers what they’re telling him or if he’s just convincing himself he can. None of the memories fill him with as bone-deep a sense of surety as he felt when Martín was talking, even with the sparse details he provided. Martín, whom he somehow misses without even knowing him properly. Martín, who doesn’t seem to want to be near him even though he flew halfway across the world to be here, and the thought of whom makes Andrés’ guts twist and his chest ache.

With the pain medication Sergio is still regularly having administered to him by a male nurse, who always looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, Andrés finds himself falling asleep often. Sometimes he wakes up and can still follow the thread of the conversation, but sometimes it’s clear that hours have passed since he fell asleep.

Halfway through Nairobi telling him something about hostages vying for his favour, he falls asleep again and this time he dreams, but it doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels… strangely real and somehow like déjà-vu, as if he’s experienced it before.

He’s at an airport, suitcase in hand and a wedding ring missing from his finger. Anya’s betrayal stings, though it was to be expected. He loved her because she was unreachable, flighty. He never expected her to stay, but he didn’t think she’d leave so soon. So he left her in Canada and boarded a plane back to Paris, hoping what he’d left behind would still be waiting for him.

“You’re an asshole,” Martín says, but he smiles as he wraps Andrés in a hug. “You couldn’t have gotten a flight that doesn’t arrive at three in the morning?”

Andrés smirks. “And yet you’re here anyway.”

Martín scowls and steps out of the hug. “You’re lucky you didn’t wait another couple of days to return, or I wouldn’t have been here.”

“You’re leaving Paris?” Andrés asks as they walk towards the exit.

“Of course,” Martín scoffs. “What is there for me in Paris?”

Andrés smiles smugly. “Well, I’m here.”

“Until you leave again,” Martín says with a pointed glare.

Andrés sighs and slides an arm around Martín’s shoulders, pulling him into his side as they walk. “My friend, don’t be so negative for once in your life. I have no intention of leaving anytime soon. Not without you, anyway. Although you’re right – Paris has lost its lustre. How do you feel about Italy?”

Martín finally releases the tension in his shoulders and loosely wraps his arm around Andrés’ waist. “Fine, but no women for a while. Let’s do something fun.”

“Women are fun,” Andrés points out just to make Martín scowl and shove his arm away. He laughs heartily as they reach the car. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re right, we haven’t done anything fun in a long time. Let’s head to Italy and figure things out from there, just the two of us.”

Martín grins, humming as he unlocks the car and Andrés thinks not having to deal with a woman for a while might be worth it to have Martín in such a good mood. It’s not until they’re in the car, winding their way through the city that Andrés starts to question just when Martín’s happiness became so important to him.

He wakes to the sound of breaking glass and a muffled shout from the room next door. Sergio, still sitting by his bedside sighs.

“I’ll go check on him.”

There’s a certain familiarity to Sergio’s words though it seems wrong to hear them coming out of his mouth. Andrés just nods and lets his brother go, wishing he were the one going next door.

-

Martín has been drunk for nearly a day by the time he finally gives in and allows himself to cry. He’d sworn when Andrés first left him that he’d cry no more tears for this man, but then came the news of Andrés’ death. Martín had never known pain like the one he felt seeing Andrés’ body, spread-eagle and riddled with bleeding wounds on the news.

He doesn’t remember much of the weeks that passed after that. The days blurred together in a haze of alcohol and pills and the stomach-churning, gut-twisting, heart-wrenching knowledge that Andrés, his Andrés was never coming back to him.

When Sergio called it seemed like a cruel hallucination, a trick played on him by his desperately heart-broken mind. But he came anyway and seeing Andrés alive, if injured, was almost too much. He wanted to throw himself at his friend, tell him he forgave everything he’d done, except there's no point because Andrés doesn’t even know who he is, doesn’t care to know. All Andrés wants is for Martín to tell him about the life he had before his brother led him on that fool’s errand into the mint.

But how can Martín tell him everything about what he should know, when his memories of that life, the one Martín misses so dearly, are tainted by his love for Andrés which ruined everything.

Talking to Andrés, meeting him again, it hurts more than he could have imagined and he doesn’t know how to tell him of their life together without ruining things again and truly losing Andrés forever.

He drags himself off his bed and stumbles to the bathroom that’s attached to his room. But on his way back to bed the walls start spinning around him and he trips, reaching for a chair to steady himself and bringing that down with him.

The bottles he’d absentmindedly stacked on it come clattering down and he cries out when they smash next to his face. He groans and tries to push himself upright without embedding shards of glass in his hands.

There are footsteps out in the hallway and then his door opens.

“Go away,” he tells Sergio who sighs and crouches down next to him.

“Come on, Martín, time for bed.”

Sergio gets a good grip under Martín’s arms and hoists him upright, guiding him towards his bed. He sits Martín down on the edge of the bed, only for him to flop back onto the mattress.

Sergio sighs again and starts trying to pull Martín’s trousers off. Martín bats at his hands in token protest, but then just lets him get on with it – sleeping in jeans isn’t comfortable at all.

“Thanks,” he mumbles when Sergio is done, leaving him in his underwear and t-shirt.

“It’s fine,” Sergio says. “Andrés was always better at this than me.”

Martín snorts. “What, dealing with drunks?”

“Looking after you.”

Sergio’s too serious gaze meets his from where he’s crouched picking up the glass and Martín looks away, ashamed of the tears that fill his eyes.

“Now that you’ve reminded me of what a burden I always was to him, you can go,” he eventually says.

There’s another full-bodied sigh from Sergio and he gets to his feet. “You weren’t a burden to him. My brother cares for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Martín challenges. “Which version of him? The one that broke my fucking heart or the one who doesn’t even know who I am?”

Sergio looks like he wants to argue, then shakes his head. “You know this isn’t his fault. He doesn’t remember what he did. All he knows is you’re supposed to be his best friend and you won’t even talk to him.”

“So what, you just expect me to forget about what he did and be his best friend again until he remembers that he hates me and kicks me out again?”

“Martín!” Sergio snaps, exasperated. “My brother has never hated you. Never. But he needs you, so please stay and at least try to help him.”

Martín stares at Sergio who stares right back until he relents. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” Sergio says, walking to the door. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry for the role I played in what he did.”

He’s gone before Martín can respond, leaving him alone with his spinning head and aching heart.

-

The next morning, Martín drags himself down to the kitchen in search of coffee and finds it occupied.

Helsinki is sat at the large table with two women Martín thinks might be Tokyo and Stockholm. He nods at them and beelines for the coffee machine. He can feel their eyes on him and when he turns around, a full mug of coffee in his hand, Tokyo is staring at him.

“What?” he bites and she smirks.

“Nothing,” she says slowly. “We were just wondering… we’ve all been to see Berlin, we’ve told him what we know about him, what we experienced in the mint together. But you… you’ve been in your room. So what exactly was the point in the Professor putting us all at risk to fly you out here if you’re not even going to help his brother?”

“Tokyo,” Stockholm hisses. “Leave him be.”

Tokyo smirks, not taking her eyes off Martín.

“We’re grateful you came to help Berlin,” Helsinki interjects, a sincere smile on his face.

Tokyo rolls her eyes when Stockholm nods in agreement and Martín fights back the childish urge to stick his tongue out. Instead, he fills a second mug with coffee and carries both mugs out of the kitchen. He hesitates outside Andrés’ door, then walks in without knocking.

Sergio smiles from where he’s sat next to Andrés, the two of them reading the newspaper. “I hope that’s for me since Andrés isn’t allowed coffee yet.”

Martín shrugs. “If you want it, sure.”

Andrés scowls at Sergio who demonstratively pushes a glass of orange juice towards him. He takes a disapproving sip and turns to Martín.

“You’re back.”

Martín shrugs. “Well your memory isn’t so I guess I have to be.”

“About that,” Andrés says and Martín scowls.

“What, you remember now?”

Andrés shakes his head. “No. Well, maybe. I’ve remembered some things – I think. I’m not entirely sure what’s real and what’s imagined.”

Martín narrows his eyes, waiting for a punchline, but when none is forthcoming he sighs and pulls a chair up beside Andrés’ bed. “Fine, tell me what you remember and I’ll tell you if it’s real or not.”

“That seems fair,” Andrés agrees. “I remember an airport,” he begins and Martín snorts.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He’s met with a scowl from Andrés. “Yes, if you’d stop interrupting, I would be. It was in Paris, Charles de Gaulle. I arrived in the middle of the night and you were waiting for me.”

Martín remembers that night, remembers his despair in the day leading up to it, his decision to no longer follow Andrés around like a stray begging for scraps and to leave Paris before Andrés returned with his latest wife – and then Andrés had called and told him he was coming back. Every ounce of resolution had left him and there he was waiting with open arms and a foolishly hopeful heart.

“That was 2011,” he tells Andrés. “You and your fourth wife broke up on your honeymoon.”

“Anya?” Andrés questions, smiling when Martín nods. “I remember. And you were upset that I’d left you so I said we could go to Italy, even though I wanted to stay in Paris.”

“That’s not - you said you didn’t want to be in Paris anyway. You must be remembering wrong,” Martín says and Andrés shakes his head.

“No,” he insists. “I remember this clearly. You were leaving Paris and I didn’t want you to leave me so I found somewhere for us to go together.”

Martín gapes at him. “That’s not how it worked,” he mumbles. “You left and I followed. You never... you never told me that. Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

Andrés shrugs. “I must have had my reasons.”

Sergio raises his eyebrows pointedly at Martín who fights back the urge to flip him off.

“I’m sure,” he murmurs and Sergio smirks. “So what else do you remember?”

Andrés grimaces. “Not a lot. Some stuff from the mint, I think. Some stuff with one of my wives?”

“Which one?” Martín asks.

“I don’t remember her name,” Andrés says and Martín successfully suppresses a smug smile. “She had red hair? And I was singing? I think it was our wedding. You were there, you were wearing a pink shirt and I was thinking about how you looked unhappy even though you were smiling.”

“That was Tatiana, your fifth wife,” Sergio answers when Martín finds himself unable to speak, mind stuck on Andrés’ last sentence.

Andrés nods but keeps his eyes fixed on Martín. “Why were you upset? Had something happened?”

Martín shrugs. “No.”

“You know, I was shot and lost my memories, but I’m not an idiot,” Andrés hisses, face twisted into an angry scowl.

Martín gets to his feet, shoving the chair back, but he walks to the window instead of out the door, somehow not ready to leave Andrés again.

“What am I forgetting about you?” Andrés demands. “Sergio, he says we were friends, best friends, but you don’t even seem to like me. So what am I forgetting?”

Martín clenches his jaw. “Nothing important, I’m sure. If it matters, it’ll come back to you.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Andrés demands. “Everyone else seems so willing to tell me about the life I used to have with them.”

“Everyone else is an idiot,” Martín says. “And maybe it’s easy for them to remember, but I find myself in the odd position of envying you your memory loss.”

“You… you don’t want to remember me? You want to forget the life we apparently lived together?”

“Sometimes I do.” Martín finally moves away from the window and makes for the door.

“Wait,” Andrés orders and Martín flinches. “Tell me what I’ve forgotten.” He doesn’t receive a reply so he turns to Sergio who is still uncomfortably in his chair. “Hermanito, por favor, tell me if he won’t.”

Martín glares at Sergio who holds up his hands defensively. “I don’t know, Andrés. You never told me.”

“This isn’t fair,” Andrés says and if he didn’t sound so hurt, his petulance would almost be funny. “I don’t know what I did wrong and yet you’re punishing me for it.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Martín bites out and Andrés flinches, before his face twists into an expression of pure anger. This is the Andrés that Martín knows.

“Clearly not,” he says, his lip curling and Martín gets a sick feeling in his stomach. “Because I’ve remembered moments with you, moments with Sergio, moments with my wives and girlfriends. “Yet I never seem to remember any memories where you have someone. What exactly did you do all those times I was away from you?”

Martín’s chest tightens and he shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Because you wouldn’t remember, because you never knew. You think you can just insult me into telling you things? Get me to open up because you made me feel bad? The Andrés I knew would know that doesn’t work, would never work. Try harder.”

“How? How do I try harder, make up for something I don’t remember doing when I don’t know you anymore?” Andrés asks and there’s a note of defeat in his voice, in the way he slumps back into his pillows. “You have all the leverage here Martín, just tell me what you want.”

And Martín, Martín has waited so long for him to say something like that, to offer himself up, but… This isn’t really Andrés. This is an Andrés who is afraid and on the back foot because he’s lost his memories. If Martín gives in now, tells him everything, what Andrés was to him and what Andrés did to him… then he’s guaranteed to lose him again. And if he doesn’t… then it’s just a long hard wait until Andrés regains his memories and sends him away. The only reason he’s still here is because he’s pathetically desperate to stay as close to Andrés as he can until he’s no longer allowed.

“I have the leverage…” he says slowly. “You know, there’s a time when hearing that would have made me really happy. But I’ve changed, Andrés. And you’re not the person you once were either. I’m going for a walk on the beach. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Martín,” Andrés says as he makes for the door. “Come back this evening.”

“Maybe,” Martín says, leaving the room and then the house as quickly as he can.

-

Martín doesn’t come back and Andrés spends the afternoon with his brother and then the evening with Rio, Denver and Stockholm. Denver is an idiot and clearly exaggerating half the stories he tells and both Stockholm and Rio keep eyeing Andrés like they’re scared of him.

It wears on his nerves and eventually, he kicks them out and the whole time he just wants Martín to be with him. He doesn’t think Martín has returned to his room and he tries to stay awake, to confront him when he returns, but the thrice-damned bullet wounds he’s recovering from and the morphine the nurse came by to give him after dinner create a fatal mix that knocks him out.

Andrés can’t be certain of where he is, but the stone walls surrounding him and the warm lamplight illuminating the room and its decadent furniture feel like home. Martín is standing across from him in a green shirt that suits neither his figure nor his colouring and there’s a look in his eye that has Andrés’ heart racing, and his knees going weak.

“Mitochondria?” Martín asks nonsensically before stepping closer.

Andrés can feel his body heat, can smell his cologne and the wine he must have been drinking.

“Where is your desire? Here?” Martín questions and Andrés’ breath hitches as Martín’s hands trail down the side of his face. “Where is it?”

Andrés finds himself mouthing Martín’s name, unable to say it properly, unable to tell him to stop because he knows, deep down that he doesn’t want him to.

Martín’s hand cups the back of his head. “Don’t worry, relax,” he tells Andrés voice as soft as the fingers that are stroking Andrés’ hair. “Don’t be afraid.”

Andrés’ heart is about to beat out of his chest but he smiles, hoping Martín won’t notice, hoping Martín will step back again because Andrés doesn’t have the strength to push him away. But Martín doesn’t and Andrés can’t and then they’re kissing like Andrés has wanted for so long that this doesn’t even feel real, but Martín’s waist is solid and warm under his hands and –

Andrés wakes to a door slamming. His heart is pounding, his head feels heavy like it’s been filled with concrete. The room is spinning and as much as he’d love to climb out of bed right now, he worries even the attempt might kill him. He lies back on his pillows, hands clutching the bed sheet like they clutched at Martín’s shirt in his dream and falls asleep again before he can call for Sergio to help him.

“Maybe I should go back to Argentina,” Martín is saying and Andrés chokes on his tequila.

Martín hits him on the back until his airways are clear again, drawing a couple of amused glances from the people around them.

“Fuck, this tequila is terrible.”

“You’re spoiled,” Martín laughs. “This is better than the shit I drank growing up.”

Andrés raises an eyebrow. “I’m aware of what growing up was like for you, which is why I don’t understand why you’d want to go back to Argentina.”

“It wasn’t all bad,” Martín protests quietly. “I still have some family there, you know.”

Andrés scoffs. “What, some slightly less homophobic cousins than the rest? Why would you go back there, Martín? Why not stay here?”

Martín is quiet as he lights a cigarette, then offers it to Andrés, who declines. “You’re getting married.”

“So?” Andrés asks, brow creased in confusion. “That doesn’t mean you have to leave the continent.”

He watches Martín put the cigarette to his lips again, watches his cheeks hollow and the way the smoke curls around his face as it escapes his nostrils.

“I don’t think there’s a place for me here anymore,” he says eventually.

Andrés, his gut clenching in a way that he hasn’t felt since the night before his first marriage, shakes his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, why would you say something like that?”

“You’re getting married, you’re moving to Vienna, Sergio is going back to Barcelona… what am I supposed to do? Just stay in Lisbon by myself? I don’t know anyone here, I don’t have a job or an apartment here,” Martín admits, hanging his head.

“So come to Vienna,” Andrés says.

Martín rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Sure, I’ll go to Vienna with you and your new wife. Should I stay in the guest bedroom during your honeymoon? Be the nanny when you eventually have children?”

Andrés smirks. “I don’t like children. But I do like you. You’re my best friend, Martín,” he tells him and though he means the words, they somehow don’t ring true. “Just come with us.”

“You really want me to?” Martín asks, eyes dark and painfully hopeful.

“Of course,” Andrés says, trying to bury his own emotions and casually throwing his arm around Martín. “We’re brothers, huh?”

“Yeah,” Martín says. “Brothers.”

Andrés groans, eyes dry and itchy when he tries to open them, he reaches for the call button next to his bed and then sleep drags him under again.

The earpiece for the radio is lying on the ground and still, his mind is trying to convince him that he can hear Sergio calling his name. He needs to be grabbing grenades, reaching for his gun. Ariadna is whimpering, cowering on the ground next to him and he ignores her, his shaking hands reaching for the phone he’s hidden inside his pocket.

It belonged to one of the hostages and he’s certain the police will be able to hear everything he says the minute he places the call, but he’s also sure that they’re currently too preoccupied with storming the mint to care about a call.

He turns the phone on, the few seconds it takes seeming excruciatingly long. He types in a number he’s sure he’ll never be able to forget and his thumb hovers over the call button. He can hear boots, on the stairs, coming towards him, and he hits call, praying that Martín picks up. He lifts the phone to his ear, hears three discordant notes and then: “The number you have reached has been disconnected.”

“Fuck!”

He hangs up and throws the phone over his shoulder grabbing Ariadna with one hand and his gun with another. It’s time to end this.

Andrés wakes for the final time with the coppery taste of blood in his mouth and his sheets twisted around his body.

“Andrés,” he looks to his left and, as he has most mornings, finds Sergio sitting next to him.

“Sergio,” he gasps. “Sergio, my dreams. I think I remembered. I remember about Martín, about what’s wrong, why he’s so angry.”

Sergio blinks. “You do?”

“Yes,” Andrés nods. “I need to see him now.”

“It’s early, I don’t know if he’s awake yet,” Sergio says carefully. “You’ve only just woken up, maybe you should take some time to process this. If you haven’t regained your memories fully then you might not have all the context either.”

“I don’t need the full context,” Andrés insists. “I’ve remembered enough. Wake him, please. I need to talk to him.”

“Alright, I’ll go now. Just… be careful,” Sergio says and Andrés nods.

His brother leaves and Andrés heaves himself upright, doing his best to shuffle up the bed so he’s leaning against the headboard. He groans in pain when he twists to shove a pillow into a better position, all the air knocking out of him.

“Andrés,” Sergio returns quickly, a tousled, half-dressed Martín stumbling along behind him.

He’s dressed in loose shorts and an open robe that Andrés thinks he himself wouldn’t mind wearing himself and his heart pounds when Martín’s eyes meet his.

“Martín,” he breathes and the other man looks shocked.

“Andrés,” Martín says cautiously. “Sergio said you needed to speak to me - urgently. What’s wrong?”

Andrés hesitates, then looks over at his brother. “Hermanito, could you give us the room?”

Sergio looks over at Martín who shrugs, before he agrees, leaving and shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Would you sit?” Andrés asks, gesturing at the chair Sergio had sat in. “Please?”

Martín eyes him warily but does as he’s asked, sitting down next to the bed. In a moment of what Andrés will either class as weakness or madness later, he reaches out and takes Martín’s hand. Martín’s eyes widen and his hand remains limp in Andrés’.

“What… Why am I here?” he asks, stumbling over the words.

“I remember,” Andrés says and Martín’s jaw drops.

“What do you remember? Everything? You have all your memories back?”

Andrés shakes his head. “No, but I remember the night in the monastery… we kissed Martín. And before I was shot in the Mint I tried to call you – and when I was getting married you were sad and didn’t want to come to Vienna but I made you come because I didn’t want you to leave me. That’s what you weren’t telling me!”

“Andrés…” Martín looks terrified. “What do you think you know?”

Andrés leans forward, reaching to cup Martín’s face. “I’m in love with you. We were together and we broke up before the mint heist.”

Martín remains frozen, Andrés’ thumb stroking across his cheek. “Andrés, that’s not…”

“It’s okay,” Andrés interrupts. “I don’t remember what happened that made us end things, but… I loved you. I remember that more than anything else, I’m still in love with you, Martín. This whole time I’ve been trying to figure out what was missing, why things between us felt so wrong and now I know.”

He releases Martín’s hand so he can brace himself against the bed and leans forward to kiss him. Martín remains still for a moment and Andrés worries that he’s moved too fast, too soon. But then Martín softens, opens his mouth, allowing Andrés to kiss him properly and winds his hand into Andrés’ hair. Andrés bites at his bottom lip and Martín gasps, his other hand coming up to frame Andrés’ face.

Andrés’ heart feels liable to crack a rib it’s beating so fast and his head is spinning by the time Martín gently pushes him away.

“Andrés,” Martín says softly. “I’m sorry, but… that’s not what happened. You haven’t remembered everything yet.”

Andrés frowns, thumb moving to stroke the delicate skin under Martín’s eyes. “What do you mean? I remember enough, Martín.”

“I love you,” Martín says and a tear drips from the corner of his eye, catching on Andrés’ thumb. “You’re the smartest man I know, but you have never understood how much I love you. And you still don’t. And no matter what you think right now, you’ve never loved me the way I want you to, the way you think you do right now.”

“But the kiss,” Andrés says. “I remember it.”

Martín sniffs. “How much do you remember Andrés? Because I remember all of it, every second of that night. You broke my fucking heart.” He takes a moment to compose himself and Andrés can’t help but stare, dumbfounded, as the words continue to pour from Martín’s mouth. “We were never together, but I was in love with you. The night we kissed? That was the night you told me that you knew I loved you and that we were soulmates, but you couldn’t be with me because you like women. And then you left to do the mint heist and I didn’t see or hear from you again until your brother called me and told me you’d lost your memory.” Martín pulls away and Andrés’ fingers slide from his face, numb. “I’m sorry, Andrés. I… I can’t be here. When you regain your memories, you’ll understand and I hope you won’t hold this against me.”

“Martín,” Andrés says as he stands up and walks away from the bed. “Martín stay. Even if what you say… I know you say it’s true and I’m sure it is, but I know what I feel. I love you. I remember loving you – for years and years. I didn’t make that up and I don’t think getting my memories back will change that.”

Martín’s face crumples and he shakes his head. “If it – if that turns out to be the case… well, Sergio knows where to find me. But Andrés, I can’t stay here and wait for you to leave or send me away again. I can’t do it.”

“Please,” Andrés says and he doesn’t remember the last twelve years but even in the thirty-six years before that, he doesn’t remember coming so close to begging anyone for anything. “Stay with me, please. You must have come here for a reason! Why did you come if you never wanted to stay?”

“Oh Andrés,” Martín says bitterly. “I’ve always wanted to stay. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. I came because, well I’ve already told you. Even when you didn’t love me, I loved you and I still do and probably always will.”

“And I’m telling you that I love you too!” Andrés insists, trying to push himself up enough to swing his legs out of bed, gasping when pain ricochets through his torso. “Why can’t that be enough, Martín? Why can’t you just believe this?”

“Because you don’t really mean it, and I can’t… I just can’t do this again. I’m sorry.” Martín hesitates in the doorway like he wants to say something else, but then he shakes his head and leaves.

Andrés wants to scream with frustration, wants to be able to run after Martín and beg him to stay, wants to slap him across the face for daring to treat him this way, wants to fall into his arms because he is the only thing Andrés had felt sure of in the days since he woke up with half a life missing from his head.

-

Martín dresses blindly, then starts packing, shoving his things into his bag without bothering to fold them. Once upon a time, Andrés had taught him how to fold each item of clothing with the minimum amount of creases, which items to wrap in tissue paper or pack first, which items to keep separate in his suitcase. It feels like a lifetime ago and oh, what he would give to be back in an overly expensive hotel room listening to Andrés wax poetic about silk shirts and linen jackets.

He didn’t bring much so it doesn’t actually take him that long and when he leaves his room, the door to Andrés’ is tightly closed and he can hear Sergio’s voice inside. Martín marches downstairs, bag slung over his shoulder and walks straight into Helsinki who has come out of the kitchen.

“I need you to drive me to the airport,” he demands and Helsinki frowns.

“The Professor said you were going to be staying a while.”

“Well he was wrong,” Martín snaps. “I need to go now. So drive me to the airport and use some of your photocopied money to charter me a fucking plane.”

Helsinki looks like he wants to argue, but then there are footsteps on the stairs behind Martín and when he turns, he sees Sergio.

“It’s okay, Helsinki,” he says and Martín clenches his jaw. “I’ll arrange for a plane to be waiting when you get there.” Helsinki nods and Martín tries to avoid Sergio’s gaze. “Martín, look after yourself,” he says and Martín would laugh if he didn't think Sergio meant it.

He shrugs. “I’ll do my best.”

Sergio grimaces, but nods. “That’s all I can ask.”

Martín turns to go, then looks back at Sergio. “If, no, when he remembers everything… if he wants to call me you can give him my number. But not until he remembers everything.”

“Okay,” Sergio says and then he’s retreating back up the stairs and Martín refuses to watch him go, to think about who he’s returning to.

“Let’s go, big guy,” he tells Helsinki who nods and dutifully leads him out of the house and towards the Jeep.

-

Being home – and alone again – is hard. Martín drinks himself into a stupor every day for the first month. It feels like when he first left the monastery, alone for the first time in nigh on a decade and so heartbroken he often wondered whether it was foolish to try and stay alive.

Six weeks after he returns from seeing Andrés – Andrés who said he loved him, Andrés who begged him to stay, Andrés whom he’d never see again, who’d never want Martín the way he claimed once he remembered how he really felt – he goes to a bar.

It’s a terrible bar really. The beer tastes like shit and they water down the tequila, but Martín has enough money to get himself good and drunk and he occasionally manages to find company for the night here.

Except tonight every man he sees just reminds him of what he can’t have. Of what he’s had for moments, twice now, and which has never been freely offered to him. He gets down on his knees for a Mexican tourist whose girlfriend is throwing up in the women’s bathroom and ends up crying into the hem of his shirt. When the guy is sufficiently freaked out and has left Martín alone in the alley, he stumbles home and puts on a record so loudly that his upstairs and downstairs neighbours come and bang on his door.

Sergio texts him every now and then. Small updates like ‘he remembered San Francisco’ or ‘he’s started walking again’. Martín never responds, but he always makes sure his phone is charged and near him. He doesn’t expect Andrés to call, but he also doesn’t want to risk missing any messages, should he reach out.

It’s going on eight months since he left, and he’s stretched out on his sofa in front of the TV. There’s some ridiculous reality show on and he’s waiting for his food to be delivered when there’s a knock on his door. Martín groans and pulls himself to his feet, grabbing a worn jumper off the floor so he answers the door in slightly more than his boxers. There’s another insistent knock when he’s grabbing his money and he scowls.

“Alright, I’m coming. But I swear if you’ve forgotten my garlic and coriander naan again I’m going to –” He swings the door open and the words die on his tongue.

“You’re going to what?” Andrés questions, quirking an eyebrow.

Martín’s hands drop limply to his side. “Andrés?”

“Come now, I haven’t changed that much, have I?” Andrés asks. “Can I come in?”

“I – yes.” Martín nods and steps aside, allowing Andrés into his shithole of a flat. “What are you doing here?”

Andrés looks around critically, peeling off his gloves before taking a seat on Martín’s threadbare sofa. “You look terrible,” he says instead of answering the question.

Martín, deciding to remain standing, clenches his jaw. “Charming. Why are you here?”

“I have my memories back,” Andrés says, too casually for Martín to truly believe he’s unaffected.

“I’m happy for you,” Martín says. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“Doesn’t it?” Andrés asks and has the audacity to smirk at him.

“No.”

Andrés sighs and leans back comfortably, crossing his legs and throwing one arm along the back of the sofa like he owns it. “Well, I believe you told Sergio if I got my memories back I could contact you.”

Martín glares. “You were supposed to call.”

“So you could hang up on me? I don’t think so,” Andrés says, smile widening. “Besides, you also told me if nothing had changed when I got my memories back that Sergio would know where to find you.”

Martín’s stomach lurches and his traitorous heart flutters hopefully. “Andrés,” he says warningly, crossing his arms over his chest. “What are you saying?”

The smile slides off Andrés’ face and he looks almost angry. “I’m saying that even when I was out of my mind on painkillers and suffering from retrograde amnesia, I knew that I was in love with you and now that I have neither of those things messing with my head, that’s still the case.”

“What?” Martín gapes. “You… what?”

“Oh please,” Andrés says. “You think I did what I did in the monastery because I don’t care about you? Because I wanted to hurt you? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous?” Martín repeats, outraged. “You think I’m ridiculous? You broke my heart to go do a heist with your brother, then lost all your memories, got a few back and then confessed your love for me and expected me to believe it!”

“You should have,” Andrés says blankly.

“Oh really?” Martín scoffs. “Sure, I’ll just believe that the man I’ve been in love with for twelve years who – as you so kindly pointed out – was on an obscene amount of morphine and had amnesia, suddenly loves me back.”

Andrés’ smirk is back and Martín sort of wants to slap it off his face. “Why not? Stranger things have happened, Martín. Besides, there was nothing sudden about it. I’m not an idiot, nor am I as emotionally stunted as my brother. You think I needed him to tell me you loved me? Or that I wasn’t aware of how I felt about you? Why do you think that was one of the first things that came back to me? I couldn’t remember the names of any of my wives, but I remembered how I felt about you.”

Martín is sure he’d feel less stunned if he were to be trampled by a herd of moose. “But… the monastery, you left me.”

“I did,” Andrés’ face twitches. “That was… an error on my part. The mint heist was dangerous, Sergio wouldn’t allow you to be a part of it, but I knew there was no way you’d go away if he insisted. There was only one way you’d truly have left me.”

“An error,” Martín sneers. “Well, I’m glad the worst day of my life was just an ‘error’ to you.”

Andrés sighs. “I regret it, Martín, truly I do. But that doesn’t change the fact that I love you, that I want to be with you, and that I came here to ask you to forgive me.”

Martín scoffs. “You know for me to forgive you, there needs to be an actual apology in there somewhere.”

Almost before Martín can blink, Andrés is up off the sofa and stalking towards him. He stops when there’s less than a foot of space between them.

“What are you doing?” Martín asks, trying to will away the blush on his face.

Andrés smiles, one corner of his mouth ticking up higher than the other. “Apologising,” he says softly, breath fanning across Martín’s face and making him shiver. “Martín, I’m sorry. What I did to you, it’s inexcusable. And despite that, you came all the way to the Philippines to help me, to make sure I was okay. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that, but I hope that one day at least, you can forgive me for all the ways I’ve hurt you.”

“One day,” Martín murmurs as Andrés’ gaze dips to his mouth.

One hand reaches up to curl around Martín’s cheek and he leans into the touch.

“You don’t have to forgive me right now,” Andrés breathes. “Just say you want this, us. Tell me that you’ll let yourself have this, now that I have my memories back, now that we’re on equal footing. Tell me you still love me.”

Martín blinks back tears and rolls his eyes. “You doubted?”

“No,” Andrés says, grin widening. “But someone told me I’m a narcissist with a god-complex so I didn’t want to assume.”

“Wait, who told you that?” Martín asks with a frown that Andrés moves his hand to smooth it out with a careful thumb across his brow.

“Does it matter?”

Martín smirks. “No, but they were right.”

Andrés opens his mouth to retort, affronted, and Martín takes the opportunity to kiss him. Swallowing his protests and kissing the complaints off his lips. Andrés’ arms move to wind around Martín’s waist, hands grasping him tightly.

“Does this mean I’m forgiven?” Andrés asks smugly and a little breathlessly when they pull apart.

Martín snorts. “Not yet. You have to try and earn this, don’t forget that you were an asshole for the last twelve years.”

“How could I forget again?” Andrés asks with a deep chuckle. “Besides, it can’t have been the whole twelve years.”

“Andrés?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up,” Martín says and kisses him again, revelling in how right it feels, how it feels like finally, something has gone right, like things are finally where they’re supposed to be. Like this is something he’ll remember for the rest of his life.