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Martín breaks into Andrés' place when he's not there. When he knows that he'll be gone for days, he crawls into his bed and tugs at his cock, fed only by memories of hearing him fuck and flashes of what he’d imagine it would be like if he was the one wrenching those sounds from him.
Every single time, he makes sure to not leave a mess - it's a fine thrill, this game he plays with himself - as he plays with himself. Trying to split his attention, to keep a grain of himself grounded in reality as he gives in to fantasy. He likes to imagine what it would be like if Andrés rode him right there, in that bed; how he’d look and how he’d sound and what he’d do, and when Martín himself is undone, he makes sure to keep enough awareness that no one else is aware of his indiscretions.
Andrés almost catches him once; he comes back unexpectedly but heads to the living room first, buying Martín enough time to panic, put himself back in his pants, and come out of the bedroom with half a story and a heart full of hope that Andrés will buy it - “have you seen my notebook? You know the one I mean, I'm sure you took it with the rest of the papers the last time you were over at my place and I need it.”
Andrés falls for it, they end up looking for it together. They don't find it, just like he knew they wouldn't - the notebook is on his desk, in his apartment, just where he left it before coming here.
He still comes back, almost a full month later, when Andrés is away on vacation with his new flame. He can smell her on the sheets too, and it inexplicably arouses him - not the smell of her precisely, but the thought of them, the thought of Andrés working to bring her to the very cusp of orgasm, only to spill inside her. Martín spills on his chest, and a single droplet lands on a corner of the sheet that's bunched up around him. But the bed was unmade when he climbed in, so he tugs at the corner, messes it back, and is sure that it won't be noticed.
There's a little thrill, he finds, at the thought that he left a bit of himself there, next to Andrés' sweat and musk.
He comes back the very next day, emboldened - driven mad with lust. He hadn't managed to sleep the night before thinking about it, so he had to come back. It's barely noon, it's bright and the light, the way it shines through the large windows, makes him revel in his deviance as he sits among the messy sheets and undoes his flies.
The pillow smells of Andrés, but it's not enough - Martín casts his eyes around the room until he finds, on the back of a chair, one of Andrés’ delicate silken robes. It's perfect. He memorizes the way it was draped, then picks it up and doesn't— doesn’t do it; not yet. He resists burying his face in it until he's laying back on that pillow, and when he does, a moan escapes him.
He's been silent so far, never daring to make more than labored breaths or the grunts that orgasm just wrung out of him. But now— now he lets go.
He bunches the fabric to his face, feeling it slide, slippery and cold, against his cheeks - he's never gotten hard this fast. He inhales greedily as he buries a hand in his boxers, taking out his cock, and he begins to stroke himself like he's already close.
Behind his eyelids, behind the veil of that robe, he sees Andrés - just flashes; his lips opened around a moan, his eyes squeezed shut, the dip of his fingers where they press into Martín's flesh. The tightness of his fist can't emulate the tight clutch of his ass as Martín is buried inside him, this hellfire-heat that envelops him even as he pulls out, just barely, before pushing back in.
The air is hot and damp as Martín almost suffocates himself with the fabric. He wants to mouth at it, a deranged desire to suckle, but this is enough - every breath he takes fills his lungs with Andrés, and that realization is what gets him there. Just— there - and it's one single second on the other side of orgasm that Martín realizes that it's coming, but it's just enough for him to pull the robe from his face, away, and onto the floor, to avoid painting it with his come.
The air feels cold, unnaturally dry now that his breathing is unobstructed. It should be enough, and in a purely physiological way, it is - his lungs expand, his breath starts coming in regularly now - but he finds it lacking. Mere oxygen is not enough, now that he's experienced the alternative.
He makes sure to drape that robe back on the chair, as close to how he found it as he can possibly recreate, but not before glutting himself on another greedy gulp of its scent.
He doesn't return to the apartment for months, because the girlfriend has turned into a wife and that bed is solely theirs. They hardly come out of their apartment, so Martín just— waits.
It should feel wrong when he goes back to that place when the happy couple is on their second honeymoon, but it doesn't. The only thing that feels wrong is that the bed is neatly made and the sheets are fresh and new - no doubt, a sign of a female touch in the house - but that robe is still there.
The pillow, like the sheets, smells clean. Some chemical mixture that some company would like to pass off for cotton, or fresh mountain air, Martín is sure. It doesn't matter though - the robe still smells of Andrés: his cologne, a little hint of sweat and cigarettes, and his now-familiar musk. Not unclean by any means, but Martín's nose is as finely-tuned as a hound's now, when it comes to this particular scent. He carries it with him in a special pocket of his memory and he's able to recreate it at will now. Sometimes, when he's alone in his room, he thinks that he can feel it and it makes him get up to seek it, like it may have been carried in somehow, or lingered in something that Andrés has touched.
He comes like that, with his breath filtering in Andrés' scent through the fibers of the robe held tightly to his mouth and nose, and with one hand on his cock, squeezing until he's dry and trembling and boneless.
Not a drop spilled where it shouldn't have.
Carefully, Martín puts the robe back, smooths down the sheets, and looks at that bed, that now-marital bed that is owned by one, accommodates two and satisfies three.
He doesn't want anything that he won't be given, and knows that nothing will ever be. He's fine with it.
He's fine with this. It's enough.
He thinks, I can live with this, as he turns to leave the bedroom. He’s learned to live with a great deal of things, he realizes; but just as his hand hovers above the doorknob, a flash of light draws his eyes to the fireplace mantle where a teddy bear sits, overlooking the bed. Light catches a little too brightly in one of its beady eyes and Martín can see in the pupil - the dark and endless circle of a lens.