[Fanfic] The Promise 7

[berseker]

Title: The Promise 7/10
Authors: berseker and sakuratsukikage, not in this order.
Rating: PG-15
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Summary: A quiet aftermath.

With thanks to zulenha for betareading it.



Part 6: Luciano wasn't certain how long it lasted, just that he only pulled away when he had to, and then he kissed the side of his mouth and his cheek, and he realized it was wet. He looked at him in surprise. Martín’s eyes were open, but his lashes were sparkling, thick and wet. "Was that... a goodbye sort of kiss?" he asked, almost, not quite but almost, hesitantly.

"God. You're such an idiot," Luciano said. His voice was trembling. "You're too stupid and crazy to live." He touched his cheek, then pressed his lips against his skin, "So I guess I'll just have to take care of you."

Martín’s breath hitched, and his arms tightened around him. “You got that backwards,” he whispered again, and then he turned, and kissed Luciano lightly, curling his other hand around the back of his neck. Because they couldn’t stop doing it - no matter what, no matter where they were. Luciano knew that. So he kissed him back, and Martín sighed, making a sound in the back of his throat, and shifted his mouth slightly on Luciano's, leaning into it, and maybe this was it, Luciano thought. Maybe it could work.

Maybe this would really be enough.

He wasn't sure yet, he wasn't sure of anything, but he thought it might be. Like something had shifted inside his chest, and all the feelings had tumbled around inside his heart until the empty places felt oddly full. Martín's hand moved down to press against his back, pulling him closer, into the kiss. He was kissing him so eagerly, deeply, his tongue in his mouth, and Luciano sucked on his bottom lip, and then he pulled back, and pressed his face into the curve of Martín's neck and tried to get his breath. And Martín rubbed his hand up and down his back, affectionately, almost absently, holding Luciano so securely, and hey, maybe that was an advantage of loving the wrong kind of person, rather than a pretty girl, of loving someone taller, who didn't fit right. But Luciano felt like he fit pretty well against him right then.

"I don't want you to go," he said. "I mean... don't go back to Buenos Aires. You wanted me to tell you to go, if I wanted you to. And. I don’t."

Martín's hand stilled on his back, and then his other arm came up, and he hugged Luciano, very lightly. "Well, that's a relief," he said, and smiled, his beautiful pleased smile, and his hand came up and tugged on Luciano's hair. Luciano felt himself smiling back at him before he knew what he was doing.

"But I should warn you, you still might not like it here," Luciano said, and suddenly that thought brought a sickening chill of fear with it, because he didn't want Martín to go, not... not now, not right after he'd told him he wanted him to stay. “It's completely different from what you're used to. It's not comfortable or-”

"I'll like it here," Martín replied, and he sounded so completely confident, so certain of it, that Luciano had to shake his head, but at least that chased that fear away, even though Martín was insane and that was just another example of it. "I'm glad you invited me." He tugged on the back of Luciano's head. "Come on, Luciano, kiss me again," he said.

"I'm not going to just do whatever you want," Luciano said, but he leaned forward anyway, curling his hand around the back of Martín's neck, and pressed their lips together. Martín sighed, and his mouth opened under the kiss, his arm tightening around Luciano's back. The kiss started slow, Luciano half trying to make up for how he'd kissed him earlier, in the carriage, but then Martín sighed again and tilted his head into it, eagerly, and it started getting wet, and hot, and messy, and eventually Luciano pushed Martín back down against the grass, and Martín just slid one hand down Luciano's arm and curled their fingers together, his other hand sliding up Luciano's back. He pulled away and kissed Martín's jaw, his neck, then turned his head to kiss the skin just beneath Martín's ear, and he made a small sound that wasn't quite a laugh or a yelp, but was a little bit of both. Luciano raised his head and grinned down at him. "What was that?" he asked.

Martín blushed. "I wasn't expecting you to kiss me there, that's all," he said, and Luciano shook his head at him.

"You don't get to make complaints," he said.

Martín grinned. His eyes were hazily green, and his mouth looked swollen and damp from kissing. Luciano was finding it hard to stop looking at him. "Oh, I'm not complaining," he said.

"Good," Luciano said. "We... uh, we probably shouldn't be doing this, out here, and... and everything," he said, and gave a look he knew was sheepish toward the cross that marked his mother's grave. Would she have minded? He wasn't sure, and he could feel his cheeks burning. He slid off of Martín and started to get to his feet.

Martín caught him before he entirely managed it and pulled him back down beside him so that Luciano landed with an oof. "Where do you think you're going?" he said.

"We should head back to the house," Luciano said. "Come on, Martín, you know that." He climbed to his feet again, then offered Martín his hand.

Martín sighed and rolled his eyes, but he took it and stood up. "I'm covered in grass," he said, brushing at his clothes, and Luciano thought that of course he was, but he didn't seem too concerned about it, all the same, despite the places where the grass had stained them.

"What did you expect?" he asked.

Martín shrugged. "Oh, well, it was worth it," he said. Luciano could feel his cheeks heating up again, and Martín smiled at him. Again. He looked so happy, and Luciano didn't quite know what to do, or how to - how to feel, in response.

"Um, right," Luciano said. "So."

"So?" Martín asked. He took Luciano's hand again, and squeezed it gently. "Do you believe me yet?"

Luciano wasn't expecting that. His breath seemed to catch in his throat. "I'm... trying to," he said. He sounded hesitant, and cursed himself for it. He was such an idiot.

"All right," Martín said. "Okay. Try hard, Luciano. All right?"

"I'll try as hard as I want to," Luciano muttered, and he didn't expect Martín to laugh, just a little.

"Okay, okay," he said. He squeezed his hand again and smiled at him, pleased and warm and still a little flushed.

He would have to be patient, Luciano thought. Because right now he was still completely overwhelmed, so much that he couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh, or kiss him again or cry. So many things had happened that it was almost hard to believe. A few hours ago he had been sleeping on his lap. Half a day ago he was getting him out of a dumb bar fight, two nights ago he had been trying to convince himself he was real, and one week ago he was sure he would never see him again.

Ten minutes ago he was sobbing on his shoulder.

His cheeks were getting warm again. But it was only fair, right? To make up for how long he had to wait. Martín too, of course, even if it was still hard to believe he had waited for him, it made some sort of strange sense that loving him hadn't worked but tying him to a freaking mast had, so maybe if he wanted to leave he would just have to tie him up to some place again and -

"Look, I must warn you," he said, "I'm very annoying. I keep talking about the same things, all the time. You'll get tired."

"Don't worry, I'll tell you to shut up."

"No, I mean it, I'll just - keep going and - you don't like that, I know you don't, and then -"

Martín kissed his lips again, very lightly.

"Then keep going. You can talk to me."

Luciano blinked. He had to give it to him, Martín was getting good at this.

"I told you," Martín said, a little smugly, like he has just read his thoughts, "I decided to be nice."

"Yes you did, you idiot, but there's so much you don't know yet and this will drive me crazy. Waiting for you to figure out stuff about me, and waiting to see how you'll react, and what will make you give up, and -"

“Luciano, I know you, remember?" Martín squeezed his hand again, "And it's not that bad. I enjoy talking to you. I always had.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No, it's true! You were always so crazy. You always had something to say, I mean... something I hadn't thought before. It was interesting.”

“... I was crazy? Just- what. You were always so obviously insane.”

“See?”, he sounded pleased again, “I remember this. We had this discussion so many times, remember?”

True, they had. Luciano had to smile. He hadn't thought about it in years, and now it was all coming back. They used to fight a lot, didn't they? And then one would say something like fine, have your way, and the other would feel insulted by this attempt of being the bigger person, and the fight would start again.

They were walking slowly, now. Martín was still holding his hand, and some distant part of Luciano's brain thought this was a bad idea, but he couldn't bring himself to do something about it. It felt so right. And everything looked so perfect, all that landscape that he almost didn't notice anymore. Now everything was beautiful, the sky, the grass, the way Martín walked, and how he didn't care about his boots getting dirty. Everything was perfect. It would be dark soon - he could see the sky's color changing, and soon they would be able to see the stars.

Maybe he could tell him what they meant to him. And then... then Martín could tell him about all the little things that reminded him of home, the little parts of Argentina that he carried with him. They could talk about it.

"Well, you were a little crazy. And you still are."

"One day you'll have to explain me why you keep saying that."

This time Luciano didn't answer. Even if he could make a joke about crazy people didn't know they were crazy, he remembered pointing this out before. It was part of how this used to go. It could have been one of the very first things he had said, the first time they went out together, to get coffee or something like that, on that memorable day when everything had started. But he could say it later. One day, like Martín had said.

That felt strange, thinking about all the time they would have to talk about it, about everything. To get used to holding his hand.

Martín seemed to think it was all so natural, to say those things and walk like that, his fingers interlaced with Luciano's. There was something sweet in his happiness, like... he was slightly smug, sure, but happy, like he had been at that party - had it really been two nights ago? - when he saw Luciano and held his arms and assumed everything would be fine.

Luciano wondered how long that would last. The sweetness. Martín would go back to being himself, eventually, and what would that be like? Being with him? He remembered enjoying it, back then. They just had to keep it from turning into a real fight. Though he was sure they’d fight anyway, but maybe it wouldn’t be anything so... big, and they could get used to it, sort of, because sometimes it felt normal, fighting with Martín, and it was almost fun, almost... well, it was fun, sometimes. So he thought maybe he wouldn’t mind, if it weren’t too terrible, or if it weren’t over big things, or... anything like that. Maybe he’d get used to it. Maybe it wouldn’t drive him insane.

Or maybe it would. Who knew, really?

"Luciano?"

He squeezed his hand, and smiled at him. They were almost reaching the house. Luciano pulled him lightly, to get out of the grass and to the stepping stones, because he still thought Martín's boots were too good for all this. Even if they were muddy and dirty now. And if he didn't care.

He wondered what his face looked like, right now, and if his eyes were swollen and red or anything like that. He should wash, he thought. He was sure no one would ask anything, but- no, actually, he wasn't sure at all. Of course they would ask. People were just not as afraid of him as they had been of his father. He wondered what his overseer would think, if he saw him walking like that with a friend. Old friend from the war, he had told them, because most of the people here still remembered what his education had been, and telling them he had met Martín then would raise a few questions. Maybe. Or maybe not. He had no idea. Maybe no one would care.

Right now he could almost believe that.

But he could worry about it later. He was also surprised at how tired he felt.

“You know,” he said, “I think this will be the first good night's sleep I'll get in a while.”

“Really? I was just thinking I wouldn't be able to sleep at all. Too much to think about.”

“But you should sleep. You must be tired.”

What a silly thing to say, he thought. He almost dropped it, but then - they could talk, now. They could try this again, talking to each other, having real conversations. Like it used to be.

So he did.

“So, you still have trouble sleeping?” he asked, a little tentatively, “You used to complain a lot.”

Martín's eyes lit up. “I didn't know you remembered that,” he said, with a delighted smile.

“How could I forget? I remember once you fell asleep in class, and when Monsieur Bonnefoy called you, you complained and said you were reading.”

“I was, I was trying to focus,” he said. “And I remember I was trying not to look at your face, because I knew I'd laugh if I did.”

“You were so full of shit. I wonder how you managed to learn anything.”

“Because I was incredibly intelligent, of course. I think I was the brightest student that place ever had.”

“... of course.”

“You were a close second,” he said, raising Luciano's hands to his lips. “Say, do you always call
him like that? Because now that he's an ocean away and can't glare at us with that... French disdain of his, I think we should just call him Francis.”

“Yes, and we can drop the Lord Kirkland and just call him Artie, right?”

“I will! If I ever see that man again, I will.”

“I think I'd pay in gold to see that.”

“Then we'll do it. You'll go and say hello, Francis, and I'll call him Artie.”

“And then we'll run as fast as we can to the nearest ship before they recover from the shock, and never go to Europe again.”

Martín laughed. Luciano remembered his laughter, loud and free and so mischievous - because he was a brat and he was just good at hiding it, but Luciano had always known - and how happy it used to make him, being able to make him laugh. The warmth and tenderness he used to feel came back as intense as it had always been, so strong that it almost made his eyes wet again.

“It's not like they can complain,” Martín said, his eyes sparkling, “We can do whatever we want. We can visit him, and refuse to eat his scones. Or drink his tea. We should, Luciano. We could go, and-”

“Kiss right in front of that Opera. Or maybe inside it, this time.”

Martín's eyes softened. He stopped, and then raised his hand to touch Luciano's face, and he leaned into the touch, to show he wasn't trying to accuse him of anything, wasn't trying to start another... whatever that had been, not a fight, all those awkward moments, he was just saying it. He had thought exactly that, hadn't he? That they could go back, and make it right, this time.

Martín kissed his lips again. They were right in front of the house, so now it would be very unwise, at least until Luciano could decide if he was worried about his slaves seeing this or not.

“We could,” Martín said, when he pulled away. “I mean it, we really could. We could go to our café. That place wasn't the same, without you.”

It was probably quieter, Luciano thought. He had imagined it so many times, when he was making the long journey back. Imagining Martín going there with... everyone else, his other friends, it didn't matter, he hadn't bothered with the details. But it had never occurred to him that Martín also considered it their place.

He opened the door, held it open for him. The room seemed almost dark, even with the huge windows, after all that time in the sunlight. His eyes were still burning.

“We'll have - ah - we'll have dinner soon,” he said, “So- did I show you your room? Do you want to see it?”

Martín looked a little confused, but he didn't complain, and let him change the subject. “You did, actually, but I don't mind seeing it again. I should probably change.”

He looked down at his clothes, rumpled and stained from the grass. And probably for Luciano's sobbing, he thought, feeling embarrassed.

“I'll ask someone to get things ready. So you can bathe. If you want to, that is.”

“Sure. If you think I should,” he said.

Luciano smiled. “I can show you my room, too. If you want to see it."

"Of course!" Martín said, and it wasn't just a polite phrase, he sounded so eager, like he really meant it.

"All right," he said. "This way, then."

He tried not to think about what Martín might think of it. It wasn't the room he'd had as a child, of course, the one he'd shared with his mother, that couldn't be considered a room at all. After he'd come back from Paris, he'd suddenly been too good for that kind of thing, or that was how everyone had acted, from his father down to the other slaves. And he'd been so lonely, at first. It had felt so wrong. All to himself, with only his cross and the stars to keep him company, but now the cross was in his house in Rio. But he'd gotten used to it, so at least now it felt like his room, for real, with his things in it. The few paintings that he liked, the red and green ornaments on the wall. That weird figurine thing on his table, that everyone else hated and he actually liked because it reminded him of something he could have bought in London or Paris.

Martín sort of smiled when he stepped into it, and it was... a little bit smug, but not mocking. And he said, "It looks like you."

Luciano felt his skin warm. "Does it?" he asked.

"Well, all the bright colors," Martín said. "It's... warm." He smiled a little bit wider. "I like it. Not that I'd choose the same décor, but I like it. It's like you." He crossed over to Luciano, who'd closed the door and moved inside, and was looking at the account books he'd piled on his desk rather than at Martín, and put his arms around him, and kissed his cheek. "And I like you," he said.

Luciano felt himself move before he quite knew what he was doing, and he closed his eyes and stepped closer to Martín, into the circle of his arms, and just stood there, feeling them around him for a long moment. He could hear as well as feel Martín's heartbeat, the even rhythm of his breaths, could smell him, cologne and Martín and the earthy scent of the grass and mud and... all of it. "This being nice thing," he said after a moment, and opened his eyes again. "You're getting pretty good at it."

Martín smiled. "Am I?" he said.

"Yes," Luciano told him. "I keep wondering what you've done with the real Martín Hernández." And he leaned forward just a little bit more and kissed him. It still felt strange and new, even now, like every time was the first time all over again, even though he was beginning to recognize the shape of Martín's mouth, and how his lips molded to Luciano's under a kiss, and how he tasted, the moistness of his breath. There was something about kissing Martín; it was like he was conquering and surrendering all at once, and it made Luciano concentrate on every little thing, on the hitch of his breath, and the arch of his upper lip, the soft give of the lower, and the wet swipe of his tongue. Martín was beautiful at kissing, but Luciano thought it had to be natural talent, because he had no technique at all, just passion and sincerity and honesty, and that was what gave every kiss from him a strange, raw beauty.

“Come,” he said, “Let me take you to yours.”

“I'm happy here.”

“What about your clothes-”

“Hmmm, who cares.”

Luciano laughed. “I do, come on. Let me show you around.”

“You're just teasing me,” Martín said, with that little pout of his. But he went, and waited patiently as Luciano called someone to get him water. He left him, then, so he could have privacy, and went to the living room to wait.

He sighed, then took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. He had this vague plan of thinking about things, to make sense of them, but it was like everything inside him was just quiet, now. He actually wanted to sleep. And rest. He could do this tomorrow, think about today, and make plans, and... think. And decide how far was he going to go with all this. They should be careful. He should be careful. Even if they wouldn't go to jail or anything like that, this could affect business, could ruin his reputation - such as it was - could... so many things.

They could go back. He would probably never be brave enough to drop the honorifics, but meeting his old teacher would be nice. Wouldn't it?

He had seen Lord Kirkland after all that. He should probably mention it to Martín, eventually, because it wasn't a big deal. But it would be, if he didn't. And ask if he had ever met someone from those times. Their old friends. And if he knew what had happened to them.

Later. One day.

Martín took a long time to get ready. Luciano looked at him when he came, trying to see... who knows. A trace of regret, maybe. But his eyes were as clear as before, the affection written in every line of his face. Luciano couldn't help the relief, and he hoped Martín hadn't noticed it.

The dinner was quiet, but comfortable. Luciano was surprised to see how hungry he was, but it made sense, he had been so nervous at lunchtime, he hadn't really enjoyed the food. But it was surprising. He had assumed he would be too sleepy to eat.

They were alone now, the slave girls had served the table and then left them to themselves. Luciano wondered what Martín was thinking, he had almost stared at them with this intrigued look in his eyes, but he hadn't said anything then and Luciano didn't ask. But he wondered. Maybe he was trying to see Luciano in them?

Later.

One day.

And when they were done, he told them to take two cushioned chairs to the porch, and a bottle of wine.

The sky was dark now, and the only light came from the stars. Luciano filled the glasses, a little amused at how Martín didn't even try to do it himself, but he couldn't even mind it much, because Martín smiled at him when he got the glass, letting his fingers brush over his. Luciano smiled back.

“This place is very quiet,” Martín said. He was almost whispering.

“It isn't, actually. Just pay attention.”

He could hear so many different sounds. The leaves and the wind, and all the insects that came out at night, and human voices too, the slaves that weren't asleep yet. He felt a light pang of shame, without knowing why. He sat back and tasted the wine, slowly, savoring it, trying to ignore it.

“You're right,” Martín said, after a while. He sounded happy, “I see what you mean. But it's still silent, comparing to the city.”

Right then an owl hooted, so loud that it made him laugh.

“Fine, I get your point,” he told the sky. Luciano smiled too.

“You'll get used to it. Maybe. I'm thinking about staying for a few days, but I can take you back, if you want to. I mean, there's nothing to do here, just visiting people and... nothing, but I still need to work on some things, and-”

“Don't worry about me, I can wait. And this place is beautiful.”

“What if you get bored?”

“I won't,” Martín said.

Luciano looked at him. Even close like this, he couldn't see his face, it was too dark for that. But he could hear the joy, the tenderness in his voice, and that strange sense of triumph that was so Martín. It used to get on his nerves, like Martín had always just won a battle against the universe. Now he thought he was just naturally smug.

"If you say so,” he said.

It would be nice to have him there. And scary, and nerve-wrecking - Luciano knew himself too well - but it would be nice. He closed his eyes. Maybe it was because he still felt drained, but he couldn't get too worked up now. Things were just too quiet, too comfortable for that.

“Luciano?”

“I'm thinking."

Martín waited.

“I'm wondering, actually. You weren't like that, before.”

“Like what? Charming and kind?”

“You idiot,” Luciano said, fondly, “But you changed a lot. What you said, that we could go back. That's new.”

“... yes,” Martín said. He paused, quietly tasting the wine. “I... I don't know. I had a lot of time to think. And I think I grew up.”

“So now you just... don't worry anymore? It didn't have this effect on me. Growing up.”

Martín leaned over the arm chair, lightly, reaching out so Luciano could hold his hand. He did, rubbing his palm with his thumb, and they were silent for a few seconds, holding hands and watching the night. Luciano could see the fireflies in the distance, like little falling stars.

“Mom had long hair,” he said, suddenly, “And once I caught one for her, a firefly, and she put it in her hair. I never forgot that.”

“You could probably do it too. You have the curls.”

“It looked better on her. I'd just look stupid.”

Martín squeezed his hand, tightly this time. Then he said, slowly, almost testing to see if it was all right.

“My mother would never do that. She was terrified of insects. She used to put these... little bowls of water on the floor, to support the foot of the bed, so they wouldn't climb it.”

“... some of them can fly.”

“I know. My father told me to never mention this to her, or she would never sleep again.”

“Are you afraid of insects?”

“Me? No, of course not. After the war, I was used to check the food first to see if there was one inside it.” He smiled, Luciano could tell even in the dark, “I'm not afraid, but I don't want to eat them.”

“You should. Some are tasty.”

“I'll pass, thank you. But feel free to have them, if you want to.”

“You know, I can't even imagine it. Martín Hernández, fishing cockroaches out of his food.”

“... God. You know, I think I don't want to talk about it. I'm still traumatized.”

Luciano chuckled.

And he listened, as Martín talked about the battles, about his family, about the glory and the praise and everything that had been his life in the last two years. His mother's letters, and how she always asked if he was eating. His father, and the pride in his eyes when he saw Martín in his uniform.

“I think he likes what I'm doing with my life. He always wanted to see me in the army.”

“He must be proud of you,” Luciano said.

“Yes, I think. I guess,” he said. Luciano could tell his cheeks would be warm. “They thought I was a hero, when I came back that time. Of course, it might be because that friend of yours had passed through the Empire's blockade and, since I was there, they thought I had something to do with it. I didn't claim it, just so you know. But my mother is like that. She's convinced I can do everything. She probably thinks I won the war by myself.”

“Of course. Why am I not surprised?”

“Well, I helped.”

He was teasing him, but this made Luciano feel something strange, that he couldn't really explain. He was so used to seeing his side of that war. It was hard to imagine Martín saying goodbye to his mother. He wondered if she looked like him. It made him more human - not that he wasn't before, of course, he was, but this made it... he didn't know, stranger. Thinking about how worried his family and his friends had been. Kind of like what he had done, but worse.

"Maybe you can show them to me, sometime," he said.

Martín beamed. "If you'd like that," he said. He seemed to consider for a moment, then asked, "Did you get any medals?"

"Me?" Luciano asked blankly. He couldn't imagine it. "I didn't do anything that important, really. And I couldn't wait to get out."

Martín frowned, but he didn't say anything else. "But you liked it, didn't you?" he asked. "The sailing, if not the war? You seemed to like it." He looked over at Luciano, then shrugged, as if he couldn't think of any clearer way to describe what he was thinking.

"Yes, I did," Luciano replied without having to think. And he had. It had been so good, and worthwhile. He'd felt like he'd belonged. He'd never really... not really felt like that before. People had looked up to him, admired him, counted on him to lead them, and he hadn't let them down. It had been new. He'd been Luciano, and no one had minded. Captain da Silva. He still thought it sounded good.

"What did you like about it?" Martín asked, and it sounded honestly curious, like he really wanted to know. It was the first time someone ever asked him that.

"The people," he said, finally. "My crew, and... how they treated me, being who I was, and... I don't know. Out there, on the ocean, none of it matters but what you can do." He'd felt free, he thought, really free. Just Luciano, captain of his own destiny. Or something. Of course, here was Martín, and he'd say they were each other's destiny. Maybe they were. It was hard to tell, but he thought that was probably the point of a destiny, anyway.

“Your crew,” Martín said. Luciano shrugged.

“They weren't bad. Aren't bad. They were... not in the mood to enjoy your company, but-”

“They enjoyed it a lot.”

“I'm sorry,” Luciano said. He was, really, he wished he hadn't done that. But he remembered how it had felt. And how he had wanted to do worse, back then.

“But I guess it was different with you, I could see how they respected you. You were good at it. Leading people, I mean. You were very good.”

“Thank you,” he said, “I bet you were surprised.”

“Maybe a little,” Martín said. The idiot.

“I was surprised myself, but it just happened. It just... worked. And it was all so sudden, because my father told me I would be in charge of that and I had no idea how I'd pull it off, you know? I'm still not sure how I did it. I guess I'm tougher than I thought.”

He tried to make it sound teasing, but regretted it almost immediately. He hadn't enjoyed that, doing that to Martín. So he shouldn't tease him about it. It would make it all confusing, and... wrong.

“You are,” Martín said. “You know, I think you and my family would really get along. They'd like your style. And I can show you Buenos Aires, you'll like it.And I promise people won't try to punch you for talking too loud.”

He sounded amused, which was a relief.

“You had it coming,” Luciano said, then raised Martín's hand. He held it against his lips for a while, not quite kissing him, just feeling his skin on his lips.

“We should go inside,” he said.

“I guess,” Martín said. His voice was just a little reluctant, and Luciano could see why, this was just so comfortable, so nice. And to think they would be able to do it again, and again, as much as they wanted to. He still couldn't believe it. It was too good to be true.

He got up, without letting go of his hand, and locked the door behind him. Martín didn't complain, didn't say anything, just let himself be led.

Luciano stopped at the door of his bedroom and looked up at him. And for a second they just stood there.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, finally.

Just like that night. The night after the opera, after that very first kiss, when he left Martín and went back to his bedroom smiling to himself, too excited to sleep, too happy to think about anything else. It was so quiet - forget what he had said - he could hear Martín's soft breathing, could, if he tried, maybe hear the beat of his heart.

“See you tomorrow,” Martín whispered, and then he kissed his forehead. Luciano closed his eyes, and he was grateful for the darkness, because Martín wouldn't see his face, wouldn't guess what he was thinking. It was so... it was too much, too much for just one day. He felt the soft kiss on his lips, and maybe Martín was thinking about the same thing, because he didn't try to deepen the kiss, didn't even wait for him to kiss back. He just touched his face for half a second and then went to his room.

It felt so sweet. So unbearably sweet. Luciano went to his room too, closed the door softly, and for all the time it took him to fall asleep, to quiet his mind of all that had happened today, he felt the tingle, the warmth of that kiss on his lips.