Chapter Text
Raquel pulls up beside him at eight-thirty on the dot, as if to further prove that she can bend both traffic and time to her will. Martín is only on time (which he hopes will score him some points in her book) because he’s learned that if he’s not, Raquel won’t wait for him. She’s always been a good influence on Martín - with or without his consent.
“How is it that after everything you still ended up with a driver?” She drives off as soon as Martín is buckled, then takes a look at the clock on the console. Yeah, she’s aware of every second that goes by. “I think we’ve made a tactical error, we should have taken the subway. You know, that box on wheels that runs underground every couple of minutes and where you don’t have to worry about traffic, or finding parking on the first day of the new academic year?”
“The one full of poor people? Yeah, I’ve heard stories,” snarks Martín. “Look, I’m living under the radar, not slumming it. And you’re driving a Skoda Superb, for fucks sake, not the family Volvo.”
“Oh, the old Rodolfo Rovolvo,” she says, with a grin she’s not even trying to hide. “How is he, by the way? Wife pregnant again?”
“Surprisingly, no. It seems that six was the magic number. He was still driving for my father, last I heard, but I don’t think he’s on some sort of regular schedule anymore. He’s done his years,” he says, and God knows it’s true. Rodolfo had been driving Martín to and from school - and, eventually, everywhere - since he started kindergarten. Martín has spent more time with that man than he has with his own father. He’s the one who gave Martín his first pack of condoms when he started picking him up later and later from friends’ houses, looking disheveled and rosy. He’s the second person that he’s come out to (the first being Raquel). He misses the man. “And if you’re so bothered by driving, I can do it. I’ve been known to drive from time to time,” he jokes, except it doesn’t sound funny seeing how it’s true.
“I’m not letting you put in practice hours on our way to class, Martín. We’re taking the subway tomorrow.”
“Okay,” counters Martín, always quick to negotiate. “How about this - I’ll study with you throughout the whole first semester, extra sessions for exam season; the whole lot. I’ll even do flashcards and that thing you like to do, the— the—”
“You say that like you’re doing me a favor, come on,” says Raquel. “No, you’re revising all my papers this semester. All of them.”
“That’s insane, I’d rather just take a cab to class every day; who cares? All classes?”
Raquel keeps her eyes on the road and just shrugs. “It’s that or the subway.”
“Or taxis; taxis are still on the table.” They’re really not, but it’s not like he’s giving up without protest. “Okay, I’ll do physics and maths, full with study sessions, revisions et cetera; but you help me with English.”
“You don’t need help with English,” says Raquel, but then takes her eyes off the road just to extend a hand that Martín shakes. “Deal. But if you’re ever late, I’m not even joining you on the subway, you’re on your own to figure it out like the big boy you presumably are.”
They find the right amphitheater with five minutes to spare and it’s packed already - probably more people than the teacher will ever see all year. The first row is empty, surprising no one, and all it takes is one look between him and Raquel for them to head right over. Minutes pass, people cram in the back and no one joins them.
Class starts.
Martín isn’t paying attention. He checked out the second the professor started talking, safe in the knowledge that as long as Raquel isn’t putting pen to paper, it’s not worth knowing. He looks over at her briefly, and she’s focused enough that she doesn’t even notice him looking. She’s always been so serious, so grown-up about the right things in just the right amount - absolutely not Martín, not even a little bit; so he’s still surprised that they became friends to begin with. Even when they met, first grade, even as dumbass six-year-olds, they were so different, and still got along instantly.
“ —thirty percent,” says the professor, who’s now writing something on the blackboard.
Panicked, Martín looks at Raquel’s notebook, then back at the blackboard.
“Papers must be submitted in physical form, no excuses,” continues the professor, underlying the word excuses three times. “I accept handwritten too, I don’t care if you ran out of toner or your cat spilled juice on your printer. Don’t send me emails, we’re not pen-pals; my office hours are posted everywhere and my door is always metaphorically open even though I do encourage knocking. You’re allowed to be idiots, just don’t remain idiots.” Martín sort of likes him. Until he does the quintessential cool teacher thing of sitting on the edge of the desk, ready to have a heart-to-heart with them. He toys with the chalk before finally setting it beside him. “Look, it’s fine if this whole thing isn’t for you, be it physics or university in general. Some of you may have been pushed to do this by your parents, some may think you want this but the reality of it will not match your expectations. Some— yes,” says the professor with a fake apologetic hug, “may just not be smart enough to come up with the unified theory of everything. What I want to say is, if you want to do this and work hard enough for it, you will. If you like it, it may be easier. But if you don’t, you don’t. Alright; that being said, I want to know where you all stand so I’ll know to adjust the curricula where needed. I don’t want to start off with some of you having gaps that will be vital later, so I’m going to hand you some papers, don’t feel pressured as this isn’t graded—”
The sheer panic that started coursing through Martín’s veins at the words is cut dramatically short by the noise of the amphitheater door squeaking open with a pitiful whine. Everyone turns around, a sea of about a hundred people with probably the same trepidation in their hearts that Martín had, to witness a clearly overdressed guy standing in the doorway with an ever growing smile, basking in the attention.
“Oh, I apologize,” says the guy, clearly not meaning it. “Professor Alcade’s Fundaments of Physics? I believe the office gave me the wrong papers.”
The teacher just waves him without a second look. “We can all do without the spectacle; if you’re late just come in, sit down, and pay attention. Now,” he continues, holding a stack of papers. “Hand these to everyone and don’t turn them over until everyone’s gotten theirs, I’ll tell you when to start.”
Raquel hands him some papers hastily stapled together, takes a set for herself then hands the rest of the stack to the person behind them. Martín isn’t even looking at the papers, he’s looking at the guy who seems to scan the room, looking for someone, then is surprised when he makes eye contact with Martín and smiles like he knows him. And he’s also heading over with enough drive that Martín momentarily forgets the only empty seats in the whole hall are the ones beside them.
“Did I come at a bad time?” The guy takes the seat next to Martín, flashing a confident, if a little goofy smile. “I’m Andrés. Got another one of those?” He asks, pointing at the papers in Martín’s hand.
Stupidly, as if compelled, Martín hands them over then turns around, content, to see his empty desk.
“Everyone got their papers?”
Martín opens his mouth to say something when the teacher wordlessly hands him a test then says to class, “You have forty-five minutes. If you cheat, you’re only cheating yourself.”
Beside him, the guy - Andrés - leans over. “Got a pen?”
In a ridiculously small room on the top floor, all alone, Martín sits atop one of the benches and leafs through a textbook. He purposefully chose to stay behind while the rest of the class decided to spend the hour and a half window they had before the next class out at a terrace, and now he’s sort of regretting his choices. In all fairness, Raquel didn’t go out with the class either, but only because she has to stand in a queue somewhere to handle stuff about her lodging; he has no excuse. He flips the page, realizes he has no idea what he read and flips it back.
“So? Have you figured out who the murderer is yet?”
Martín lifts his gaze, muscles tense and ready to jump off the table at the first sight of an authority figure.
It’s Andrés.
He doesn’t move. “What?”
“It’s a joke,” says Andrés, pointing at his textbook. First semester Physics. “Interesting book, I’ll give it that, but hardly something I’d hide away to read.”
“It’s really good, you’ll have to give it a shot someday.”
Andrés hums in agreement, then steps in. There’s a little showy element in how he walks, like he expects people to admire him, and it’s a shame the modest classroom doesn't provide him with an appropriate catwalk. He stops right by Martín’s desk, affecting a casual lean against the one right beside it. He takes a look at Martín, then at the sprawl of papers spread around him.
“Rumor has it you’re an excellent note-taker. The best.”
“There are rumors already? It hasn’t even been half a day.”
“I have a very good ear,” says Andrés. “And a very good eye for talent. You have exquisite handwriting.”
“Not my notes but thanks. Flattery will get you literally everywhere.” He studies Andrés for a second; he really really wants to believe that he’s being flirted with. Is this what it is, or is he just being dumb and horny? “Why the sudden interest in my notes; do you not plan to make an appearance in class too often?”
“I like to plan ahead for any possibility.”
“Well, in that case, what’s—” in it for me, but he doesn’t manage to get all of that out because in waltzes some guy, tall and wide and clueless, who opens with a concise, “Uhhhh” then just stands in the doorway like a confused oaf.
“I think I have the wrong room,” he adds, and a little bit of an accent - Slavic maybe? - bleeds through. He doesn’t wait for an answer, he turns on his heels and leaves, and Martín just turns to stare at Andrés with equally confused amusement.
“Isn’t he in our class?” He’s sure he’s seen him a couple of rows behind; he might even know his name if he tried hard enough to remember (he won’t). Weird. “Uh, we were talking notes?”
“We were,” agrees Andrés.
“So you want my notes in exchange for— what, exactly?”
“What would you like?”
What would he?
“A favor. You owe me one favor, no questions asked, whenever I may need it.”
“You think very highly of your notes.”
“So do you, it would appear; you’re the one proposing a deal.”
“Actually, I hoped you could just lend me your notes, but I like the way you think. Alright, you have a deal - a favor, no questions asked, in exchange for your notes whenever I may need them.”
“Deal,” says Martín, offering his hand to shake on it. “You’re really bad at negotiating though, you didn’t even ask what kind of favor you’re agreeing to.”
“That’s what makes it interesting,” says Andrés. He takes a look at his watch, then sinks his hands in his pockets as he starts to walk away. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
The definitive yes slips out of Martín’s mouth before his brain can even catch up with it, he can’t even begin to understand why he said that.
“Shame,” answers Andrés. “I’m meeting some friends at the Matador this evening, around ten or so in case your schedule clears. Hope to see you there,” he says with a wink before he disappears.
Martín spends his afternoon unpacking the last of his boxes, the ones he didn’t allow anyone to even touch. He’s not sure if he wants to stay in Madrid after he finishes university - well, he’s not sure what he wants to do in general - but he packed like he’s never going back home. Which is the one thing he does know; that he never plans to go back there.
Evening creeps up on him and, before he knows it, his stomach starts to protest. He texts Raquel to bring some dinner when she drops by later, and pushes the boxes out of the way.
“I brought pizza,” comes Raquel’s voice just as Martín steps out of the shower. Right on time, as always; just as Martín’s stomach started to sound angry.
He plants a noisy drive-by kiss on her cheek before noticing that there’s only one box and giving her a quizzical look. “Are you on a diet?” He asks. “I assume this one’s for me; I’m not sharing.”
“Yeah, I had dinner with Alicia right before I— Oh,” she says, digging into her backpack for her phone which was vibrating loudly. “Sorry,” she says with an apologetic smile, and picks up.
Martín finishes the entire pizza and Raquel is still on the phone. She’s talking excitedly, laughing with gusto and doing just about anything shy of twirling her hair - and she’s talking to Alicia. The girl she’s met not twelve hours ago and that she seems to have completely abandoned him for.
In truth, he’s jealous. His dislike for that girl was instant and insistent; when Raquel brought her to lunch with them he did his best to try and get to know her, to seem like a halfway decent person but Alicia? She just rubbed him the wrong way, being challenging and argumentative and condescending, and then she monopolized Raquel’s attention.
Finally, he’s had enough. When Raquel groans and curses at her phone, finally ripped out of whatever bubble she’s been caught in, he pipes up. “Is she dying? Has she already dropped out? What can you possibly talk about that you haven't talked about all day, or can’t talk about tomorrow?”
“She’s just really cool,” says Raquel, digging through her backpack for her charger and finally giving him a half-glance. “She also wanted to go to the Police Academy but her parents were adamantly against it, and— You know when you meet someone that you have a lot in common with and you instantly connect? It’s that. It’s nice. Don’t be jealous,” she adds.
“Am not,” he argues, because there’s no way he’s admitting to that. “I thought we’d finally have a chance to catch up, you know; to hear your impressions or to tell you what you missed all day when you weren’t there because you were with Alicia.”
As if summoned by name alone, the phone starts to buzz again a minute after Raquel’s plugged it in. He huffs, rolling his eyes. “Seriously.”
Raquel doesn’t pick up the phone, and the rhythmic vibrations grate on Martín’s nerves. She walks over, plops on the couch beside him and drapes her hand around his shoulders, pulling him close.
“You’re still my number one, okay? But I’m going to make other friends. Just like you; I noticed you hung around with that uh— “
“Andrés?”
“Yes, that guy. He seems cute,” she says. “In an insufferable way.”
He is. Definitely cute, but he can see the insufferable part too. He opens his mouth to tell her about their earlier moment, but her phone’s literally moving on the table with how hard it vibrates. Defeated, he throws his hands up.
“Whatever, I’m going to my room. But I have all of your attention tomorrow on the way to class, okay?”
He can still hear her even through the headphones, so he turns the volume up and closes his eyes. He’s doing what he’s always done when he goes to his room after some sort of argument; he listens to music, doodles, and daydreams. It’s weird how life can change so fundamentally, while some things remain unchanged.
He wishes his friendship with Raquel stayed the same but it was bound to change, right? She wasn’t even supposed to go to UCM to begin with; it’s his fault for assuming that her just being there meant that everything else would remain unchanged. She chose to live in the dorms, for fuck’s sake, when she knew Martín’s apartment was more than big enough for the both of them, of course things would change.
Like, for example, the fact that he could play on his computer for as long as he liked, whatever he liked. Which he does — until he puts his headphones down for a moment and realizes the apartment is silent. Raquel’s asleep. It’s almost— eleven, he reads on the screen, and he’s inside.
He should be out there, making friends; real friends this time, who don’t cling to him due to how much he’s worth and what they get out of hanging around him. He’s got the benefit of a clean slate, with a new name, a sanitized version of his past and - for the first time in his life - no one looking over his shoulder. He’s free.
Or at least, he hopes that he is. He’s worked very hard for it, managed to stand up to his father for once in his life, and got what he wanted - it’s all a matter of everyone keeping their promises now. For Martín, it’s simple - he needs to keep his grades up and stay out of trouble. In return, his father finally relieved Martín’s security detail and, it was implied, anyone that may keep an eye on him in other ways. Of course, the fact that Raquel got into the same university really helped with his case; she was the responsible one and his father certainly liked her more than he liked him. She wouldn't be held in any way responsible for anything that Martín may do, in fact he’s pretty sure that if Raquel somehow got in trouble his father would find a way to blame him for it; but her presence and influence alone seemed to be a deciding factor in Martín gaining his freedom.
That’s why this day was important. That’s why he needed her close.
They’ve been in Madrid for a couple of days, but it was the tail-end of his apartment being set up so there were still people coming and going, phone calls being made left and right. He even went grocery shopping with Raquel and realized how severely underprepared he was for “real life” after growing up in an environment where his fridge just contained anything he wanted whenever he opened it, and dinner was simply served or ordered. Shopping for clothes; that he could do. Figuring out a house, like Raquel did? That was magic to him.
Today was the first day of his life as Martín Berrote, just some guy who really loves physics, not the son of a possible prime minister who’s being chauffeured everywhere and has men in suits following him.
It wasn’t always like that, and he knows that if his father actually plays his cards right, it will all go back to that, maybe even worse than ever before. That’s why, for now, he should be enjoying it.
Fuck it, he decides. What time did Andrés say? Nine? What’s being a couple hours late, right?
He has to take a cab to the bar, and he’s nervous and fidgety the whole way there. Raquel was dead-asleep when he knocked on her door, so he let her sleep. Maybe it was for the better; who knows. Maybe he wouldn’t be going home with her at the end of the night so not pulling her out of bed just to drive him around is a kindness.
The club is a decidedly less fancy affair than he expected given the way Andrés presented himself. Let’s just say that if the cab pulled up to a gallery opening, he wouldn’t have been at all surprised — not that this was a dive bar either. Sure, it was a place that students could still afford— but maybe not all of them.
Andrés is sitting at a table on the first floor, Martín spots him as soon as he’s inside as if he had a beacon. He’s turned away, gesticulating widely as everyone at that table has their eyes on him. Well, at least his friends seem to like him; that’s a good sign (as Martín learned from having been with someone very much not like that for a while.)
Worst case scenario, he gets a new friend. No, worst case, they really don’t have anything in common and don’t talk again until they graduate. But the best case—
He’s at the top of the stairs, his stomach knotting itself painfully with nerves, (nerves!) - when a hand sprouts up from the group at Andrés’ table and a dark-haired girl leans out, looking for a waiter. For a second Martín almost thinks he sees a glimmer of recognition in her eyes but then a tall woman in a tastefully skimpy dress walks past him and towards the table.
Not a moment later, Andrés turns around and his whole face lights up when he spots him.
“You made it after all!” Andrés beckons him over, visibly pleased. “Everyone, this is Martín. Martín, this is— everyone.”
Everyone is quick to introduce themselves - Martín doesn’t recognize any of them and it makes sense once he realizes they all go to different universities. Miss raven-head with a strong nose is Ágata, she goes to art school, and she sits way too close to Andrés.
The conversation weaves through movies, books, trips they’ve all taken, and Martín is half-heartedly participating. It’s not that they’re excluding him, it’s just that they’re clearly a tight-knit group with a lot of history between them, and Martín is the new guy. Either way, he’s not too bothered - they all seem nice, a little drunk too so it doesn’t matter if he’s not making a stellar first impression, they likely won’t remember much the next day. So he observes them all, and sees a clear dynamic - Andrés is the leader of the group, the one they all defer to, the one they never interrupt. There are two couples around the table and a third may be forming as well, and all this time he’s trying to figure out why that Ágata girl hangs on to Andrés the way she does and he still can’t be sure.
Andrés seems like a tactile guy, he keeps touching Martín’s shoulder, he doesn’t shy away from the alcohol-fuelled group hugs that spontaneously erupt when they’re on the dance floor. He dances with Ágata, but he also dances with Martín and Daniel - he’s exuberant and joyful and alive.
And Martín is veering dangerously away from just tipsy territory and into actually drunk.
“I’m going out for some fresh air,” he yells in Andrés’ ear. Repeats it once Andrés leans closer, the music blaring all around them.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” he nods, then heads out through the crowd.
The late September air bites just the right amount when Martín gets out on the street; it’s exactly what his guts and lungs craved. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and can truly appreciate the fact that yeah, he’s having fun.
He’s actually having fun, he’s making friends. Well. Meeting people, at least. Nobody cares where he is right now. Not Raquel, not Rodolfo, not his security detail or his doorman (though he very possibly kept a log of all his comings and goings for his father to review at his convenience). He can just be, and it feels really damn good.
“Need company?”
Martín turns to see Andrés just beside him, taking a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
"Sure, yeah," he says, suddenly warm all over despite the wind. He shakes his head when offered a cigarette but takes great pleasure in watching Andrés light his own; click-click-clicking at the lighter with a crinkle of focus on his brow.
"Here," says Martín, cupping his hands around Andrés' long fingers. He's inordinately proud when it immediately works, he feels like he's accomplished something. (He's drunk)
"Teamwork," says Andrés with a smile. "Thank you."
"Yeah."
And here's the thing, he could enjoy the night, Andrés' presence, the excited little hum in his stomach — but he feels the need to fill the silence. "Your friends seem cool. Were you all in high school together?”
“No,” says Andrés. “Although I’ve known some of them for years. Others less. You should have met Keila - we left her in Paris - you would have found her fascinating. Especially after the third drink.”
“You studied in Paris?”
“A semester,” says Andrés. “Where did you go to?”
“Uh, all over, really.” True, and in just about as many details as Andrés gave.
“Really? I thought I read boarding school on you. The expensive kind, too.”
“Aren’t they all supposed to be expensive?”
“They are,” agrees Andrés. He takes a long drag at his cigarette, ashing it carelessly. "But they can be great fun, too, so I’d argue that they’re worth the price tag. As much as I hated having to go there, I took as much as I could from that experience; so seeing how I actively chose this university, I imagine I’m going to take a whole lot more this time. It’s a fresh start. I’m finally free.”
Martín nods. He gets that sentiment, viscerally, even though he’s not sure he fully grasps what “freedom” means. He still worries. He overthinks. “Do you know what you want to do after this?”
“Anything and everything I want. You?”
“Not a clue,” he admits. He knows two things: what he doesn’t want to do - follow in his father’s footsteps - and what he’s good at - physics. It made choosing a university easier, but that didn’t mean he chose it with any other plan in mind than to be somewhere that was neither home, nor business school. “I’ll probably figure it out,” he says, with a narrowing of his shoulders.
“I have a feeling life is more enjoyable if you don’t,” says Andrés. “And I think you don’t have to do anything, least of all things you don’t like. You owe yourself better.”
Martín scoffs. “It’s not that easy. You have to do shit every day, ever since you’re born, and some of it will be things you don’t want to be doing. Do you think I had a hard-on for differential calculus, and was dying to spend my evenings wanking over my textbooks instead of going out with literally everyone my age? No, but I had to.” Mostly because he had something to prove —which he did. “Not saying your plan doesn’t sound amazing, it really does. It’s just that the end justifies the means, and sometimes those means, as necessary as they may be, aren’t necessarily fun.”
It sounds wrong, but he blames it on the alcohol and suddenly getting worked up, but Andrés isn’t offended by having his bullshit philosophy challenged, he smirks and raises an eyebrow.
“So what you’re telling me is that you work hard. I like that in others,” he says. “I, for one, value the fun part of it. What’s life for, if not to be enjoyed thoroughly and with passion?”
And then, because Martín’s brain suddenly shuts off like an old public phone all out of credit, he just shrugs, an honest and unnecessary answer to Andrés’ rhetorical question.
Andrés, the fucker, laughs at him. Not meanly, or cruelly - but he laughs. “Alright.” He’s amused, not upset to have his personal philosophy challenged, even as poorly as Martín has tried to. “Do you want to go back inside? You don’t have to,” he teases, which Martín ignores.
He loses Andrés through the dancing crowd; he takes a step aside to let a group of girls dance-walk past and when he looks back, Andrés is gone. So he just stands there, getting in the way of seemingly everyone, and thinks about what Andrés said. Maybe he’s right, maybe he doesn’t have to do anything but the things he wants to do, like— what does he want to do though?
It’s Andrés who spots him and waves him over where he immediately gets caught up in a rapid-fire round of shots - one-two-three, in quick succession. He’s fine for the first minute or two, energized and exuberant, but then the alcohol hits him all at once and he realizes he's fucked up.
“Planetarium!” yells one of the guys - Daniel, maybe? - and other voices join in with excited cheers. They all seem to be leaving and Martín is on autopilot, tagging along because— shit, the planetarium sounds like a pretty good idea, even if he’s too drunk to fully enjoy it.
They walk in a disorganized pack, laughing and talking, and the evening air helps precisely zero with Martín’s state. He hoped the chill air would maybe sober him up a little but it only manages to make the sweat cool uncomfortably on his skin.
“Andrés is still buying,” announces Ágata loudly, to cheers and applause, as she hangs on to Andrés’ arm. “Our very own Dionysus,” she adds, and Martín does an almost comical double-take that he’s glad everyone was too distracted to see because it just might be that they’re thinking of different things if this planetarium involved alcohol.
“Guys,” he says. “I don’t think I have it in me. I, uh.” He swallows, suddenly feels self-conscious about slurring his words. “Yeah, I’ll just be heading home.”
Everyone protests, tries to wheedle him along but he stays firm. Well, he sways a little; but is still firm that he’s not coming.
“Do you want to call a cab?” Andrés asks, and Martín shakes his head. “Where do you live?”
“Oh just—” he says, gesturing vaguely. He has no idea where they are. “Close. And a walk will do me good. You guys have fun,” he says, then waves at everyone. He tries to think of something to say to Andrés, something that sounds cool and nonchalant.
“You guys go ahead, I’ll see you in there,” says Andrés to the rest of the group, who respond with pantomime disappointment.
“No, really, I’m fine,” protests Martín, but it’s mostly declarative, and Andrés is having none of it.
“A walk doesn’t sound bad at all,” he says. “Besides, you said you weren’t from around here, wouldn’t want you to get lost.”
“You pointed North; you know we’re not going North, right?” Asks Andrés, amused, after Martín takes a corner into yet another boulevard that doesn’t look even remotely familiar.
“It’s a shortcut,” says Martín, dryly. He stops to look around but yeah, he has no idea where they are. “Okay, lead the way.”
“I will as soon as you tell me where we’re going.”
“Calle de Goya. At— “ He shakes his head as if it would dislodge the memory. “I’ll know the building when I see it.”
“Well, that’s a start,” says Andrés. “Although I insistent on a cab. I’m paying,” he says, like money is the issue.
His protests fall on deaf ears, because Andrés is already one foot on the pavement, having already summoned a cab out of thin air.
“Morning, princess,” comes Raquel’s voice. Martín opens his eyes and immediately regrets it. Light hurts. Raquel’s chipper voice hurts. His stomach—
He makes it to the bathroom just in time, and slips down onto the cool tile after he finishes voiding his guts. He regrets every decision he’s ever made that’s lead him to this point.
“That’s what you get for partying on a school night,” says Raquel from the doorway. “You have time for a shower, I’ll make some breakfast and then you tell me everything. I can’t believe you went out without me!”
The shower helps somewhat; at least it gets him out of those rank clothes that he’s slept in. He stands under the rain shower, letting the water wash over him while he tries to piece together key parts of the previous night. Like how he got home, for example. He’s pretty sure he took a cab with Andrés, but—
Raquel kept her word and is waiting for him with a tortilla that instantly makes him nauseous again, so he pushes it away and goes for the coffee instead.
“Did I wake you up last night?”
“No, what time did you get in? And where did you go? And with who?”
“That’s a lot of questions,” he says. “I met with Andrés and his friends, we were at the— Matador I think? They sure like to drink a lot.”
“So do you,” she says. "The look of regret on your face tells me tequila was involved. I wonder which drunk Martín they got, the party one or the fight one. Or the sappy, emotional one."
"No, I was cool."
"I'm sure you think you were. Sober Martín is charming and persuasive but drunk Martín is often a clown."
Not untrue, just uncouth to spell it out like that.
"Whatever; they like me. You'd be surprised to find out that Andrés is very probably a trust fund kid—"
"I wouldn't," interrupts Raquel.
" —because he bankrolled a bill longer than the longest skirt in that whole club." He finally registers what Raquel just said. "You did not know he was rich, come on."
"Really? The clothes, the watch, the wallet, even the fountain pen he used to doodle that dick during Chem; he has expensive tastes and the means to fund them. Have you seen his car?"
"Okay," he says, defensively. He hasn’t seen his car, and now he kinda wants to. "The pen was mine but whatever. Anyway, he’s nice; he walked me home last night."
"And?"
And then nothing. "I tapped out early and he shared a cab with me."
"Well that's anticlimactic. Did you at least — "
"No." He could technically be lying. "And I hope you realize you’re still driving today, I am in no fit state to face public transit."