Work Text:
ping pong words here
Andrés de Fonollosa has never in his life stolen an ugly painting.
Truly, that's the paramount facet of his personal moral code; the aesthetics of a crime are very important to him. Sometimes he sells a piece, at other times he keeps it. Regardless of what he plans to do, and even if it's only in his hands for a passing moment, what he steals is never lacking in beauty.
That's why he can't stand what he's currently seeing on TV: a report of a painting stolen from a temporary exhibit at the Sorolla, his calling card left behind, his beautiful calligraphy spelling the name Berlín, because that's the name the world knows him by.
It's so ugly. It's the exact kind of work that makes him despair, the type that has him shaking his head and scoffing, muttering under his breath and they call that art, nowadays.
Call him old-fashioned, but he doesn't like art that is ugly.
And the man who stole it knows exactly what he's done, and Andrés takes out his phone to chastise him.
You're ruining my reputation.
The response is almost instant.
Sorry. Ought to let you do that yourself – you're so good at it.
Couldn't you find anything uglier?
No. I spent considerable time making sure I'd found the most hideous thing available. Just for you
Andrés has to breathe a sigh, before responding to that one, because despite himself, he's very flattered.
He likes existing in Martín's world. He likes the thought of Martín walking through the halls of the Sorolla, thinking about him. He could plan to steal a Picasso, or Goya, or Dalí, but his mind is already occupied. He could steal something beautiful, could acquire a piece that's been the subject of artistic scrutiny and academic debate, and instead, he stole that ghastly thing, just to spite Andrés.
Come for a mate, Andrés types, because he wants to hear the details. Wants to see Martín explain every single step of the crime, because he has such an attractive mind. Wants Martín to walk him through how he thought of Andrés, throughout.
I'm already outside
Andrés blinks at his phone, slow and surprised, and then the doorbell rings.
“Hi!” Martín says, brightly, as soon as Andrés opens the door for him. He has the flushed cheeks that speak of excitement, of adrenaline, of a successful crime. He's been victorious, and he's basking in that. He's carrying an orange tote bag – what a hideous colour; that must be the ugly little painting.
“Hi,” Andrés responds. He can't help smiling back at the sight of Martín's joy. “That painting is so ugly. Come in.”
“I'm glad you think so,” Martín drawls, “I was happy you hated it. Here you go,” he hands Andrés the bag, and takes off his coat. “Security was laughable. I hope they'll step it up, or I won't bother going back.”
“Not worth your talents,” Andrés agrees. “The vents, right?” Their little dance is familiar by now, so he goes to the kitchen to heat up water for Martín's mate. The only reason he even has a mate cup is because Martín got himself a spare to keep at Andrés's flat.
Andrés suspects he gets a little homesick, at times, and is just too proud to admit it.
Martín trails through his flat with him. “Ah, yes,” he says, “The whole place is so frail, I felt like I had to be so careful… But I didn't leave a dent. If anything, they ought to pay me, for finding their weak spots. Also? They ought to really fucking pay me, for taking a painting that ugly off their hands. Trust me, it's even uglier in person. You're going to loathe it.”
Andrés chuckles, pouring yerba into the cup, shaking it, leaving it at an angle like Martín taught him. Making mate is such a ritual, and he likes doing it. “I'm sure they're too dumb to be grateful,” he says, adding the bombilla, checking the temperature of the water before pouring it.
“They always are,” Martín sighs, wistfully. “You're the only one who understands.”
And to think – they were once strangers to one another. Out of all the decisions Andrés ever made, becoming a thief was by far the best, because it brought him to Martín's living room.
Andrés has always craved art. Craved it, in a way no one around him ever understood. What he didn't need was to pay twenty euros for his entrance to a prestigious museum, just to have his experience tainted by loud children, teenagers snapping pictures, middle-aged women making stupid comments about topics they knew nothing about. They couldn't tell Strauss from Grieg; how could they ever be trusted to understand the transcendent longing ever present in Monet’s depictions of Le Havre?
Andrés has loved art for as long as he can remember, but having to share it with others has always ruined everything for him. Museums and galleries just fail to foster the correct atmosphere, always falling short of unlocking the true beauty of the pieces held within.
Is it any wonder, then, if Andrés wanted to fix that? He was benevolent, really – he was protecting these works from unworthy eyes and loud exclamations; providing them with an ardent audience of one who could properly appreciate them. He was saving them, and helping them reach their full potential, their ever-intended glory.
In his rooms was where these beautiful works could truly shine. He would appreciate them better than anyone else ever could.
It wasn't his fault, if a painting called his name, and it wasn't his fault, if he happened to have a talent for crime. If anything, that was divine intervention; fate herself calling upon Andrés, asking him to make things right.
What an art thief needs, most of all, is drive. One needs to devote himself completely to the art of the crime, to ensure that he has considered every inch and every possibility of what he is about to do. Andrés has that; he has drive, and charisma, and a little bit of luck; lady Fortune loves him for his passion.
So when Andrés began to steal, he stole paintings he liked, but always ones that were left without proper vigilance. No cameras pointing right at them, no guards. Small enough to hide under his coat, easy enough to work loose from their frames. He wouldn't steal from the Prado, purely because the Prado has actual security systems in place, too many variables to consider, too vast to truly master.
But he steals from everywhere else. Cerralbo, Reina Sofía, Lázaro Galdiano, sometimes he even visits his hermanito in Toledo and steals from El Greco. He's careful but insatiable, and he loves what he does.
He steals, and he's content, and he's proud, and he's the only one in the world who feels this way, until, of course, another thief surfaces in his city.
When news started to proclaim that there was an increased number of art pieces being stolen in Madrid, it made alarm bells ring inside Andrés's head. Because he'd been stealing for years and years, in that same languid tempo. Not all of them were even noticed. There was no need to announce it like this – not unless someone else had also picked up the same pastime.
Suddenly, there was a reason for Andrés to make a name for himself, to craft an identity.
He learned calligraphy, and then he practiced calligraphy. He picked the name Berlín because it was powerful, and because it was a city of contradictions. He signed his new name with both hands, taking turns. He used different brushes, and different inks, was meticulous about appearing careless.
What he stole was always soft and ephemeral. Beautiful women, caught in a daydream. Flowers and fields and skies with soft pastel shades.
Even back then, Martín chose bold colours, powerful linework, scenes of storms and wars and dockyards, men at work.
It was ridiculous, that the press couldn't tell them apart – they were like night and day.
But then, were they so different, after all?
Some weeks later, Andrés read on the news that a painting had been stolen, and a calling card was left behind.
Palermo, it said.
Palermo’s calligraphy, if you could call it such, was very different from Andrés's – his lines didn't flow, they struck. They were sharp and unforgiving, bold.
Andrés was surprised. An unexpected warmth spread through his body, and he didn't quite know what to do with himself. He felt seen, by a fellow thief. Respected, by a fellow criminal.
He had never really longed for recognition, until this very moment.
He was quite flattered by that. It made his initial anger mellow at another crime having been committed in his city, enough that he was willing to read the rest of the details. Palermo had stolen from a small gallery, but he'd made the crime showy. It had it all – explosives, wrongly accused parties, even an affair had been made public, between the (married) gallery proprietor and his 19-year old (male) intern.
The crime had all the hallmarks of being made to draw attention, almost desperate to be written about. It was a shout into the void: I'm here, can you see me?
Andrés saw, and it made him smile. All this effort, for his sake alone.
He never kept newspaper clippings – he never even bought the newspaper, actually – but on that day, he ventured out to buy it, and cut the article out.
He didn't know Martín, back then, but what he had seen of Palermo made him feel a complicated kind of begrudging affection.
“I hate to say this,” Martín starts, standing in Andrés's living room, sounding irritated, “But I genuinely do not recognise this piece. Who's it by?”
Andrés follows his gaze, and chuckles when he sees the painting in question. Without knowing it, Martín is paying him such a beautiful compliment.
“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Andrés tells him, “I didn't steal it; I painted it.”
“You — You can paint? You painted this?”
“Of course I can paint.”
“That's incredible. It's nothing like the paintings you steal; this is better. You ought to–” Martín runs his fingers over the frame, like it's a man he longs to undress. “I want this one.”
Andrés is quite surprised, and admittedly flattered, by the boldness in Martín's insistence, by his willingness to just demand what he wants. And by his taste. Andrés has painted a fair few pieces, but this one is his finest.
Martín's interest makes him acquiesce. It turns out that he too wants this piece on Martín's wall, rather than his own. Wants Martín to consider it his own.
He'll find some brown paper to wrap it in, to make sure Martín gets it home without a scratch.
“You–” can have it, he starts to say.
“I'm going to steal it from you,” Martín declares instead, “One of these days.”
It makes Andrés smile, despite his surprise. Of course Martín doesn't want to be given things, and furthermore – wanting to steal this painting posits it among the greats, worthy of being showcased in any gallery. Martín is paying him a compliment that's both intimate and grand.
“You ought to be locked up,” Andrés drawls, basking in his attention.
Martín grins. “You alone could,” he says, “But you won't. I trust you, sans limites. I'll steal this piece, as a token of how much I trust you.”
What an insane amount of trust that is; an intense quantity of devotion. Martín would let Andrés ruin his life – he has enough evidence to get Martín locked up for years, and in restitutionary debt for the rest of his life.
But Martín knows he won't be doing that. Andrés could never ruin the masterpiece that is his web of crimes; wouldn't try and trap the beauty that is his mind.
Palermo’s introduction into his world pushed Andrés into stealing more famous pieces, bigger ones, better-guarded, more daring. He needed to make the news, now; needed to make his fellow thief aware that he was here, that he was listening, watching, always here. That this city belonged to them both, now, and he never was good at sharing, so the thief had to continue to prove himself worth it.
Andrés became a better thief, for having someone watching. Knowing that there was someone out there, appraising his work, with the knowing gaze of someone who shared his passion. It made Andrés want to steal better. Every crime needed to be a true work of art. A complicated thing, yet executed with grace. He needed to retain just an edge of fallibility, to make his successes stand out even more, against the backdrop of a possible failure, ever looming in the horizon. He needed his one-man audience to respect him as his only equal.
Andrés started to tirelessly look for something he wanted, started stealing more often, adding in pieces he didn't plan to keep, but that were beautiful and worth stealing, and would fetch a pretty penny.
Sometimes, the news even reported two crimes, on the same day. Berlín and Palermo, both at large – and Andrés felt disappointed, to know how close they had come to running into one another. How close he'd been to meeting his fellow thief. Palermo clearly craved to be known by him; why else make his crimes so showy? He wanted Andrés's attention, and Andrés was impressed enough to long to bestow it upon him.
Soon enough, it was no longer enough to play cat and cat; he wanted to meet this man – for Palermo was always a man, to Andrés. He never entertained any delusion that a woman could be his equal. No; to be so daring and devoted, this had to be a man. And Andrés craved to make his acquaintance.
That's why he designed a pretty little cat trap. A gorgeous, bespoke trap to attract this specific thief to him. His plan had it all; a rare painting, showily being brought to an exhibit for a very limited amount of time. Bold colours, lax security – everything about it was customised to lure Palermo to him.
And lure him, he did.
Martín never dreamed of leaving Argentina. Many immigrants did, he'd noticed, and his parents were immigrants too. They dreamed all their lives of leaving Italy, and then they finally did, and spent the rest of their lives talking about going back to where they still felt they belonged.
But Martín didn't long for some long-lost faraway home across the sea; Argentina was the only home he had ever known, and the only home he cared to know. His parents failed to instill within him a love for Italy, or for Europe, and he spoke Italian only to his nonna, and even then he did so haltingly and with a strange accent his parents had given him, and one they still hated to hear.
It was true irony that he was the one who left. He came to Europe, and Europe held no illusions about whether or not he belonged there; forty years his family had spent in América, and that had somehow soiled the blood in his veins, and his blue eyes and shaky Italian couldn't buy him a home.
It didn't matter. He already had a home, across the sea, and if he ever wanted to go back, he didn't have to spend two months on a ship. He could take from Europe the prospects that were never given to his family.
And the art. He could steal all these grand pieces of the old world, just because he liked them, and wanted them.
And he could go back home, after. Whenever he wanted. His mamá is still there, and she writes, and she calls, and she misses him, but when Martín tells her shiny lies about his respectable job, she accepts it with a wet voice.
Their first meeting was at Martín's flat. Because it was easy to arrange that. Andrés set his little cat trap, and Martín swallowed it whole, taking the painting and the little GPS tracker Andrés had carefully hidden on the back of the canvas.
Andrés was lounging in Martín's favourite armchair, when Martín came home. His first sight of Martín – whom he didn't yet know by name, but that name came to redefine his life, so that to think him a stranger feels so laughable – was of the man dropping his leather jacket on the floor, with a sigh.
“Welcome home,” Andrés said, from the darkness of his living room, and Martín's whole body froze.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, flipping on the lights. Andrés squinted at the sudden brightness, but that didn't stop him from noting Martín's accent, the intemperate rhythm of his words.
“You seem to be in the habit of taking things that don't belong to you,” Andrés drawled, basking in knowing that this was Palermo, without being known in return. He stood up from the armchair. “Do you know what we do with men like you, in this country?”
Martín sneered at him. “You're so sure of yourself,” he said, slowly, “Berlín.”
Andrés stared at him, his blood growing cold.
“What?” Martín prompted, “Did you take me for an idiot, hm? Of course I, too, can follow the trail of crime. That's what we do, you and I.”
“You're mistaken,” Andrés said, just to see if his certainty would waver, but of course it didn't.
“I could be,” he conceded, “But I'm not. That crime was a little too perfect. My style, to a T. And you know that, already. I don't trust the police to have figured it out; they couldn't even tell us apart, until you started literally signing your crimes.”
Martín – not Martín, yet, but already so recognisably himself, so proud and self-confident – gave Andrés one of his dashing, handsome grins. The first of many, but this first one struck Andrés down.
“My name is Martín,” Martín said, his voice level, “Martín Berrote.”
Andrés, a fool, didn't immediately strive to be his friend. “If you knew this was a trap, then why would you…”
“I didn't know it was a trap,” Martín corrected him, leaning closer to Andrés, “But I hoped it was.”
Momentarily, Andrés didn't know what to say. He felt like he's staring into the eyes of an equal. Not a petty thief or a desperate bank robber – a fellow artist.
“You wanted to meet me, didn't you?” Martín prompted him, “This painting was clearly meant for me, specifically. An open, yet intimate invitation. Well,” Martín spread his arms, “Here I am. I wanted to meet you too. I wanted to know you, not by the name you have the press calling you, but by the name a lover would.”
“Andrés,” he said, transfixed, unable to consider a lie, let alone committing to one, “de Fonollosa.”
“Mm,” Martín hummed, “It's good to meet you, Andrés de Fonollosa. I find your crimes beautiful. Will you tell me about the Rembrandt you stole last year? I thought that was one of your finest works. Left them all astounded. It made my week.”
Andrés opened his mouth to speak, eager to tell him everything, eager to finally share something so integral of himself with someone else, but–
“How do I know you're not recording this?”
“First of all, you were here first. You could've bugged my entire home, and I'd be devastated to be thrown in prison.” Martín chuckled, like his life being ruined was amusing to him. “And secondly? Making sure I'm not recording a thing is easily done. Strip me bare, and then you'll see.”
Strangely… Andrés felt a fleeting temptation to do just that. Like unveiling a painting, was it not? Was Martín not a piece of art longing to be appreciated? Was Andrés not the only one who could do it right? Was he not–
But Martín withdrew the offer before Andrés ever got the chance to react. To turn him down, that is; Andrés wasn't like that.
“Relax,” Martín drawled instead, “I can tell, by your crimes, that you have morals. Ethics. You care not only about the theft, but how it's done. And I don't think you'd do something as tasteless as ruining my career. You wanted to meet me, didn't you? Here I am, Andrés.”
“Here you are,” Andrés echoed, a little reverent, “I would… I would love to tell you about the Rembrandt, actually. Do you have coffee?”
Martín chuckled. “I have liquor, if you wouldn't rather.”
(He also had mate, of course. But Andrés didn't know that yet; a cup of mate was something Martín would only share with a friend.)
That's how Andrés found himself on Martín Berrote’s sofa, walking him through one of his finest crimes, with Martín eagerly hanging onto his every word. It felt amazing, to share something like this with someone who knew the right details to press for, and could properly appreciate the answers he received. Who could admire the crime in its full glory.
Maybe Andrés is quick to warm up to Martín, but he wanted to meet him for so long, after all. Now that Martín is here, it makes so much sense.
And the rest? The rest is history. The rest has Andrés becoming acquainted with this thief, with this man, the one man who sees the world like he does.
The rest makes Andrés's life that much brighter.
Martín only moved to Madrid because of Andrés. Or because of Berlín, anyway – the man captivated Martín from the very start.
There was a series – a slow series, mind, spanning over years and years – of art thefts in the Spanish capital, as well as around it. Martín could tell it was the same man, because he had a type. Pretentious, pretty little French girls, nonexistent little things. Dreamlike longing; gentle torture.
Martín saw the pattern before the newspapers did, and he admired that, quite a bit. The boldness to have a type, the daring to stay local and presume you wouldn't get caught. The artistry of those crimes. They were beautiful; they understood Martín, where everyone else only bored and disappointed him.
So when he got bored of Rome, and needed a change of setting, and he pulled out a map–
He didn't even look at a map, actually. Didn't consult the internet, didn't ask anyone.
And he hadn't actually gotten bored of Rome, either.
Regardless, he bought flights to Madrid.
No, not flights – just one.
One afternoon, Martín breaks into Andrés's flat. No reason, other than to amuse them both. He's sure Andrés would give him a key, if he asked for one, but he's in the mood for a cute little crime. He's brought a painting along, an ugly little thing that he plans to hang in Andrés's bedroom, so that it'll be watching him in all its blotchy glory, every morning, first thing when Andrés wakes.
But when he gets to Andrés's bedroom, he's surprised to learn… the spot he wanted is already taken, by something much more beautiful. Benito Quinquela Martín, the bold colours of La Boca. It's so gorgeous, and so reminiscent of his home, that Martín feels a fussy longing tugging at him to come closer.
Surely Andrés couldn't know Martín had grown up right there, just outside the frame – couldn't know how fiercely proud he was of his barrio – couldn't possibly know Martín was named after this very man. Andrés wouldn't know, because Martín knows he hasn't said. He tries not to talk about his home too much, because then he'd begin to pine for it, and he– he can't go back. He did the brave thing in leaving once, and he's not sure he'd have the heart to do it a second time.
Martín runs his fingers over the frame of the painting, reverently. Then he remembers that he probably shouldn't put his prints on a stolen painting, just in case.
He's had ample opportunities to steal one of these back home, but he would never. Andrés has his ethics, and Martín has his own: he's no Robin Hood, but he draws the line at stealing from a lovingly curated museum in his own barrio. Things are hard enough as is. But if it made its way to Europe? Fair game. He's happy Andrés found it.
It's probably just a coincidence. Andrés doesn't know what he's stolen
– what he's put on the wall of his bedroom –
– how much it looks like the works Martín usually steals –
– what it means to Martín, personally –
can that possibly be mere coincidence?
It's the first time Martín sees a painting he really likes, and wants it to stay exactly where it is.
He props the painting he brought up against the wall. It's close enough.
What is this ugly thing in my flat? Did you forget to take out the trash again?
Martín grins widely, as he responds. He fucking loves having Andrés in his life. Andrés is a bright comet that has blinded Martín with its light, making everything else appear dull and lifeless, and he doesn't even care if his sight is permanently damaged from his brightness. Or else he's a volcano – one of those that erupt and cover everything in ash, grounding all the flights, blocking the sun – Martín is Pompeii, under his influence.
Cute that we're roleplaying domesticity now
Roleplaying? Everything between us is real, Martín.
Andrés has such a strange way with words. He'll say something that heavy without even blinking, and Martín will be left wondering if they're flirting, but on completely different pages. Or maybe different books; Andrés is skimming through Crime and Punishment, while Martín is carefully reading through the instruction manual of his new blender. Even when they're standing right next to each other, Martín isn't quite certain where they are and what they are.
But he loves it, nonetheless. Wherever they are is exactly where he wants to be.
“I want to show you a painting,” Andrés says, and Martín knows him well enough by now to have his interest instantly piqued, by the gravitas of his tone.
“A painting,” he says, “One you've stolen?”
“No,” Andrés sighs, “One at the Prado.”
Martín hums an agreement. “Ah. And what makes this painting so special?”
Andrés shrugs. “I've always loved it. When I first moved to the city, I thought… I was touched by it.”
“Okay, well– you'll have to share it with me, now,” Martín says, as if Andrés hadn't just offered to do exactly that. Andrés likes his insistence, though. Martín is so demanding, in everything he does. He's used to having to take; nothing is ever freely given to him.
As they head for the Prado, Andrés makes a decision. A private one, quiet. He's going to make sure that Martín no longer has to demand things.
He'll make sure Martín is given a quiet kindness from the very universe.
“This is the one,” Andrés says, gently.
Over the years, throughout decades, he's made himself bare in front of countless women, has shown them all of himself, and gotten to know their bodies intimately.
But as he stands in the busy halls of the Prado, with Martín by his side, confessing to a love that has for long defined him – this feels like a much more important moment, to him.
“This one?” Martín says, but his voice is free from mockery. “Friedrich, huh. And not a French woman in sight.” He tilts his head appraisingly, but he's looking at Andrés, not the painting. “Is it the warmth that appeals to you?”
“That,” Andrés agrees, “And the longing. Such longing for something, without being pained by it. A love that's kind.”
The statement is so weighty, he's about to withdraw from it, but Martín just nods, taking his words without judgment.
“I can understand that,” he says, “An affection that doesn't hurt… We always define ourselves by how we suffer, the lengths we're willing to go to… But wouldn't it be lovely, if we didn't have to?”
It's obvious that he speaks from experience, but Andrés doesn't address that. He's not really seen it this way, but when Martín says it, it resonates within him.
Wouldn't it be lovely, if love wasn't a suffering?
The painting – the painting Andrés made, the one Martín once professed an affection for – is gone one night.
In its place, is a calling card.
Mine
Palermo
Andrés holds it in his fingers, and laughter bubbles from his lips.
Martín is wonderful to talk to. He's a little rough around the edges, but once you get past that, he's a visionaire. Andrés loves to talk about art with someone who can see what he sees, not to mention talking about his crimes with someone who not only knows, but also appreciates, what he's done.
Not to mention, Martín is something of an art piece, also visually. He has a strong body, full of pride, nearly to the point of vanity, but he's charming enough to get away with it. Nothing wrong with knowing your own worth. If anything, that's an attractive quality in a man.
“You must have thought about it,” Martín drawls to him. The details are a little hazy from the alcohol, but the tone of voice is unmistakably seductive. He shifts slightly, and Andrés realises, for the first time, how close they are. The sofa is far too big for the intimacy between their bodies.
And yet, he doesn't move away. Even though he feels Martín's warmth pressed to his thigh, he remains. He's right where he wants to be, in fact. If anything, their orbits around one another have been growing tighter and tighter, pulling them ever closer.
“Thought about what?” Andrés says, playing for time, toying with the anticipation they must share, grabbing his nearly empty glass of Tanat.
Martín watches him, and continues to speak in the same languid tempo, “We're all curious, aren't we? At heart. It's only natural to wonder, to imagine… what it would be like, to touch what you've only admired at a distance…”
“I… maybe,” Andrés offers, carefully. He didn't realise Martín could tell. He thought he was entirely objective in his admiration; artistic. Martín must be used to men looking at him this way. If anything, his body beckons admiration, the way a beautiful painting invites you to lean in to assess all the details. But maybe you can't quite look at a man like that, without him realising–
“There's no need to be shy,” Martín says, gesturing with his hand, which lands on Andrés's thigh, burning him through his clothes. “I know exactly what it's like. If anything, I'd say I'm the only one who truly understands you. I know what you're thinking. But there's no need to hold back. You can take what's yours. We're thieves; that's what we were put on Earth to do.”
“Yes,” Andrés breathes, leaning slightly closer to him. He's only a man, after all. A thief. He should take what he knows ought to belong to him. “You're right.”
Martín grins at him. It's devastatingly handsome. “Lovely. So you want that painting– let's steal it, together.”
What painting?
Oh.
Martín is talking about the Dreamer. Of course. Not… the other thing Andrés's mind was conjuring. Drunkenly. His brain was connecting wires at random, and some of them just got a little crossed.
That's a… relief, really. There's no need for him to… turn Martín down, now. Which is what he was just about to do, of course. His lips were… forming a… gentle… rejection.
Once he shakes all the muddy confusion from his brain, and is actually able to focus on what Martín is saying, Andrés realises that he did just get propositioned. But Martín is offering not his body, but rather his mind.
What a wonderful offer that is. What an attractive, brilliant proposition. Martín is right; he's the only one who could ever speak these words. Andrés is thoroughly seduced by his idea of the crime. Or perhaps his own idea, only perfected by Martín. It doesn't matter; their desires melt and blend into one.
“You want us to steal the Dreamer,” Andrés says, tasting his thoughts on his tongue.
“You want the Dreamer,” Martín corrects, “I want to help you make that happen. You have dreams, and I want to see you realise them.”
“I've never stolen from the Prado,” Andrés says, even though Martín would already be aware of that, having admitted a fondness for his criminal career.
“Me neither,” says Martín, warm and eager, “Isn't it… beautiful? To put our talents into use, together… The perfect crime. We need both of our brilliant minds, to make it happen.
“It sounds wonderful,” Andrés breathes.
He doesn't make the other thing his own, that night, but he and Martín begin to plan a perfect crime, together.
When Andrés agreed to it, he was in a state of… confusion, perhaps. Seduced, maybe.
But now that he thinks about it, he's so used to working alone, he doesn't think he'll like having a… partner?, but he's also too prideful to turn back on his word, so he decides to give this a try.
“Where do you want to start?” Martín asks him, “It's not very big, is it? Thirty centimetres times twenty, or so.”
Andrés has no idea about the dimensions of his dream painting, so he just nods. “Thereabouts. We can start with division of labour?” he prompts, hoping to soften the idea of working together by having their own, separate tasks.
“Not ideal, when we don't know the task, yet. I'd say, let's start with a bottle of wine, and bounce the unknown variables.”
“Wine?” Andrés repeats.
“I love wine,” Martín drawls, reminding Andrés of the night previous, “And this shouldn't be a… chore. You don't seem very excited.”
“I am excited,” Andrés insists.
“Let's talk more about it,” Martín says, “Over Pinot Grigio.”
Once Andrés gives up his initial – rightful – hesitation, and they get started, they actually work incredibly well together. They have very similar appetites for risk; both the right kind of reckless. Sergio has often accused Andrés of being too optimistic, but Martín's cynical humour balances him out, like they were always fated to plan crimes together. Just like they did when they were committing their thefts separately, they push each other to become better, always helping each other see outside the box.
They throw themselves into planning. Martín all but moves in with him, because their ideas are so big, there's suddenly not enough hours in their days for realising them. They're too eager to be separated for a good night’s sleep, and Martín is always around, so it makes sense for him to start keeping some of his things at Andrés's flat. Andrés gives him a key without giving it any thought – it's just easier, so that he can go fetch groceries, while Andrés goes to observe the walking patterns of the security guards at the Prado.
Having Martín there all the time makes sense logistically. That's all.
(That's far from all.)
There's a… to call it an episode sounds a little weird, but it is slightly episode-esque.
Perhaps Andrés just isn't very used to having friends. Perhaps he's not fully prepared to experience the childlike wonder, the eagerness they share, excited to be planning a crime like this together.
Maybe it's the alcohol, too, at least in part. There's many culprits, to be sure. Andrés doesn't think he is one of them, and neither is Martín; external circumstances just happen to them.
He's excited! They've just made an incredible breakthrough; turning the crime from a theoretical to a genuine possibility! He has a very legitimate reason to be so happy that he jumps into his friend's arms, wrapping his legs around his waist, and by some drunken grace Martín does not topple over. He laughs, bubbly, his hands strong and steady on Andrés's thighs, his fingers curling slightly as he tilts his head back, shifting Andrés's body slightly to keep him steady, with Andrés pouring champagne in his mouth.
It feels wonderful. Andrés is so happy, in this moment, he doesn't think he's ever felt anything else that could compare. Not when he's fallen in love, not when he's gotten married. Martín's features are fond by the soft candlelight, stolen paintings all around them, victory on his lips.
Andrés has been to galleries and cathedrals, yet he has never seen so much beauty in one room. He has half the mind to cup Martín's face with his hands, to kiss him on his wet lips to seal their victory once and for all.
When Martín sets him down, Andrés is drawn to him, not like a moth to a flame, but like a flame to a disaster.
“You're heavy,” Martín huffs, but Andrés does not miss the heat on his cheeks. That wasn't there before. Andrés is struck by the desire to touch, and he's clearly not in the mood to deny himself a thing, so he does. His fingertips caress Martín's cheek as he says,
“And you are a genius.”
Martín’s smile moves Andrés's fingers along his skin. “I'm motivated by the beauty of this crime. It'll be radiant, Andrés.”
Andrés thinks that it already is.
“Who is this?”
“Oh, this is Martín,” Andrés says.
“Martín Berrote,” Martín says, offering his hand for Sergio to shake. He's putting his best foot forward, today, even meeting a cute little bowtie. It's an important meeting, and Martín has made it clear that he wants to make a good first impression.
Sergio shakes his hand, and eyes him with suspicion. “Sergio Marquina,” he says, his name leaving his lips almost unwillingly. Andrés can't fathom how he can be so nonplussed, in this moment. How can he touch Martín's warm skin and not wish to cling to him? How can he hear Martín's drawl of his name and not be thoroughly charmed? How can he look at Martín like he's just some man?
“It's a pleasure to meet you, Sergio. Andrés has told me much about you.”
“Andrés has not told me a thing about you,” Sergio says, because apparently he has to start showcasing his social maladaptivity immediately.
“I've said plenty!” Andrés insists, because that's a filthy lie, “I told you we're planning a perfect crime, and I told you that it's a thing of beauty, and that my partner is a visionaire!”
Martín blushes, lightly, even though it's not the first time he hears any of this.
“Yes, but I… I expected a woman,” Sergio admits, “So this is your…..”
The pause drags on for too long, and Andrés shifts his weight.
“.......crime partner?” Sergio ends his sentence, full of questioning lilt, like he's personally dissatisfied with that label.
“This is Martín, yes. But why would you even expect a woman?” Andrés scoffs.
Visionaire is not a word meant for women, by definition. All the ways he likes to describe his partner – genius, engineer, artist, visionaire, mastermind – are masculine by their very nature. Martín is as much of a man as a man can be.
Sergio opens his mouth to explain, and then closes it.
“I'm not sure,” he says, and Andrés can tell from the flick of his gaze that he's lying.
He'll have to ask his brother again, when Martín isn't with them.
“Andrés,” Sergio says, in the exact tone of voice of if you ruined my school science experiment by using the cup labelled Specimen #1 for painting, I'm not mad, but I do need you to apologise, “Who is that man?”
Andrés pauses. “I told you. He's Martín. My—”
“Partner, yes. I got that. Does he live with you?”
“No,” Andrés says, “He has a lovely little flat in Vinateros.”
Full of stolen art, just like Andrés's. Their flats are beautiful parallels, just like the men themselves.
“There's two toothbrushes in the bathroom. And too much milk in the fridge.”
Andrés chuckles, checking the temperature of the water. Not quite there yet. “Counting my toothbrushes, are you? We're no longer children, hermanito. But if you must know, then yes, he does have a spare toothbrush here. We often work late on our beautiful plan.”
“He can't take a ten-minute metro ride to sleep in his own home?”
“The metro stops running at one thirty,” Andrés points out. Sergio wouldn't know; he prefers to be in bed well by ten, while Andrés and Martín often have their most brilliant ideas around 3 am. “And we like to get back to work over breakfast.”
Well, that one is something of a lie: Andrés loves a languid breakfast, two cups of coffee and one lengthy mate enjoyed over two hours, and even though Martín often spreads their blueprints over the dinner table first thing in the morning, they usually chat for a couple of hours before any real work gets done. But that's irrelevant – the point is that Martín needs to be here, first thing in the morning. What's the point of him going to his own home for only a few hours? That would be so inconvenient.
“Andrés. You know you can… talk to me, right?”
“I am talking to you. Very currently.”
“Who is that man?”
“His name is Martín. Like I said, three times now.”
“And who is he, to you?”
“He's my partner. Again, like I said.”
“In crime?”
“Among other things.”
“Are you gay?”
“Well, that's not very modern of you, hermanito. Can two men not be friends, in this day and age?”
“You don't have friends.”
“I'm very wounded, Sergio,” Andrés says, pouring Martín's mate for him. Last week, Martín praised Andrés for making it better than he does. “I don't much like people, but it's not a matter of inability.”
And Sergio’s words do cut. When Andrés was a teenager, he got dragged to all kinds of tests, being accused of things like psychopathy and antisocial personality disorder. All because he stabbed a classmate with a well-deserved fork.
But Sergio ought to know that Andrés can and does care. He just does so for a very limited number of people – formerly one, currently two. In accusing Andrés of homosexuality, he's also indirectly claiming that Andrés cannot sustain a healthy friendship with anyone at all. Accuses him of only caring with his lower anatomy, instead of having a genuine connection with another human being.
And Andrés has been so proud of this friendship, too.
“I never said–”
“I heard you, and there's no need for you to repeat any of that, and especially not to my friend,” Andrés says.
(Martín is gay, but that doesn't change anything. Somehow, in Andrés's mind, Martín can be gay, but he cannot, wires are crossed in some way that short-circuits everything when he tries to touch them.)
Andrés refuses to let his mood be soured by Sergio’s baseless accusations.
He and Martín have a beautiful plan to show to his brother, after all.
Andrés meets Tatiana out in the street, which feels so fated. Two people on their way somewhere, just happening to cross paths today. Isn't that just so romantic?
They're not brought together by a shared love, which would've perhaps been Andrés's preference for their meeting, but this is the next best thing. He misses being in love, misses sharing his life with someone.
Tatiana is easily the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She's radiant and bright, and she takes his breath away from their first chance encounter.
He doesn't get her phone number; instead, he takes her out for dinner.
And sleeps with her, after. If their relationship develops very quickly and out of nowhere, then that's just because he's so enamoured with her, he feels a need to act on it right away.
He makes love to her, because of course this is love, and he makes her cry out his name, and he's in love with her, of course he is, because she's obviously a beautiful woman.
The next day, he introduces Tatiana to Martín – Martín, who has spent the night in his own home for the first time in weeks – and his friend is surprisingly easygoing about it. Why did Andrés expect anything less? Of course, Martín is a gentleman. There's no reason for him to be any other way, after all. Martín is… he isn't… There's nothing for him to feel irritation over.
Even though the initial attraction is still there after a few weeks, and Andrés makes love to her every night, his relationship with Tatiana remains depressingly unsatisfying. It's like an endless first date, and it fails to sate him. There's no depth, and he feels much lonelier than he did when he was spending his days with Martín.
But when he draws the comparison to Martin, it all makes sense. There's a clear reason for why his relationship with her hasn't grown to bloom, isn't there?
He isn't giving her enough of himself, that's what the problem is. He's not opening up, like he opened up to Martín. Tatiana is a beautiful orchid, but he's been neglecting to water her properly, by the roots.
“There's a painting I want,” he breathes on her clavicle, and before she can respond, he continues, “In the Prado.”
He's already told her that he's a thief, of course. Martín tried to stop him, but it's not Martín's place to decide what he tells his girlfriend.
But what he's not yet shared is the piece that he's certain will make all the difference.
“I'm sure there's many paintings you–”
He chuckles. Foolish little thing – she can't sense grandeur, when she sees it.
But he will paint it for her. That's his job, after all – she might be lacking in the vision required, so he has to provide it for her.
That's okay. He loves her, after all, and to love is to sacrifice.
That night, he painstakingly walks her through every step of their beautiful masterpiece, their near-complete plan. He lovingly points to pages upon pages of Martín's calculations, his own drafts, their conclusions, talking until she can't possibly fail to understand the true beauty of this crime. He shows her the blueprints, the maps, the placement of the cameras and the security guards, and explains how they've cracked every part of this crime, and how they plan to bring the Prado and the Spanish police down on their knees.
There's a glow in her eyes, as he finishes showing it to him.
Andrés is certain that this is exactly what their relationship needed.
When he tells Martín… Well, Martín is less than pleased.
“Why would you trust her with it?” he demands, aggravated from the start. Maybe Andrés ought to have mellowed him out a little, with some wine, or maybe a cup of mate. “She's–”
“She's my partner,” Andrés says; You're not, his tone implies.
Martín's eyes are more expressive than he'd probably like; hurt splashes into his gaze, spreading and tainting like an acrylic.
“And,” Andrés continues, to drive in the hurt, to make sure Martín understands his place in Andrés's life. “The Dreamer is mine.”
Not ours, he means, and Martín hears that loud and clear.
“Those plans…” Andrés continues, “They're mine to do with what I desire, are they not?”
Martín swallows his hurt, and his pride. Because he cares about Andrés, and wants what's best for him, and he doesn't think Tatiana is that.
“Of course they're yours,” he says, “I just don't think she's worth it.”
“She's worth it, if I make it so.”
Martín nods, shrugs. “I guess.”
He'll be fine, though. Perhaps he has just overstepped a boundary. Andrés has invited him to do so. They're both at fault – Andrés hasn't had space in his life for romance, lately. He's given Martín too much of himself, Tatiana too little, upsetting the natural balance of things, but it's never too late to make amends.
Their friendship only takes some damage. There's a fresh irritation to Martín, something simmering just beneath his skin, manifesting in a foreign coolness to his regard, but Martín does not let himself be pushed away. He's steadfast in his resolve; he's annoyed, but he's staying.
Maybe Andrés should steal him another painting. Maybe he'd like to see more of the bright colours of his home on Andrés's walls. Maybe bringing a piece of his country to him would make him stop pining for it so much.
“What do you want to steal next?” Andrés asks him, as they're lounging on his balcony.
Martín takes off his sunglasses, just to squint at the sun, and shields his eyes with his hand so that he can properly level a glare at Andrés.
“Wasn't aware that held much interest for you.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Except maybe I don't care to share my plans with your girlfriend. Have you ever thought of that, for even a passing second?”
“This anger doesn't suit you,” Andrés says. It's a lie, though; anger is a beautiful look on Martín. He wears it like a bride wears a veil; it both shields and accentuates what is already there. It recreates, without truly altering.
Martín chuckles. “Lies,” he says, “I've long since perfected it.” He puts his sunglasses back on, and hoists himself up. “I'll see you around,” he says.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” Martín says, shortly, and Andrés almost opens his mouth to ask home, your flat, ten minutes from here on the metro, or home, Buenos Aires, a flight of 13 cursed hours?, but his pride stops him from sounding so needy, and he scoffs.
“Suit yourself,” he says, annoyed because he already bought ingredients for dinner, enough for three, gnocchi because it's the 29th, and he thought it would make Martín at least smile. “I'll see you–”
“Around,” Martín repeats.
Andrés still follows him to the front door, every bit a doting pet, and despite everything, that earns him a smile from Martín.
“I don't like her,” Martín says, “And I want you to be careful, around her. She's not worth your trust.”
“She's my partner.”
Martín doesn't react to that, even though he ought to. What right does she have – that's Martín's line, but he fails to say it. He ought to demand his rightful place back, but he doesn't.
“Be careful,” Martín says once more, “If she betrays your trust…”
“She won't.”
“...I won't be your shoulder to cry on.”
They both know his threat is empty, even as he makes it.
Martín misses being homesick for his country.
Because that was so much easier. Yes, he always had a complicated relationship with it, and yes, he was the one who chose to leave, but it was still nothing compared to the strange strand of masochism he's found himself dealing with, when it comes to Andrés.
Andrés… Andrés wants him, Martín is pretty sure of that. From the day they met, in Martín's flat, Andrés has been drawn to him in a way that would've had Martín trying to fuck him or at least blow him long ago, if he weren't… Andrés.
Because despite wanting him, Andrés has also failed to act on that, time and again. And Martín isn't interested in risking their intimate friendship on the poker table of Andrés's internalised straight people bullshit, not when the house always wins.
Even though – or especially because – mere two days after the meeting with his stern-looking brother, Andrés disappeared on him completely out of the blue, only to return with some woman he's supposedly now in love with.
Martín got that message, loud and clear. Andrés craves to appear like the typical heterosexual man, and something his brother said must have made him feel like he wasn't performing that role convincingly enough, with Martín so intimately close to him, not a woman in sight. So enter his shiny new prop girl, every bit ethereal, like a bird.
When Andrés shares their – sorry, his plans with Tatiana, it's not exactly a betrayal. Because yes, the Dreamer had been something special, for the two of them, a symbol of… something. Something that ought to be bigger than some random girl from a street corner.
But at the same time, he doesn't fucking care about the Dreamer. It's just some stupid painting. The weight they've placed on it is what has transformed it, but the painting is just a painting, after all.
What actually angers Martín is how stupid and naïve Andrés is being, in doing this. Yeah, fuck their plans and burn their blueprints, but Andrés should never put his own life, his own freedom, at risk by trusting a woman he's known for all of two weeks. Martín is angry, because he doesn't want Andrés to ever have to suffer.
When Martín examines the sharp shards of his righteous anger, alone in his home, which feels foreign and uncomfortable, Andrés's painting being the only thing that recognisably feels like home, he finally learns what it truly means to love someone.
Well.
If there's one piece of flattery Andrés will always be able to bestow upon Tatiana, whom he dated for all of three weeks, it's that she does not waste time, in committing the ultimate betrayal.
She takes his plans, their plans, his and Martín's, and steals the painting he's been enamoured with for years.
And because she's a coward at heart, Andrés learns this not even from her own lips, but via a text message. It's from Martín, and all it says is Are you okay? and he knows Martín like he knows the warmth of the sun on his skin, and thus realises that Martín was hurt by his foolish disregard, and wouldn't check up on him so gently, if it wasn't dire.
He doesn't respond; instead, he checks the news, a part of him already sensing the truth before learning it.
Sure enough, it's on the news. The perfect theft, they're calling it, the criminal masterplan, even the art heist of the decade, and all Andrés can think is that he shouldn't have told Martín that the Dreamer wasn't theirs, because it was, and Andrés is so angry at his girlfriend for having the nerve to steal from Martín.
“I stole it for you,” she tells him, when confronted about it, beaming with warmth.
She can't be foolish enough to actually believe that. She can't be that stupid.
Andrés is a thief, not a maiden. The last thing he wants is for someone else to take what he's so long yearned for, to commit the perfect crime he always envisioned, the perfect crime which he planned, over candlelit nights, filled to the brim with childlike optimism, with Martín always by his side. She has tainted his dreams.
It's all lies; she's just a thief, not an artist. She has no drive, she just saw an opportunity. She's nothing like Andrés and Martín, and Andrés feels disgusted to have ever touched her body.
He'll never get to steal that painting from the Prado, will never be able to play out the perfect crime he and Martín planned together, over flutes of champagne and sleepless nights where they were always closer than friends.
She took that from him.
Or he gave it up willingly.
“I'm sorry,” Andrés says quietly. There's no damage control to be done, but Martín still came when he called, after throwing out Tatiana and all her things, swearing to make her regret it if she ever darkened their doorstep again.
The way Martín looks at him – with rare, simmering disgust, like out of all the things Andrés has done over their acquaintance, daring to be sorry about this is by far the worst – bares more of his soul than Andrés has ever gotten to touch. Martín looks at him like he regrets Andrés ever learned to speak.
“It doesn't matter,” Martín says, mechanically. “It doesn't matter to me, Andrés. You're the one who wanted that painting; you're the one who devised the crime. What do I care?”
“She– we made those plans together, and she– she stole from us both.”
Martín's temper snaps like Andrés has been worrying through it with a dull blade, over weeks and weeks and weeks, and maybe he has.
“She stole our painting, is that it? She stole something meant for us?! Took our grand plans– I don't fucking care, Andrés! Fuck you and your fucking dreams, and fuck the Dreamer, too! I don't give a shit about her, or that fucking painting, or any of this!”
He's panting slightly, now, and he grabs Andrés by the collar, pulls him close.
“You gave her the tools to ruin you, and she used them. If you have to give yourself up to woman, then you make sure she's fucking worth it! I warned you about her, I told you she wasn't—”
She wasn't devoted, that's the issue.
She wasn't loyal to a fault.
She wouldn't have done anything for Andrés.
On a sinking ship, or a burning building, she wouldn't have chosen to save him, no matter the cost. And had she failed, she wouldn't have chosen to die with him, unable to go on alone, unwilling to even envision it.
Andrés tried to force devotion into her, because he recognises what it feels like, for someone to give themselves up for you, so completely, to rebuild their life around yours. He recognised what their relationship was missing, and tried to demand it from her.
(He was scared. He was scared, because Martín redefined his life so completely, so quickly, without asking for anyone's permission. Andrés was scared, and he tried to flee from the weight of his own feelings, into the arms of the nearest woman available; a woman who was never going to be worth it.)
But life doesn't work like that. She was never going to be able to fulfill him.
Andrés feels foolish about it all. But Martín hasn't abandoned him, even when wounded and scorned. He's the only one who deserves all of Andrés.
“What fucking ever,” Martín grits out, “I said my piece.”
“No, you haven't. Why exactly are you so angry, Martín? Why do you care so much about my wellbeing?”
“Not another fucking word,” Martín hisses, prickly at having his own devotion pointed out to him.
Which is just as well, because Andrés doesn't need words for what he does next.
Martín clearly doesn't expect him to come closer yet, so Andrés is able to press his lips to Martín's. And even though he's not particularly gentle about it, it has nothing on the ravenous way Martín responds to it, coming to life violently under his touch. His fingers dig into Andrés's clothes wherever they can reach, and he groans, opens his mouth, tilts his head, his tongue demanding to meet Andrés's, all at once.
Andrés wraps his arms around his waist, while Martín's hands stay where they were threatening him.
“Are we about to have angry sex?” Martín asks him, his eyes glossed over by a vivid lust.
“I'd rather you weren't so angry,” Andrés sighs, “Even if you wear it beautifully. But yes, if you must.”
Martín snorts, humourlessly. “I am pretty angry,” he sighs, “I fucking– I hate that woman. But I hate you, too, for letting her do that to you. She could've ruined you. She nearly did. You gave her a fucking gun. And now you want to sleep with me? What the fuck, Andrés?”
“I may have… made decisions that weren't always in my own best interest,” Andrés admits, haltingly, “But you were never one of them. You are the best thing to ever walk into my life. You push me to be better. You'd never ruin me, like she tried to do. And yes, I do want more of you. I want an endless quantity of you, Martín.”
Martín rolls his eyes, but he does smile. “You're such a fucking idiot. I hate you.”
Andrés nods, refusing to bristle from it. He tilts his head for another kiss, and Martín dives into it.
It's not a kiss that deserves to be compared to the countless ones he shared with Tatiana. With Martín, it tastes of both reckless passion and devoted care.
With Tatiana, betrayal was always inherent in their love; they both loved the crime more than they loved each other. He didn't want to see that. He tried to share himself, to try and force love into being.
With Martín, everything is different. Always has been.
“You're a lesser thief than her,” Andrés says to him.
“Excuse me?” Martín hisses, his anger still just under the surface, and thus quick to flare up again.
“You heard me. You could have done what she did; I gave you the same keys to those very same locks. You held it all in your hands, and yet you allowed someone else to take what could've been yours.”
“That's not–”
“Yes, it is. The Dreamer was yours for the taking. The perfect crime, just waiting to be committed. You, too, could have betrayed me. But you didn't love the crime enough. You're never going to rise to her level, because you weren't willing to sacrifice what it took. Your weakness is too great.”
Martín hears the unvoiced accusation, loud and clear, and he bristles underneath it. But what he feels is too great to deny.
“So be it,” he huffs, “Afraid there's no crime I love enough, if that's the scale. You're right; maybe I am a shitty thief.”
He shrugs – like it's nothing. But no one else has ever said to Andrés my passion in life pales next to you.
“How long?”
“Have I felt that, you mean?”
Andrés brings his hands to Martín's waist, tentative at first, but quickly tightening his hold, because it feels right.
“I don't know,” Martín says, “Before we even met? I was drawn to your crimes before I was ever drawn to you. I knew, from your thefts, that you were the only person in the world who would ever understand me.”
“And am I?”
“God, yes,” Martín groans, “You're… I placed some… superhuman expectations on you. And yet.”
Andrés smiles. “I wanted to meet you, too. My only kindred spirit on this rotten earth. Why did I ever try to force a woman into our lives?”
Martín scoffs. “Your fucking brother,” he scoffs, “I don't know what he said to you, but I blame him, anyway.”
Andrés chuckles. “He may deserve it, but maybe you ought to blame me, too. I don't think I understood what I had, before I tried to foolishly emulate it elsewhere.”
Martín shrugs. “I should've told you, maybe. But you're so… you're not the easiest man to talk to.”
Andrés shrugs. He knows that's true, but he still…
“You're my closest friend,” he says, because Martín needs to know that. If someone has the right to try and reach the complicated crevices of his mind, then it should always be Martín.
“I'm your only friend,” Martín says, and before Andrés has the chance to complain, he continues, “That's not to claim that you're incapable of making them; I just don't want to share you.”
Andrés chuckles. “I feel the same. If you were a painting… you shouldn't languish in a museum, all those unworthy eyes hungry to have you, unable to truly appreciate you.”
“Yeah?” Martín prompts, amused, “But I'm not. I don't want to be art; I want to create it. We share that, you and I.”
She didn't, he says, she never could, she stole our crime but that wasn't art, there wasn't beauty to what she did, no artistry in taking what's easy and what's at hand. We built something together, and it was beautiful.
When the very tips of Andrés's fingers slide across Martín's skin, Martín allows it. He allows Andrés to unbutton his shirt, and slide it down his shoulders.
For a moment, Andrés is completely transfixed by the sight before him. There's certainly words to be said about the male form, but currently he doesn't have the mind for them, and he presses the palms of his hands flat to Martín's skin, mapping his muscles and bone structure, committing it to memory, sighing as Martín begins to unbutton his shirt in turn.
“Tell me about it,” Andrés prompts, “The kind of art you like to create.”
Martín chuckles, meanly. “Trust me – not every man I take to bed makes an art of it. I prefer to show them how it's done, so I don't need to be so disappointed.”
Andrés understands that. Your body is a difficult instrument, he thinks, wasted to them.
But he also thinks that he has the discipline required to learn.
“How many?”
“If it was a hundred? If I didn't care to count?”
“Such sickening waste.”
It's not that Andrés is a prude, but he hates foreign fingers on his paintings. Especially hobbyists, foolishly thinking that they have what it takes to improve a Rembrandt. He shivers.
Martín laughs, meanly. “Maybe the hands of a hundred unworthy men have touched me. What are you going to do about it?”
“You know exactly what I'm going to do about it. I'll show you what it's like, to create a masterpiece.”
“Less talking, Andrés,” Martín breathes, “Touch me, before I lose my benevolence.”
Andrés does. His fingers explore the body of his fellow thief with all the reverence Martín deserves, but it just makes him chuckle.
“Oh, you're such a– it's painfully evident you've only ever touched women.”
Only Martín could make that sound so derogatory, and so offensive.
“Show me what you want, then,” Andrés huffs, irritated at having his prowess questioned like this, and he doesn't even get the chance to breathe in, before Martín's face splits in a wide smirk.
Martín pounces on him, and the way their bodies press together, all hard lines where Andrés is used to finding softness, eagerness in the place of trepidation, hunger replacing yearning, has him responding like this is a language he has always been fluent in.
Oh, how he understands it, now. Martín isn't there for him to touch and make love to – he's there to be an eager participant, in charge of his own pleasure.
“Like this,” Martín says to him, “This is what I want.”
They make their way to Andrés's bedroom – Martín predictably has zero qualms about having sex in a bed where Andrés has had others. More likely is that he's looking to claim it for his own, once and for all.
In said bed, they wrestle over control, just because it's enjoyable – Andrés suspects they both want the same thing; Martín's body squirming underneath his own, Martín's eyes fluttering closed in pleasure, Martín's back arching in an effort to–
“Can I top you?” Andrés asks him, needing to make that happen. “I want… I want to be inside you.”
Martín chuckles, warmth in his eyes. “You're so… real,” he sighs.
“I like to think I am, yes.”
Martín gently touches Andrés's cheek.
“I would love to have you inside me,” he agrees, very close to sounding gentle. He seems to realise it, too, because he blushes, and snorts, “Let's fuck.”
Andrés has always appreciated a naked body, but that formerly only applied to women. Now he has Martín's naked body in his hands, and Martín, as it turns out, is every bit a man.
An amused man, currently; complete with a tilt of his head and a sly grin, basking in what he correctly interprets as unadulterated adoration.
“I love knowing for a fact that I'm the single most attractive man you've ever had in your bed,” Martín says. His amusement is what makes the experience so transformative; he may be a terrible thief, but he is still every bit Andrés's equal. He doesn't cower in front of Andrés's heavy admiration; already knows himself well worth it.
“Even if I'd had a hundred, it would still be you,” Andrés says to him.
There's a lot of steps that straight sex doesn't involve. Andrés finds himself enjoying them, because it's clear that Martín is in his own element, as he explains how he wants Andrés to curl his fingers, and tells him what he does to relax his body around them.
“Why would I need to know that?” Andrés teases him, even though – he absolutely is taking notes, because of course he needs to know.
“No reason,” Martín agrees, toying with him, “Like any thief, you're just curious by nature, that's all.”
He is curious by nature, and even more so by nurture, and he does already imagine the other things his partner will be able to show him.
Because of course, Andrés doesn't ever plan to let him leave. Not now, not after everything they've become to one another. It shouldn't be difficult to convince Martín to move in the rest of his belongings; all the paintings they've stolen will look so good, side by side.
“You can stop now,” Martín says, “Stop.”
“What?”
“I didn't think you wanted just your fingers in my ass,” Martín points out, gesturing at his body. “Not that I'm complai– scratch that, I absolutely will complain, if you don't fuck me.”
Andrés chuckles. He'd tease Martín about being demanding, but he's already accustomed to just how demanding his partner can be. If Andrés ever comes back from doing reconnaissance with incomplete intel, Martín will send him back, unwilling to work with so many unknown variables.
It feels good to know that Martín remains the same man he always has been, because Andrés is… incredibly fond of that man.
Andrés withdraws his fingers, wiping them on the bed sheets. Martín holds eye contact with him, even as he spreads his legs a little further, shifting his hips slightly. Andrés knows both exactly what he's doing, and also nothing at all.
Martín guides Andrés dick to his ass, his breath hitching when they make only the slightest contact.
“When did you last…” Andrés starts.
Martín snorts. “Last week,” he says. “I felt like I was owed some fucking compensation, for–”
Andrés's cock breaches him, then, and Martín quiets, muscle clenching around him.
“Don't worry,” Andrés coos, sliding in, basking in the tightness of his body, the friction, the heat, “I'll make sure you're well and truly compensated.”
When he bottoms out, Martín laughs, nervous pleasure burning within him already.
“Hm?” Andrés huffs, not pleased by laughter when he's performing a heist of this calibre.
“Nothing,” Martín responds, “Just… this is incredible, that's all. I remember when I moved to Madrid.”
He's correct; incredible is exactly the word for this. In hindsight, this is exactly what Andrés wanted, the day they met, and what he has continued to increasingly crave for, ever since.
Andrés finally makes peace with his own sexuality, now that they're made one. Their bodies burn and scorch one another with delicious flames, as Martín tries to allow him within.
“I must say I fail to see the connection,” Andrés responds, “What, are you similarly seduced?”
“Something like that,” Martín admits, “I saw your crimes, on the news, saw the paintings you steal and the way you steal them–”
“And you longed to join them, hm? Wanted to become a crime of mine, did you?” Andrés prompts, and continues, “You have a thing for art thieves, is that it?”
“I have a thing for beautiful crimes,” Martín corrects, “Anyone can steal, but it takes drive to make it art. Every single crime you commit has that.”
Andrés mourns a little, to know they never got to bring their masterpiece to fruition. But maybe there's art of a different kind to satisfy them, here.
Martín doesn't ask him to be gentle, doesn't beg him to go harder. Instead, he takes what he wants all by himself. His hips move so harshly that it brings a foreign pleasure to Andrés – he's so unaccustomed to not being in complete control. It has them both gasping and groaning, filthy little things in the demanding heat of pleasure. Their desire for one another has been building up all this time, and now it's consuming, and they allow it to take over.
“Martín,” Andrés tells him, his name a praise on its own, “Your body is incredible.”
Said body breathes in a fluttering gasp. Andrés has learned how to angle for his prostate, and he's already found the perfect way to tease him, not hitting it with every thrust, but going hard when he does. Martín's nails scrape across his back, giving him cues even when he doesn't voice them.
Andrés takes Martín's dick in his hand, stroking it the way he's used to stroking his own, before realising that the angle is all weird, giving up and just focusing on moving both his hand and his body with the intent to be good to him.
“You're— worth all my high expectations,” Martín says, “Fuck, you're good. You're wonderful. You're going to ruin me. You already have.”
He pulls Andrés in for a kiss, maybe just to stop himself from saying anything else. Andrés is ready to face the music, so as they kiss, he withdraws his hand and coaxes Martín to change the tempo with him, both of them now chasing their high, every thrust quick and sharp and deep, and Martín is the one who breaks the kiss, his whole body bending into an arch as he cries out, another foreign feeling hitting Andrés with Martín's dick spurting between their bodies.
Martín's entire body then coils around his, ravished by the force of his climax. His voice is rough over the consonant of Andrés's name, piercing as he's pierced in turn.
Even though Andrés is on top and thus ought to have some control over this situation, Martín's body clenches around him so tightly, his orgasm is all but forced out of him. Martín, ever the thief, takes what he wants, even now that what he wants is his body being filled with Andrés's seed.
Andrés doesn't know what to say, so he brings his lips to Martín's again, and they kiss tenderly, until Andrés's dick is soft enough to slip out of his body.
Andrés goes to – he's not sure what he goes to do, actually, but he doesn't get there, because Martín's arms wrap around him, tugging him into an embrace. It's weird, but it's not uncomfortable. It's really… nice, to be in bed with a man. Andrés will definitely get used to this, to the strong body moving with his, large fingers, sharp lines.
And soft, too. Right now, Martín is very soft. Gentle, even.
“You've learned to make mate for me,” he says, as he pulls Andrés's head to his chest.
“It's relaxing,” Andrés says. He's never been one for routine, but there's a beauty to this one; it means Martín will be there to drink it.
“It's nice,” Martín says, but he's quiet, like that's some great confession.
And even though he doesn't elaborate on it, Andrés understands him to mean that Andrés has successfully alleviated some of his homesickness.
Or maybe he's successfully built him something of a new home, across the ocean.
Instead of pretending they're actually talking about mate, Andrés asks, “Is there a painting you'd like to steal?”
He thinks it would be quite romantic. They couldn't have his – they never can, now – but there's so much beauty out there. He feels like it's his turn to devote himself to a desire of Martín's, because he can and because he wants to.
And as an apology, too. He was… foolish, that's what it was. And scared. But he's not either of those things, any longer; here and now he feels content.
"I used to dream of one, yes,” Martín says, slowly, “It used to keep me up at nights, the way a beautiful crime always does. Knew what I wanted; perhaps even how I might go about making it mine, and yet… Well, does it really matter, now?”
Andrés takes his words a little too seriously; he's too involved in giving Martín what he desires, so he lifts his head, and opens his mouth to say that they'll steal it, whatever it is, only to stop dead at Martín's grin, fond and bittersweet.
“Ah,” Andrés says.
“Indeed,” Martín observes, “I rather recently lost that dream to realising it.”
His grin turns boyish, full of wonder, like he's seeing Andrés for the first time.
“Does it measure up?”
“Funny thing, that. A painting becomes so human, when it's in your hands. When you're close enough to see every stroke and every moment of hesitation. But you…” He brushes the tips of his fingers over Andrés's cheek, “God didn't hesitate a single second, when he made you.”
It's a beautiful thing to say, and Andrés basks in that. He doubts Martín has ever spoken like this to any other man; he may have had hundreds, but there's a warm sincerity to him now, too vulnerable to be subject to any previous rehearsal.
“Think I've always wanted to steal you,” Andrés murmurs, quietly, settling back down. It's his offering in return, the barest confession he's ever made, and it makes Martín smile.
“Shame to crush your dreams, then,” he says, gently, “I can't be stolen. Certainly not by you. Not when I already am right where I belong.”
Andrés thinks that he is in love with this man. With time, he might even tell him as much.
Or maybe he already has. Maybe you can't say all this without revealing the most basic yet true of all affections.
“You know,” Andrés says, and the memory makes him smile, “I thought you were… propositioning me, when you first suggested we steal the Dreamer.”
Martín smiles, too. “Really? I did think you were kind of… how should I put this.”
“Wanton?” Andrés offers, with a grin.
“Promiscuous, in a way that had nothing to do with the crime. Remember the champagne episode?”
“I do,” Andrés admits. He'll always remember; the night he learned that you cannot just jump into another man's arms and wrap your legs around his waist, no matter how excited you are about a breakthrough in the planning. Because that was…
“Easily the most sexual experience of my entire life,” Martín sighs, “Well… Not including this, at least.”
“I'd be rather offended if this didn't make the list.”
“Well, I just… mm.”
Martín pauses, and then starts again.
“Are we…” he tries, and decides against that one, too. His fingers flex uncertainly on Andrés's upper back.
“Doing that again?” Andrés drawls, but Martín isn't amused by it.
“Not the question,” he says, “But rather, are we…”
Ah. Are they together? Are they promised to one another? Is this a relationship?
“What we always have been,” Andrés tells him, “Partners.”
They do steal the Dreamer, in the end. They steal it back from Tatiana, leaving no calling card, because she doesn't deserve one. And anyway, she'll know who did the crime.
They've already decided to return the thing to the Prado – Andrés doesn't want it, anymore, not like this, Martín doesn't blame him for that. It's complicated, to get what you wanted, but not the way you wanted it. Fucking monkey’s paw, that thing.
Andrés sighs, when he finally holds the Dreamer in his hands. He looks a little sad, and Martín feels sad for him.
“Everything you always wanted?” Martín prompts, trying to tease his mood into improving.
“Sort of,” Andrés concedes.
“Sort of,” Martín repeats, a little mocking now, “Because actually, it was never about the fucking painting?”
Andrés laughs. “It wasn't about the painting,” he agrees, “It was about all those nights we spent planning the perfect crime. Those were… the best days of my life.”
Martín smiles. “And now?” he prompts.
Andrés matches his smile. “They've been… improved,” he admits, “Turns out the only way to improve our incredible nights spent planning was by making love to you, afterwards.”
Martín chuckles, pleased by the casual expression. “I'm glad,” he says, “Because I've a painting in mind. A pretty little thing; I'm sure you'll love it.”
“I'm not that fond of pretty little things, anymore,” Andrés drawls, “Perhaps our tastes are blending, a little.”
They would be, wouldn't they? Andrés has been stealing Martín’s things, daily, migrating them from Martín’s flat to his own. He could just ask, but it's so endearing that Martin hasn't even thought to complain. He just allows Andrés to quietly move him in.
Andrés sets the Dreamer aside, without even looking at it. “But what did you have in mind?” he prompts.
“The Tree of Crows,” Martín says, watching his expression shift from confusion to a hopeful delight. Andrés doesn't disappoint; he knows where that specific Friedrich is, currently, just waiting for them.
“You mean to say that you want to take me to Paris?” he prompts, “You're so romantic, Martín.”
And Martín does mean exactly that. Andrés exhibits such a classical style, a longing for a bygone era; he would doubtlessly look so good, in Paris.
“You can't claim you've not thought about it. Don't you want to go there and make it ours?” He beckons Andrés closer, bringing his hand to the hem of his shirt, diving underneath it to touch his warm skin, caressing his abdomen. “Show the French that they truly know nothing,” he breathes on Andrés's neck, “Plan a beautiful crime, utilising all those old as fuck, very questionable architectural choices.“
Even hearing Martín talking about it makes Andrés's eyes come to life, and Martín grins at him.
“You're a wonderful thief, Palermo,” Andrés drawls, “I'm sure it'll be–”
“Oh, no,” Martín responds, with a laugh, “I've been told I'm a terrible criminal, in fact. You've ruined me; I love you far too much.”
Andrés grabs him by the hips, and Martín presses his lower body to Andrés's, pleased to find them both hard, even though they're not going to fuck until they get home.
Or, well. There's a fair few possibilities, between Tatiana’s flat and theirs. Maybe they could do something adventurous – the Dreamer watching them as they fuck in a public bathroom.
(Martín ill-advisedly imagines splashes of cum on it, and has to immediately stop thinking about it, his dick wanton as it twitches in his pants.)
“I've recreated you,” Andrés tells him, not at all shameful to be grinding against him in his ex-girlfriend’s living room. “You can still be a wonderful thief, but only if you commit your crimes with me, and me alone.”
“And I will. I always will,” Martín concludes his speech, “Stealing from the Louvre – isn't that the pinnacle of art crime? What could be better?”
“Are you really asking?” Andrés asks, pressing a kiss to his temple, “The answer is, of course, stealing from the Louvre with the love of my life.”