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Martín has Andrés chained to the wall of this old, remote house.
No one knows that he's here. No one would suspect.
The first few days were the hardest; Martín has had to keep Andrés drugged up near constantly. A ragdoll in his arms, pliant and heavy— so heavy. He cherished the weight though. I'd carry you in my arms to the end of the world, he thought, as he helped him up.
At least he's eating now, which is good. Martín was very close to putting him on a G-tube, which would have come with its own set of issues - restraints, possible sedation, risk of infections—he's glad he doesn't have to worry about it. Andrés eats, drinks his water, and settles back against the wall where he’s chained. He still doesn't talk to him though, and Martín thinks it's for the better.
He'll break eventually.
The last thing Andrés said to him, two weeks prior, was the same mantra he kept repeating since day one: "Why are you doing this?"
:::
Martín sits on the throw-pillow on the other side of the empty room, eating his own take-out. He makes a point to eat the same things that Andrés does, from the same styrofoam containers, with the same shitty plastic forks. He eats in silence, picking at the slowly congealing pasta, and looks towards the window above Andrés' slumped form.
Andrés won't talk to him but that doesn't stop him from talking to him—at him.
"I've been to the market today. I got some fresh pears if you want. Grapes too, but they're not that great." He could say that Sergio called him again, but he doesn't want to open up that topic. Andrés must know that his brother is looking for him, surely must hold on to some sort of hope that he'll find him.
He's wrong there, Sergio will never find him. No one will.
Kidnapping and moving Andrés here was easier than he thought. Enough money paid upfront and no one dared—or cared enough—to ask questions. No traces. No one can find them.
"I'll go read something until it's time for your shot. I'd ask you if you want to read something, but—you know." He smiles, places the fork in the container, and fastens the lid closed with an irritating plastic squeak. Andrés barely ate even half of his pasta; he left the container on the floor, pushing it as far away from him as he could. Now, he leans against the wall, staring into nothingness.
"You really should eat more," Martín says, taking the container. He opens it, making sure that the fork is still there, intact, and that Andrés didn't try anything brave again.
He’s not happy that he’s eating so little, but at least he’s eating something and that’s what counts. He stopped threatening Andrés with G-tubes and artificial feeding, but he still wants Andrés to know that he cares. "Yeah, I’m never ordering this pasta again."
It's been two days since Andrés lunged at him when he handed him the food—it’s the reason he has his reading privileges revoked for now. He had tried to wrap the chain that was around his wrists around Martín's neck, but he was weak and slow, and the only outcome of his efforts was that his chain was shorter now. He could still stand, still look out of that window but he did it less and less.
Martín sighs as he tosses the containers in the trash. He takes the small video receiver from the kitchen counter, turns it on, and takes it to the living room, where he does intend to read. He can see Andrés instinctively turn to the camera as it turns on—the sudden shutter sound always seems to catch his attention—but he soon turns his back away.
He receives both video and audio feed from Andrés’ room, and he always makes sure that it's turned up to the maximum—even though Andrés never really says anything anymore. If he needs the restroom, he will just stand up and look into the camera, and that's enough of a sign for Martín to go there and release the chain from the wall. There are no more attempts to jump Martín as he’s being led to and from the bathroom, and Martín thinks that's progress. He trusts him enough now to leave the door only slightly ajar as Andrés does his business, and that was a hard-earned thing. Andrés is still not okay with it but at least he doesn't try to close the door with his foot, knowing that it will earn him a hard tug at the chain. And Martín—well. He doesn't want to demean him, but as long as Andrés still resists, it's not easy. It would be easier if he gave in, but he’s still fighting it.
Martín is patient, though.
His phone beeps when it’s time for Andrés’ shot. He gets up to fetch the kit. He knows that Sergio refuses to believe that his brother might be dead, and monitors all Retroxil shipments—what he doesn’t know is just how resourceful Martín is. He’s got enough of these precious vials to last Andrés the better half of a year, and knows how to procure them through channels that are untraceable when he runs out. He really is a clever one.
Andrés doesn’t look at him when he kneels beside his mattress and takes out the alcohol wipes. His hand is limp in Martín’s, but he does make a fist when the needle approaches his knuckles.
“There,” Martín says, removing the hypodermic needle and placing it behind him. “How’s the pain?”
No answer. Just like he expected. Martín sighs, gathers the kit and the wipes, and gets up.
“It really doesn’t have to be like this, you know.”
Martín puts the black pouch on the table, focusing back on the image on the little screen. The relief in Andrés is visible after his shot—he finally seems to relax, to uncoil and to breathe easier. Pain grips him slowly throughout the day, compounding—his muscles become tense, motions rigid, it’s like the pain draws him into himself and it’s only after he gets his shot that he decompresses, breathing easier. It’s easier to spot now, after Martín had to put him through almost three days without his shots, just how badly Andrés needs it.
He was quite aggressive, at first. After the shock, the disbelief, the betrayal. The bargaining. When none of that worked, Andrés resorted to violence; kicking and biting and trying to get his bound wrists around Martín’s throat. The only thing that cut that rage, snuffed it like a pillow to the face, was separating him from his Retroxil.
It worked, and Martín learned just how much power he has over him. With every shot that he delivers now, carefully and right on schedule, Martín reaffirms the truth of the situation: that he’s the one in control.
There used to be furniture in that room, when he’d first brought Andrés in. There was a bed that Martín slept in until Andrés began staying awake for long enough to become something to be wary about, and not just curious of. For Martín was very, very curious.
Andrés de Fonollosa didn’t do drugs, he said. He found them tacky and unreliable, so he kept a respectable distance, he said. Of course, he never saw his medicine like that, which showed the extent of his cognitive dissonance. He never saw drinking like that either, nor his compulsive need to take things that didn’t belong to him. So he didn’t do—drugs.
So when Andrés was finally awake enough to understand that he was drugged, Martín thought he was objecting to the drugs themselves, to having that cocktail of depressants and sedatives running through his system. He quickly found that he was wrong when Andrés started trying to fight back, to lash out - but his arms were weak and uncoordinated, and his speech came in slurred words that he couldn’t piece right. It was only when he finally controlled that anger, when he finally stopped trying to attack Martín whenever he approached, that the dosage decreased.
The only things left in that room are the throw pillow that Martín sits on whenever he’s there, and the mattress that Andrés sleeps on. And the hook in the wall, and the chain between that hook and the handcuffs around Andrés’ wrists.
:::
The beginning was rough. The first time he’d brought Andrés some food and water after Martín thought that he’d calmed down and accepted his new situation, Martín found himself knocked backward, pinned under Andrés’ weight, with Andrés’ large palms wrapped around his throat. He had managed to get himself out of the handcuffs and was not playing.
“I’m going to kill you,” he said, low and through the gritted teeth of a scowl.
That’s all he managed to say, his words no longer idle threats—after all, he was decidedly putting them into action through the press of his palms on Martín’s windpipe. Whatever else he wanted to say when he opened his mouth again got out as a sigh a second after the needle in Martín’s hand plunges into his skin, and he crumbles over Martín’s body, heavy and limp.
So Martín had to make use of drugs for a while, to tame him—and it worked.
Martín slept in that room in the beginning, telling himself that he wanted to be there in case anything happened to Andrés. In truth, he wanted to see him like that: weak, brought to his knees. Placid, at the best of times. Completely broken down at the worst. It’s an ugly thing to admit to himself maybe, but Martín was well beyond accepting that there was something sick in him. He enjoyed seeing Andrés like that. He has to watch him from a distance now - better safe than dead—and it’s just his instincts for self-preservation. That’s why he can’t fault Andrés for trying whatever he can to get free—at its core, it’s just a natural urge.
He misses being in that room, though; misses the rhythm of Andrés’ breath when he slept close enough for him to hear it. The microphone doesn’t pick it up, and it’s such a shame.
:::
It’s still dark outside when Martín wakes up, and the world comes into focus slower than he’d like. He’s confused, still can’t separate the dream from reality, can’t place the sounds he hears until he realizes that he does hear them, they’re real and not in his head. Faintly, too faint for the camera’s microphone to pick them up through the background noise of the night, but Martín can hear them through the open doors—Andrés is crying.
He didn’t expect crying, didn’t think he could handle tears if they happened, but now that he hears it—it does something to him. Something else he isn’t proud of learning about himself. He holds his breath until it hurts, clutching at the sheet around him because he can hear now, a shuddered breath, a hiccup, a sob. Andrés is crying in that room and it’s the lack of oxygen that’s making Martín dizzy, he tells himself; it’s that, of course it’s that. It’s him holding his breath, and not the reason that he’s doing it. He wants to hear Andrés. He wants to remember it.
He thought that if Andrés did break down to this point, he’d go to him, wrap him in his arms. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from trying to comfort him, and—he does want to go in there. Not for those reasons, though.
Andrés likes to play with emotions, at times downright play-acting them to get what he wants. This isn’t any of those times—this is him, broken down. It’s late at night, Martín was supposed to be asleep, and Andrés is trying to be quiet when he cries. This is not theater.
Martín wants to be there, to see it in person. Maybe to touch him to see how he’d react, or to just stand there, making it known through his presence that he’s there, that he’s watching.
Something keeps him in his bed, though. He can see Andrés on the black and white monitor, curled onto his side, his bound arms to his chest and hands clasped as if in prayer—crying, and Martín just watches. Maybe he’s getting closer to finally cracking.
In the morning, he tests Andrés’ chains again. The metal hook is still firmly bolted in the wall, the cuffs around his wrists are too tight to possibly escape from, but not so tight to do damage. He hasn’t tried to loosen the bolt or to break the chain—at least in this regard, he’s stopped trying.
Every little victory won in having Andrés give in weighed more than any gold to Martín. With each little surrender, with every little chip that falls off, Martín feels that things might, in the end, be right.
Washing has been an issue, and Martín has had to sedate him in the process enough times that Andrés goes along with it willingly now. He’s allowed to wash himself, and no longer seems to care that Martín watches him. Sometimes he just stands there, under the stream of water, turning it hotter and hotter until his skin turns raw-red and is steaming, almost, when he finally cuts the water. Martín lets him do it every time, lets him soak for as long as he wants—especially now that he can stand for the entire duration of it, without sinking to his knees or propping himself against the tile.
When he steps out, Martín waits for him with a towel like he always does, draped over his chest in his wide-open arms. This time, though, he’s startled; all his senses shoot to attention when Andrés leans into him, into his arms. He wraps his own around Andrés out of reflex.
This is new.
His skin is hot even through the towel. He’s getting Martín’s shirt wet with his arms and his hair, where he rests his head against Martín’s shoulder. A sigh—Andrés’. A gasp—Martín’s.
Andrés’ voice croaks when he begins to speak, so he coughs once. He sighs, tries again.
“I’m sorry.”
Martín can only hug him closer.
He helps him back into clean clothes, puts the handcuffs back around his wrists and sees, when he looks up, the hurt in Andrés’ eyes when he realizes that he’s getting back in chains.
It’s a start, though; the hug, the words.
“When can you get me another book?” Andrés asks, watching the chain clink around his cuffs. He lets his hands fall into his lap. “It doesn’t have to be a new book.”
“You’ve been good, so—how about after lunch?”
Andrés nods, and finally looks him in the eye. There’s the beginning of a spark there, a hint of something having finally shifted. He’s being good, and Martín would lie if it didn’t give him a weird sort of thrill. Andrés is being good for him.
He gives him a battered copy of a book that Andrés has already read once since they got there, but he doesn’t complain. He takes it, giving what could pass for a smile, and settles against the wall again. He’s still angling his body away from Martín and he can’t help but notice it. Small walls, little defenses—but he’s chipping through.
His caloric intake is still abysmal, though, and Martín can’t not worry. He’s trying to add more fruit to his meals too, and the occasional pastry; he has taken to cooking more and more in the past few weeks. Andrés is still looking thinner though, despite his efforts, and his muscles really show signs of weakness—this one, Martín knows, is not the illness.
So he begins toying with the idea of getting Andrés to move around. It may be too soon, he still can’t be sure that Andrés won’t jump him, won’t try to run away; but he still works on it.
He has a plan.
It’s not easy to find a source for what he needs that won’t, somehow, be one that Sergio is also tapped into—but he’s nothing if not resourceful. He’s got several prototypes for what he has in mind and manages to work out, on paper, that he’s got everything he needs.
:::
Andrés talks to him now; asks him about his day, recounts stories of heists they’ve done in the past. He’s stopped pulling at his chains now, doesn’t even try to shut the bathroom door so Martín affords him a modicum of privacy by moving further away.
The showers have become their moments now. Less and less water is wasted pouring over Andrés’ body, and more and more time is spent embraced, with the towel between them.
It’s late autumn now, the weather getting cooler despite the tropical climate. Martín will have to bring him a blanket soon - but for now, a thicker jumper is enough. He’s just finished draping a clean sheet over the mattress laying on the floor, when Andrés turns to him with a soft smile. He’s standing before the window, patiently watching the fields outside, then sits down as soon as Martín gets ready to leave with the bundled sheet.
“Think you can open the window?”
Martín takes a breath and—can’t think of a reason not to do it.
“Sure. I’ll be right back.”
He comes back with his books and notebook, sets them on the floor, then goes to open the window. He’s padlocked it after the first few days, but it doesn’t seem to pose a danger anymore.
Andrés gets up and stands beside him, tipping his head back and filling his lungs with the cooler air.
“Thank you,” he says, and Martín can tell it’s genuine.
If anything, Andrés has learned true gratitude.
When the air gets too cold, biting gently at their skin, Andrés draws his shoulders up, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans into Martín’s side and accepts the hand that comes around his shoulders, pulling him closer.
“I have to work,” Martín says, and he feels truly apologetic. He closes the window, rubbing Andrés’ arms to warm him up a bit. “Do you want a new book? I’m going back to the library tomorrow, I can either choose something for you again or you can tell me something you’d like, I can see if they have it.”
“Surprise me,” says Andrés.
He’s working on the final touches of his little project now, and he’s more confident that it’s the right idea. It won’t be easy to put in practice, and he’ll have to sedate Andrés for both their safety, but he thinks—it’s a good idea.
The anatomy tome he’s flipping through doesn’t intimidate him like it used to. He’s not squeamish, he’s just—careful.
“Why the sudden interest in anatomy?” Andrés asks, setting down his own book. “You’ve been making notes for two weeks straight.”
“I’m working on something. I’ll tell you soon enough.”
Because now is not the time, Martín knows. It’s close, but—one step at a time.
Sometimes he feels guilty about how much he dedicates himself to this project. Everything about it thrills him—the fact that it’s keeping him busy, that it keeps his brain moving, that he gets to design things and to tinker with precision equipment—it’s a thrill he’s missed. But sometimes, when he looks up—an instinctive motion now, seeking Andrés’ form on that monitor—he realizes he’s hardly spent enough time in his presence and he feels a pang of guilt. But he’s really close to finishing.
He’s working on two devices. The first one’s easy, a small transmitter that reads and sends his vitals, that Martín has tested and is ready to insert under the skin of his own shoulder. The second one is for Andrés, and it’s proving to be a challenge—he’s trying to pack fifty thousand volts into a device that’s small enough to implant in Andrés’ body, but large enough to keep the charge. And the technical side is the side that he’s comfortable with, the part he’s got figured out—the challenge is now the surgery.
He’s tried to avoid the need for this, and a better alternative would have been to use something akin to a literal shock collar—which offered a better power source, reusability if needed, and also came with a bonus mental image that Martín perhaps liked a little too much. But it would be a permanent visual reminder, Andrés would see it as outright hostility—and this is not the road that Martín wants for them.
They have breakfast while Andrés tells him about his book and Martín nods along, his mind somewhere else entirely. He can’t tell Andrés what he’s going to do—or maybe he can, but whatever’s inevitably going to happen after he finds out, is safer to happen after the device is implanted. Better to ask forgiveness than permission; Andrés is a thief, he would understand.
So he comes back, palming the anesthetic behind his thigh, and he has Andrés unconscious before he has a chance to understand that something’s happening. He helps Andrés lie back against the mattress. He's doing this.
This is a bad idea, is the mantra echoing in Martín’s head, and it’s all that he can hear until he’s got the pill-like implant right where he planned and is putting in the stitches. He’s sewing Andrés back together after he’s been inside him, and he has to stop, one hand mid-air, to breathe and to appreciate the moment. He was too focused when he did it, channeling everything he had into the steadiness of his fingers, but now he can just—enjoy the moment of having been inside Andrés’ chest, for the briefest time, and the fact that from then on, that beating heart inside it lies entirely under his power.
Andrés wakes up late enough that Martín worries he may have gotten the dosage of the anesthetic wrong. But he wakes up, sluggish and groggy, desperately trying to cling to Martín’s words while clearly unable to process them fully, let alone to remember them.
“I put an implant in you, right here,” Martín says, hand caressing the bottom of the gauze taped to Andrés’ chest. He’s careful when he sits on the bed, leaning over his body. He keeps his voice calm, trying to focus the daze of Andrés’ eyes with his own. “It delivers a fifty thousand volt shock to your body if you go any further than the bathroom. This restrictive range is temporary, maybe one day you can see the rest of the house, or we can even go for a walk outside. And—” He angles his body towards Andrés, pushing up the sleeve of his tee to show his own healed scar. “It’s also linked with this; my vitals. If they go under a certain threshold, your device discharges.” It was no last-minute adjustment, it was the main feature of it—Andrés did seem to have a penchant for strangulation as of late.
If he died, Andrés would die with him.
Andrés wakes up in chains next, and he’s a bit more awake this time. He cautiously feels at the gauze on his skin before looking for Martín.
“What’s—”
“It’s for both our safety,” says Martín.
“It’s—” Andrés squeezes his eyes as if trying to remember, and it’s a gamble how things will go. He doesn’t lash out, he just looks—confused.
“Are you in pain?”
“No. I don’t know?” Andrés swallows, looking uncomfortable. “I need the restroom,” he says, and tries to get up.
The effects of the anesthetic have worn off, but Andrés is still wobbly when he sits up. He needs a hand, which he accepts wordlessly, to get on his feet; he accepts the support to walk to the bathroom in small, slow steps.
Martín waits on the other side of the door until he hears the confirmation that his kidneys still work right—a good sign, which he’s grateful for. Still, he can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong.
It takes less than a day for his fears to be confirmed—the surgical site has gotten infected. Andrés kept getting worse, despite the antibiotics, despite all of Martín’s efforts. He barely talks, and when he does, it’s closer to delirium than anything.
On the third day, Martín makes up his mind—the implant needs to come out.
Andrés isn’t awake this time when he puts him under sedation. The procedure is quick, and Martíng gets none of the feelings he got when he inserted the thing—no pride, no satisfaction, just—worry. Anger. He crushes the thing under the heel of his boot after he cleans up Andrés and his own bloodied hands.
He’s restless, on edge until the next morning, when Andrés opens his eyes and he seems—for the first time in days—mentally present.
Recovery. Kindnesses. Little treats that he can’t stop giving Andrés, be it in the form of new books, sweets or just—keeping him company.
He feels the first grain of guilt for doing this—but it’s a small, fleeting thing. The important thing is that it seems to finally bring them closer together.
So the implant didn’t work; Martín would have to try for something else.
:::
The seasons change, the air turns dry and cold. It’s drafty, and Martín gives Andrés a thicker duvet and woolen socks. He spends more time with him and it’s—nice. It’s effortless, and they only notice the chains when it’s time to take them off for the shower.
And the showers— Martín longs for them.
He even spends a couple of dinners on Andrés’ mattress, right by his side, slipping cherry tomatoes onto his plate because he really seems to have taken a liking to them.
It’s afternoon, just as the light turns golden, right before the winter sun sets, and Martín is reading. He’s got a chocolate bar by his side and absent-mindedly picks at a square when it occurs to him to share—Andrés has been good, after all. He breaks a couple of squares, gets up and holds them out.
“Have some, it’s really good,” he says.
Andrés puts the book in his lap, looks up at Martín’s face, then his hand. There’s a moment when there’s a curious narrowing of his eyes but then he leans forward and wraps his lips around Martín’s fingers. And he just—he doesn’t take the offered chocolate, not immediately; he closes his eyes and lets his tongue slip over the tips of the fingers in his mouth, slowly and deliberately before he pulls his lips back. He’s hollowing his cheeks as he steals the already melting chocolate, and Martín’s brain is glitching.
Andrés settles back, opens his eyes with a gaze so intense that Martín’s breath feels punched out of his lungs. He wants. He wants so badly that the weight of it is tangible in his body, pressing at his chest and growing in his belly. He wants. It could be a mirror response to the magnetic frequency they seem to be sharing, it may be just that Martín wants, but when Andrés raises his fingers to his lips to wipe them, Martín raises his fingers to his own lips too. He tastes the melted chocolate but he knows—he’s also tasting Andrés. And he can’t really decipher what’s happening behind Andrés’ eyes when he sees him doing it, but in a second, Martín is on his knees.
He drops down like his legs are useless, like he can’t even feel the pain radiating from his bones. It’s strange how this time, when Andrés’ bound arms come up and make for his neck, he doesn’t make a move to protect himself. And he shouldn’t have; those hands come up to cup his cheeks as Andrés pulls him into himself, into a kiss that’s so unexpected he’s afraid it will end before he even realizes that it’s happened. It doesn’t, it has Martín moaning into it, burying his hands in Andrés’ hair and forgetting—everything.
He has to stop this. He does. It’s the maddest thing he’s ever done.
Andrés almost whines when they part. Reaches out for him, but Martín scrambles back with his heels, only stops when he knows he’s further than the chain allows Andrés to move. He has to stop this because he has to stop himself. He’s not thinking clearly, can’t think clearly and isn’t sure if it’s a wise thing yet—to let his guard down.
But he wants.
That night, after he’s made sure that Andrés is asleep, Martín goes to his room and, for the first time, closes the door, putting a barrier between them. He’s got the monitor on the bedside table but he’s not focused on that. There’s only one thing on his mind: it’s the memory of Andrés’ tongue on the pads of his fingers, and licking between his lips. He runs through those memories with a hand on his cock, his mind melding memories with fantasies.
He can’t deny he’s thought of this. The real ugly parts of him, the ones he snuffed out as soon as they reared their ugly head, when he was tempted, oh, so fucking tempted back when— But he wasn’t like that. That would have been despicable, taking advantage of Andrés like that, when he was drugged. He couldn’t. He didn’t.
He dreams of it happening, but not like that—the way he hopes it happens, if it does, is with Andrés’ full intent and full consent. He has to want it.
Maybe—maybe it’s not so impossible, after all.
:::
Martín feels it in the air, when he leads Andrés to take his shower; he senses something crackling between them. He hopes for a kiss and is rewarded. Bliss and gratefulness wash over him when Andrés steps out of the shower, naked and dripping wet, and doesn’t just mold into his arms but tilts Martín’s jaw up with his fingers. He stares at his lips for a long second before covering them with his own.
And so, it begins.
They’re both panting by the time they part, Andrés is dazed, pupils wide and unfocused as he allows Martín to pat him dry with the towel, to help him in clean clothes. He holds his hands out, waiting for the cuffs, asking for them almost, and when they clink around his wrists, he drops to his knees and looks up, and Martín has to stop him, physically stop him from pawing at the button of his jeans.
He’s hard when he leads Andrés back to his mattress, when he secures the chain to the wall. Andrés seems furious. He reaches once more, grunting when Martín pushes his bound hands from his flies, and when he looks up, he looks almost pained.
“Please,” he says, but it comes like a command and not a plea. “Let me. I want it.”
It’s too much. Too unexpected. But Andrés was hard too, and that’s what made Martín regret it even more.
Still, he walks away.
He puts on his shoes and walks out, steam-rawed skin tingling in the biting air as he walks and walks and walks until the cold gets into his bones and he has to return.
Andrés is in bed when he comes back, curled with his back to the door, and even though the cadence of his breaths tells Martín that he’s awake, he doesn’t reply when Martín asks if he’s okay.
It only occurs to Martín later, as he’s getting ready for bed, to check the footage from when he’d left the house. He left Andrés alone, and even though he was bound, Martín just—has to check.
It’s barely a minute after Martín leaves the house when Andrés slumps back against the wall and stretches his legs before him, working his zipper down. Martín has seen him in all possible states since they got there, from the height of fury to completely broken down, but he’s never seen him like this—hungry, frenzied. Working himself with abandon, a furious blur of motion until, minutes later, he comes in his cupped palm with a sound that the microphone didn’t catch, but is clearly frozen on his lips.
Martín feels drunk with the memory. He goes over that footage so many times he’s memorized it. He wants, so badly it consumes him, but he can’t — he can’t.
He’s confused, for the first time since he found himself with a hypodermic needle in Andrés’ neck, actually going along with his plan. There was a part of him that used to hold him back; that voice inside his head that kept him from jumping off of ledges when the void called for him, that didn’t allow him to do what any of his intrusive thoughts were trying to get him to do. The “what if I did, though? Swerve into traffic. Put my palm on the hot stove. Use this knife to—“
That voice—the voice that keeps everyone in line with the social contract people live by, the one that allows them to live and to function—died the second Andrés’ limp body sagged to the floor back in his apartment. Martín had it all planned out, detailed and precise even behind the veil of “I’m obviously not going to do it”; and from that moment on, he just—did it. Car ride. A flight in the back of some smuggled cargo. Another car ride, a car especially left for him at the airfield. Then the house, the chains. Andrés.
He knew how it would all play out. Maybe not the finer details, or some of the unforeseen hitches in the road; but he knew how it would happen. And now that it did, he doesn’t really know what to do.
Andrés is relieved to see him with his breakfast, the next morning. Neither of them mentions what happened, and Martín doesn’t know if he’s grateful or angry that they don’t. It changed things between them, it becomes obvious the longer they’re in the room together. No matter if they’re silent, the air eventually grows heavy around them, weighted with tension and making Martín squirm. He leaves the room when that happens, has to leave before he knows he won’t be able to resist the magnetic pull of Andrés.
A day goes by. Two. The third, things seem to have simmered long enough for Martín to decide to have his dinner on the mattress, by Andrés’ side. It’s been a long day, the forecast said snow, and the temperature was already dropping to lows that hadn’t been seen in that area in years. He had to stock up, to get gas and a shovel since the house didn’t seem to have one. He tells Andrés he’s almost managed to fix the heating, and it should finally be running in a day or two—Andrés rolls his eyes with a “finally” when he hears it, and it feels nice all of a sudden. It feels like them.
This was them now, and could have been them all along. Andrés turns to face Martín, then slowly leans closer until his breath falling heavy in the crook of his neck. It’s intoxicating to be that close, in a promise that Martín has no doubts will be delivered, but he enjoys the moment with everything it brings. The small pull at the front of Martín’s shirt where Andrés’ hands knot themselves. The hitch in his breath when Martín angles closer, slotting their noses together. Minute things that Martín experiences with reverence before Andrés takes a small breath and kisses him.
Martín does do drugs. Has been known to, on occasion. He calls things by name and isn’t ashamed of his addictions. There’s not a lot of things that he’s ashamed of anymore. So he’s done drugs, but none of them compare to this—the closeness. Feeling Andrés’ want, being the subject of his desire. He could see himself ruin his life to get this.
In a way, he already has.
Andrés presses him to the mattress and Martín goes with it. It’s as close to an out-of-body experience as he’s ever had—sinking into that mattress, feeling Andrés straddle him, his weight draping itself over his own body. Andrés’ lips on his own, his fists and the metal edge of the handcuffs digging into Martín’s chest. Everything is sharp and in focus and then it melts around the edges when Andrés rolls his hips and grinds into him.
There’s not a second when Martín actively thinks of what they’re doing. He’s way past thinking; he’s caught in an action-reaction loop that feeds off of the ache between his legs, the one that gets stoked whenever Andrés’ cock slides against his own.
There’s a moment when Andrés pushes himself off and Martín almost panics, hand on its way to pull him back, but he’s not leaving—he’s sitting up to work Martín’s pants open, and then his own. He gets his cock out of his pants and Martín follows, because that’s the game that they seem to be playing: Andrés says what he wants, and Martín obeys.
It gets hot soon, sweat pooling on the back of Martín’s shirt but it’s an afterthought. Irrelevant. Not worth the effort to remove his shirt because he can’t focus on anything at all; all he’s able to do is to give in to the friction against his cock, to keep grinding until he’s come.
Andrés seems to read his mind then, pushing again to sit and spitting into one of his palms that he then wraps around them both, easing the slide into a new dimension of feeling. He’s getting close, he can feel the urgent pull of it—
But then Andrés stops, getting back up. Martín tries to chase the feeling, canting his hips up, and it’s not the same but it’s enough, and he rolls his hips and closes his eyes, and—
It only lasts a second. His eyes snap open with the press of hands around his throat, thumbs pushing down on his windpipe.
Darkness eats at the edges of his vision, at the edges of his consciousness. No air fills his lungs but there’s pinpricks bursting down his throat where Andrés’ hands are pressing.
“I told you I was going to,” says Andrés.
It’s the last thing Martín hears.