Archive of Our Own

- I -
(April 7th)

On the pastel dawn of his eighteenth birthday, Andrés de Fonollosa woke to a key in his hand.

He could scarcely believe it. 

For a handful of heartbeats, he simply stared at the object - agog and agape and awestruck beyond words - before he brushed careful fingers against the small strip of metal. The well-polished brass warmed steadily beneath his touch - and it was that heat, more than anything, that told him this was real.

Andrés smiled.

He grinned, wide and jubilant - genuine and free - easy, in a way his grins rarely were these days, especially following the death of his parents.

A split-second later, he was off like a shot - his voice crowing gladly through the doorways and hallways - calling Sergio's name to tell him the news. 

He didn’t even have to wait for a moment. Already, his hermanito was waiting in their living room - the ten-year-old standing eagerly when Andrés entered the space. Eyes bright and fingers restless, Sergio bounced on his heels as he greeted his brother, his enthusiasm and excitement, a near-palpable thing.

It was a justified reaction, all things considered. Today, he would learn if fate blessed his brother - if it granted him a gift to which none could compare. A momentous day, certainly, worthy of unbridled zeal.

'So?' Sergio didn’t say, but he raised his brows hopefully, and that said enough.

Andrés grinned amusedly at the young boy's excitement, and without further ado, he raised the small key with a triumphant flourish. The brass shone brilliantly against the daffodil sunbeams; glittering and golden in the early morn’s light.

"Did you doubt, hermanito?" the older boy teased, but it gave way to a chuckle at Sergio’s awed gasp.

Enchanted and wonderstruck, the young boy inched closer - his gaze almost reverent as he regarded the key.

“Have you decided, then?” Sergio breathed, his eyes never straying. “Have you made your choice already? Decided on your ‘who’?”

And the answer to that was ‘no’ - no, Andrés hadn’t.

But could one truly blame him? Given such a momentous choice?

One after the other, the names flashed through Andrés’s mind: Michelangelo and da Vinci - Napoleon and Sun Tzu. Picasso and Hemingway and Mozart and Plato - from all of them and more, Andrés had to choose.

From all of human history; from all who’d ever been.

Andrés laughed in incredulity— at the absurdity of it all.

‘Where does one begin?’ 

He hadn’t a single clue.

- II -

They were called ‘keybearers’. 

‘Las portadoras de llaves.’

Blessed by the universe at the age of eighteen, those lucky souls shared one tale in common: on the date of their birth they had woken at dawn, already grasping a key in their hand.

There was no rhyme or reason to the whims of the universe - no pattern to predict the who, where or why. There was only that soul - that lucky one in a thousand - who now bore a key that answered their call. It was common to see them on most early mornings: a gaggle of teenagers, throwing keys far and wide. They would throw them in rivers, or grasslands, or beaches - then gasp when they find the key returned to their palms. It was theirs - well and truly - never answering to another.

And as there were keys, so too were there doors.

The doors were not opulent, nor majestic, nor grand. They came in just sizes, in every finish and hue - scattered throughout cities like the spray of graffiti. It was often the children who pointed them out:

'Papá, papá, look! There’s a door in that wall! But there’s nothing behind the wall - why’s the door there?’

And that child would learn of the portadoras de llaves. 

They would learn of the doorways in alleys and skate parks - the ones that opened to nothing unless you were blessed at eighteen. The indestructible doors and their indestructible keys; magic incarnate, safeguarded by fate.

‘What do you do when you open the door?’ the child would then question, to which the father would say: ‘You sit and you talk. That’s all there is to it. Your key only gives you one conversation, and then, hours later, you leave and come home.’

‘It doesn’t lead farther?’

‘No, just to a room.’

‘That sounds pretty boring.’

‘It depends who you call.’

The child’s head would tilt, then - curious; confused.

‘Who can you call?’

And the father would smile.

‘Anyone at all. In all of human history - from anyone in the past - you can have a conversation with anyone at all.’

- III -
(April 7th - Ten Years Later)

Andrés’s phone knocked thrice.

Or rather, it gave off that particular sound. Deep within his coat pocket, the smartphone buzzed insistently - singing to the tune of knuckles rapping upon wood.

Andrés pointedly ignored the distinctive sound, before he took another sip of his coffee.

All around him, the café bustled to life. 

He’d arrived early at the coffee shop, as he was wont to do - managing to snag a seat before the breakfast rush began. The morning crowd poured in not long after, but by then Andrés was halfway through his muffin - perched comfortably on an armchair as he flipped through the daily news.

All things considered, there were worse ways to start a birthday.

“FREAKING HELL, I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE IT!”

Or perhaps he’d spoken too soon.

Sighing long-sufferingly into his half-finished doppio, Andrés spared a glance at the store’s newest patron. 

It was just as expected: a young man - not even twenty - trailed by a friend who looked much the same age. He was eighteen - Andrés wagered - already half-certain it was the boy’s birthday as well. He had seen this scenario many times before, and he knew it was none other than–

“I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE A KEY!”

–a brand new keybearer. Andrés rolled his eyes.

Wholly oblivious to the Spaniard’s irritation, the pair quickly ordered and paid for their coffees, before sitting at the table beside Andrés’s.

It was just his luck, honestly.

“I’m so happy for you, man!” the teen’s friend effused, staring at the key with awe in his eyes. “I hope I get one too when I turn eighteen. Do you know who you’re gonna pick yet?”

“Oh shit, I should probably think about that, huh?”

Andrés snorted into his coffee before he could stop himself. He shook his head.

‘You better think of someone soon,’ the Spaniard groused internally. ‘You should use it quickly too. Use your key before they start sending you all those godforsaken–’

*knock knock knock*

Andrés’s lip curled into a snarl.

‘–messages.’

Digging his phone out of his pocket, he glared at the sight of the two new messages - heralded by the ringtone he’d quickly learned to hate. How they’d programmed the sound into every phone model was beyond him.

He glanced at the text’s preview.

<FROM: The International Keybearers Association - Spain>

“Greetings, keybearer ANDRÉS DE FONOLLOSA! ¡Feliz cumpleaños! It’s your 28TH birthday! This automated message is to remind you to make use of your key, and to–”

* Are you sure you want to delete this message? *

The Spaniard didn’t hesitate to confirm his selection - watching dispassionately as the message vanished from view.

Andrés drained his coffee.

He knew it wasn't such a huge inconvenience; the texts only came about twice to thrice a week, and it was always a message that said the same thing: he really should get around to using his key. 

He always deleted them as soon as they came. 

He honestly hadn’t minded the messages at first, but after many, many years of receiving the texts - a persistent, measured knocking that often woke him in the night - that followed him constantly like a fly he couldn’t swat away - asking - always asking - ‘Hello, why haven’t you used your key?’ - “Why haven’t you?” - “Why haven’t you?” -  Why haven’t you whyhaven’tyou—

Well…

He’d grown irritated of it, to be honest. His reaction was near-Pavlovian now. It wasn’t enough to anger him completely, but it was enough to make him huff in complaint.

Polishing off the last of his muffin, Andrés set his cup down before clearing his table - grabbing his phone as he headed out the door. As he stuffed the gadget deep into his pocket, his fingers brushed briefly against the brass of his key - lying in his coat, unseen and unused.

- IV -
(April 7th - Nine Hours Later)

Andrés had known to expect the text messages. He hadn’t known to expect the calls.

Arriving home after a late lunch with Sergio - his hermanito insisting they grab a meal for his birthday - Andrés was perplexed when his phone started buzzing.

Unlike the buzzing of the texts he despised, this new ringtone was uncommonly persistent. It was the sound of knuckles insistently rapping upon a door - constant and unceasing, unlike the usual three knocks. When it didn’t cease after a half-minute of waiting, Andrés finally decided to see what it was.

<INCOMING CALL: The International Keybearers Association - Spain>

There was no way on earth.

They were calling him now? Would they start calling his phone weekly? Bi-weekly? Every single day?

Andrés shuddered at the thought.

Cursing the fact that it was an unblockable number - he’d tried so many times, you would not believe it - the Spaniard firmly pressed the decline button, and prayed to the heavens that it would end there.

He had no such luck. 

Not even five minutes later, his phone buzzed again - the knocks almost louder and angrier than before. Irritated and seething and cursing under his breath, Andrés hit ‘accept’ with more force than necessary - ready to say in clear-cut terms that they should never try to call his number again.

“Hello. Andrés de Fonollosa?”

The voice made him pause.

‘The caller’s Argentinian?’

He hadn’t expected that.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

“Yes, this is he,” Andrés said in reply - the words already spoken before he could consciously choose to voice them. 

Hm. That was unusual of him.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, but something in the caller’s voice - in its lilt and steady timbre - in its tone and warmth and weight - it sounded… pleasant. 

He wasn’t one to find voices pleasant before.

‘Interesting,’ he mused. ‘I just might continue this call.’

On the other side of the phone, the person began to speak.

“Ah, hello, Señor de Fonollosa! I hope I’m not interrupting. Feliz cumpleaños by the way.”

“Thank you,” came the polite reply.

“I’ll keep this brief - I don’t want to take too much of your time, especially since you might be celebrating with family. We see in our records that it’s been ten years since you received your key, and it’s standard procedure for us to call once the key is unused for a decade–”

Immediately, the Spaniard frowned.

‘Right. This again. Always this again.’

“–we just want to know if you're having trouble deciding, and if we can help you or advise you in making your choice—”

“You’re all quite persistent, aren’t you?” Andrés bit out irritably - annoyance plain to hear. “Will you keep calling and texting? Every week for eternity until I use the damn key?”

The voice on the line fell silent - a heavy, pregnant pause.

Then:

“...Is, um, something the matter, Señor de Fonollosa?”

Andrés barked a laugh sharp as blade.

“Is something the matter? I’ve been receiving these messages more than a hundred times a year, all because this association can’t leave well enough alone. What does it matter if I don’t use my key? Will the world fall to ruin if I don’t open those doors? And now you all intend to call me and become an even bigger nuisance. Dios mio, por favor.” 

The Spaniard exhaled sharply, steadying his breath. His next words were even.

“I’ll be very clear. It’s been a decade, señor, and I’ve grown very tired of this constant pestering from you all. I’m sure you understand. Have a good day.”

Andrés was already moving to hang up the call, when the voice suddenly rang through the speaker:

“Let’s strike a deal, then, shall we señor?”

A tingle shot down Andrés’s spine.

'His voice just now…’

It had changed. Startlingly so. 

Gone was the voice for niceties and smalltalk. Gone were all traces of well-practiced politeness. What stood in their place was a confident determination - fire-forged steel braided into each and every word. Andrés could hear the calm challenge - the raised brow, the tilted chin - the stripping of pretension with eight measly words.

He couldn’t help but raise his own brow in return.

“I’m listening,” he said. The voice then continued.

“I won’t make this too hard. Like I said from the start, I don’t want to take up your time.”

“How generous,” Andrés drawled; the caller didn’t miss a beat.

“You’re welcome. I try.”

The Spaniard couldn’t fight his smile.

“I’ll keep it nice and simple,” the voice went on to say, ”I just need you to fill up the information sheet on our website. It’s the one about your hobbies and career goals and interests - the one the algorithm uses to give suggestions for who to meet. Just make an account and fill up the form, and I’ll call you again in two week’s time.”

“And what will happen then?”

“I’ll come up with a list of people you may like, and you need to promise that you’ll at least consider my suggestions. Is that alright with you?”

Andrés paused to consider the question.

He had to admit: the caller was honest - that truly didn’t seem like too difficult a task. Still, what was stopping him from just hanging up now? What reason did he have to see this deal through?

“I have better use of my time, señor,” Andrés replied. “Why would I do any of that?”

The caller’s voice was confident.

“If you do this, I’ll personally take your name off the text recipients list.”

And oh.  

Now that was enticing.

“You can do that?” Andrés asked, skeptical and curious. Was there not some sort of protocol employees had to follow?

He heard a small huff of laughter on the other end of the line.

“Based on what you’ve said, I bet you ignore them anyway - what difference would it make to not send them at all?”

This man was proving himself to be quite the clever fellow. Andrés smiled.

“Alright. You have a deal then, Señor…?”

“Berrote. Martín Berrote. But just call me Martín - please.”

‘Martín,’ the Spaniard mused, turning the name over in his mind. “You have a deal, then, Martín.”

“Glad to hear it, Señor de Fonollosa. I’ll call you in two weeks.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Andrés said, before he finally hung up the call. 

And much to his perplexing yet pleasant surprise, he found that he truly, genuinely meant it.

- V -
(April 21st - Two Weeks Later)

When Andrés finished setting up his account, a chatbox on the website immediately sprung to life. It was one of those generic helpdesk chats, but it didn’t lessen his surprise when he finally read the text.

<FROM: The International Keybearers Association - Spain Helpdesk>

“Greetings, keybearer ANDRÉS DE FONOLLOSA! Welcome to the official website of the IKA-Spain. I am Martín Berrote, and I’m assigned to assist you should you need any help. Feel free to contact me for any concerns through this chat. Happy browsing!”

Andrés was near-certain it was an automated message - the chatbox showed that the sender was offline, after all - but the new revelation piqued his curiosity.

So Martín had been assigned his case specifically? He hadn't just happened to be manning the phones that day?

Filing that curious tidbit away, Andrés made quick work of the forms he had to answer. It was simple enough; it just asked about his hobbies and interests and career goals - and given that he was an art curator who also painted on the side, it wasn’t terribly difficult to guess what he liked.

And as they agreed upon - just a fortnight later - Andrés’s phone buzzed to knuckles upon wood.

Martín wasted no time.

“Hello, Señor de Fonollosa. I see you like art.”

Even at the gross understatement, the Spaniard couldn’t help but smile.

“Hello to you too, Martín. And it’s Andrés, por favor.”

There was a rustle against the microphone - a nod he couldn’t see.

“Andrés, then. Buenas tardes. As promised, I have suggestions.”

“Very well, then. Let’s hear them.”

If Martín mentioned even one of the Renaissance painters, Andrés would honestly be quite disappointed.

The Argentine began.

“First of three on the list: Vincenzo Peruggia.”

Andrés was certainly not expecting that. If possible, the Spaniard grinned even wider.

“My my, you’ve certainly done your research,” Andrés praised, to which the Argentine replied with a laugh.

“It’s my job, señor. And you put ‘Ocean’s Eleven’ as a movie you enjoyed. Judging by your reaction, you’re familiar with Peruggia?”

“The man who stole the ‘Mona Lisa’? Of course I am, Martín. It’s an excellent suggestion. I’m thankful you didn’t suggest the likes of Raphael.”

On the other side of the line, Martín barely smothered his snort.

“Oh please, as if that hadn’t crossed your mind already. I bet the Renaissance painters were the first names the algorithm spit out at you.”

“You would win that bet, then. Do you have other suggestions?”

He could hear the rustle of paper - as if Martín was flipping through his notes.

“I have a couple other choices. Thomas Patrick Keating?”

Andrés’s brow rose into his hairline.

“The art forger? Interesting choice. That’s two for two, Martín - I’m starting to think you know me too well,” Andrés teased. “And the third?”

“George L. Stout.”

“Who’s that?”

“George L. Stout,” Martín recited, reading from what he’d researched, “an art conservationist and one of the first members of the Monument’s Men - the ones who helped recover the art plundered by the Nazis. He helped found the International Institute for Conservation. Went home to his family after his work in the war. Maybe you’d like to meet him?”

To his surprise, Andrés chuckled.

“What’s funny?”

“I know who he is,” the curator admitted, mischief and amusement coloring his voice. “I just wanted to see how much you prepared for this.”

“Oh, you asshole—” Martín laughed brightly, before he finally seemed to realize exactly what he’d said. His humor instantly vanished, giving way to a strong, red-faced embarrassment. “Oh, I didn’t mean- uh- what I meant to say was– uh– shit– OH FUCK– NO THAT’S WORSE– SHIT—”

“It’s no matter, Martín,” Andrés cut in good-naturedly - his chuckles devoid of all traces of mocking. “I just couldn’t resist. All great suggestions, I must say. I’m impressed.”

“Have you made a choice, then?” came the hopeful reply.

Andrés frowned regretfully.

“I have. I still don’t plan to use my key yet.”

Martín’s voice grew indignant. 

“You promised to consider them, Andrés—”

“And I have,” he insisted. “Like I said, they’re good choices - but it may pain you to know I’d considered them before. Long before you even suggested them. My answer is still no.”

At the firm, resolved declaration, only silence filled the line. Then, Andrés heard a sigh.

“Alright. That’s fair,” Martín conceded sadly, his disappointment plainly and painfully obvious. Before Andrés could question why the tone squeezed his chest, Martín already continued his speech. “A deal’s a deal, señor. I’ll take off your name from the text recipients list. I assume you wouldn’t appreciate being called very much either, so um… thank you for your time, Andrés. Adios.”

“Who would you have picked?” the Spaniard asked in a rush.

“What?”

‘What?’ Andrés thought to himself - easily matching the Argentine’s confusion. 

What on earth possessed him to ask that? He was curious about it, certainly - he had been since he heard the first suggestion. Martín obviously knew how to do his research, and he was curious to know who the Argentine would have chosen, had he just been given the chance.

But to actually voice that question?

Well… what’s done was done now. He might as well ask properly.

“Who would you have picked?” Andrés repeated. “Had you been given your very own key?”

He hadn’t expected Martín’s reply.

“What makes you think I didn’t get my own key?”

And oh. Oh. Now that was intriguing.

“You’re a keybearer?” Andrés pressed, curiosity fully piqued. “Did you already use your key? Who did you meet? Who did you choose?”

Martín laughed.

“I have used it. And as for the ‘who’? That’s for me and only me to know, Andrés. I wish you the best. Adios, señor.”

And with that the call ended, leaving Andrés staring at the screen of his phone - hoping, for the first time, to hear knocking once more.

- VI -
(April 25th - Four Days Later)

Andrés de Fonollosa was nothing if not persistent. Or was it stubborn? Annoying? 

Semantics, semantics.

In any case, he couldn’t banish Martín’s remarks from his mind: Martín had a key. He had chosen to use it.

And he wouldn’t tell Andrés who it was he’d picked.

Now, one may wonder: why was this so important to him? Truthfully, he hadn’t the faintest clue either. His curiosity was like an itch he just couldn’t scratch - and apart from that, the Argentine himself was wonderfully, wonderfully interesting.

He had to know - he had to. He could feel it in his bones.

And in essence, that was how Andrés found himself days later - logging onto the website and ready to send a text.

** User ANDRÉS DE FONOLLOSA has logged on. **

<TO: The International Keybearers Association - Spain Helpdesk>

“Hello, Martín. Was it someone famous or more obscure?”

Andrés hit send. He knew the Argentine would understand; he’d showcased his cleverness many times over, and there was no need for Andrés to further elaborate.

The reply came in about half an hour later.

<FROM: The International Keybearers Association - Spain Helpdesk>

“Hello, Andrés. Fancy talking to you here. Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not about to say. I hope you have a nice day.”

Andrés practically pouted. He replied:

“Is this because I said no to all of your suggestions? I meant it when I said I’d considered them before. They just aren’t the right fit.”

Soon enough, Martín responded:

“No, I believe you - I know you meant what you said. Do I wish I thought of someone historical you’d want to meet? Definitely. But a deal’s a deal and I used up my chance. As for who I picked, that’s uh… a long and personal story. I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint.’

That, to many perhaps, would have been the end of the conversation.

But again, Andrés was nothing if not persistent. And so he messaged: 

“Do you really want to find someone from the past that I want to meet?”

Soon, Martín replied:  

“Of course I do.”

“Why does it matter to you?”

“Again, a long and personal story. And no - I won’t elaborate.”

“Well, I want to know who you chose to meet.”

“And why does this matter to you?”

“Call it curiosity.”

“Hm. Alright. Shall we strike another deal then?”

Andrés couldn’t help but grin.

“I’m listening.”

“You can try and guess who I met, but you have to guess with a specific name. I promise to answer honestly and tell you if you’re right. In return for each guess, I get to suggest another historical figure for you. Do we have a deal?”

Andrés pondered for a moment before he answered.

“Hm. Deal. But I get your Personal Interests Form too. And you have to tell me when you decided to use it. At least help me narrow it down.”

It took Martín a bit longer to reply than usual, but he did.

“Fair enough. I’ll send you my form with my birthday on it. And I used my key when I was eighteen and two days.”

Andrés raised a brow.

“You used it so soon? Why?”

“It’s a long and personal story.”

“Why do you keep answering with that?”

“It’s a long and personal story.”

Despite himself, the Spaniard laughed.

“Alright then. I look forward to discovering who you met that day, Martín.”

“And I hope I can find someone that you would want to meet. Have a good day, Andrés.”

“Likewise, Martín.”

** User ANDRÉS DE FONOLLOSA has logged off. **

- VII -
(June 26th - Two Months Later)

Two and a half months after his twenty-eighth birthday, Andrés found himself back at the café. This time, however, it was under much different circumstances.

For one thing, he was meeting Martín.

For another, this was his first time meeting Martín.

Andrés already knew what he looked like, of course; Martín had kindly attached a picture when he emailed his forms, along with his birthdate and his Argentine hometown.

So yes, Andrés knew what Martín looked like in photos. It was another thing entirely to see him just across the street.

He watched curiously through the window panes.

After eight weeks of messaging the man almost on the daily, Andrés would admit he still struggled to read him. The Argentine, it turned out, had a penchant for heist films - second only to his love for rewatching great football games. He claimed to enjoy the designs of the heists - only choosing films that were technically accurate - while also being fond of against-the-grain characters.

And yet it was this same man who now stood on the sidewalk, dutifully looking both ways twice before crossing the road.

‘Curiouser and curiouser.’

Their chats were already a steady fixture in his days, and he was thankful that they’d quickly done away with the smalltalk. More often than not, they would simply send each other names without preamble, trusting the other to know what it meant.

Somewhere down the line, the names turned into stories. Talks of figures in history turned to talks of each other - about work hours and dinner plans and leaky faucets to be fixed. 

And Andrés? He enjoyed them; more so than he could admit.

Standing from his seat, the Spaniard waved at Martín as he entered the shop - watching as the Argentine broke into a grin.

And oh. So that’s what that smile looked like up close.

“Andrés!” the Argentine crowed gladly. The Spaniard would never mistake that voice.

Martín quickly crossed the distance between them - happily shaking Andrés’s hand - before he excused himself to go and grab his own food. He had gotten himself a coffee and pastry, returning minutes later with an order that matched Andrés’s.

Halfway though their croissants, Martín finally spoke.

“The Pre-Raphaelites.”

Andrés’s brow furrowed deeply. He knew it was Martín’s suggestion, of course, and he knew exactly who they were - but if anything, that only added to his confusion.

“The group of artists?” he asked quizzically. “You’re suggesting one of their members?”

It was Martín’s turn now to look confused.

“No? There are seven of them, aren’t there? That’s less than ten. You could meet them as a group.”

“What?” came Andrés’s incredulous reply. “Since when are we allowed to meet more than one person?”

“Since always?” Martín frowned. “Did no one ever tell you? As long as they were known to act as a group, you can meet them as a group. Given they’re less than ten people, of course. It’d be difficult otherwise.”

Andrés reeled at the revelation. How had he not learned this sooner?

‘Now that opens up a number of choices. Back to the drawing board, then.’ 

He would definitely ponder on that later. For now though…

“I’ll think about it,” he assured Martín, who was content to accept the answer. Andrés took a thoughtful sip of his coffee before he continued, “It’s an interesting suggestion by the way - the Pre-Raphaelites. You’re quite good at this, Martín. I’m honestly tempted to introduce you to Sergio, just to get your opinion on who he should choose.”

The Argentine sputtered in surprise.

“What?!” Martín squawked - much like Andrés prior - though, unlike Andrés, Martín was unfortunate enough to be mid-bite (so really, it was more of a flabbergasted “Whampht?!”). The Argentine swallowed before speaking again.

“What do you mean ‘who he should choose’? Is Sergio a—?”

“Keybearer? Yes,” the Spaniard said nonchalantly. “He got his key two years ago. Excited about it too.”

Martín sat back heavily in his seat, his ocean eyes wide with awe.

“That’s honestly incredible. I haven’t heard of two brothers being winners before.”

Andrés puffed up proudly at the praise - preening like a peacock. Yes, he and Sergio were quite impressive, please and thank you.

Now that Martín had finished his pitch, however, the curator realized that he could finally wager his guess. Or he would have, had he not had something else in mind.

“So,” Andrés began. “This isn’t a specific name—”

“Andrés, we agreed—”

“Hear me out, Martín, it’s a very fair question! It’s essential for all future guesses - integral to the premise. Honestly, it’d be a crime not to ask. Would you rather I be a criminal?”

Martín couldn’t help but chuckle at his companion’s dramatics.

“Alright then,” he managed. “Go ahead. What is it?”

Andrés stared at him intently before asking.

“Did you have someone accompany you, Martín? When you met who you chose?”

The Argentine smiled at the query, his brow raising in challenge.

“So you know about that mechanic, do you?”

“Please, I’ve known for some time,” Andrés said confidently. “And before you ask - yes - I also know about the condition. It halves the conversation time from six hours to three, ¿no?”

“I’m impressed.”

“As well you should be,” the Spaniard laughed. “But come on now, tell me: did you bring someone with you?”

Martín took a long sip of his coffee, before he finally answered with a shrug.

“What difference does it make?”

“It makes a world of difference!” Andrés protested. “I’ve been here poring over your forms for months, when for all I know, you could have chosen someone your companion wanted to meet!”

“That’s not how it works.”

Now that was new. The Spaniard hesitated - frowning in puzzlement.

“What do you mean?”

Martín tipped his head thoughtfully - gazing at the espresso he swirled in his cup.

“Could I have brought someone with me?” he asked, hypothetical. “Well, yes, that’d be allowed. Could they have suggested someone that they wanted to meet? Definitely, yes - and I could have taken that suggestion. But it wouldn’t have worked if I didn’t really want it. It had to have been someone I genuinely wanted to see - and on top of that, I genuinely have to want the other person with me. So it comes down to me anyway.”

Andrés fell silent at Martín’s explanation, slowly digesting the new information. When he finally did, he asked, 

“So if you don’t truly want to meet the person they suggested, or if you don’t want them to join you–”

“Then the door opens to nothing,” Martín finished with a nod. “A safety net, if you will. To avoid bullies and buyers.”

“Hm,” Andrés mused. “Glad to be aware of it, then. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“Hm?”

“Did you bring someone with you?”

That earned him a warm laugh from Martín - the sound ringing clearly with exasperated fondness. He really should have expected Andrés’s persistence; wasn’t this new deal of theirs a result of just that? The Argentine shook his head amusedly.

“No, no I didn’t.”

A beat; hesitation. Then,

“You know…” said Martín, “there is something I’ve wanted to ask too.”

The Spaniard raised a brow in question. 

“Yes?”

“You haven’t used your key in a decade. That’s why I got assigned to call in the first place.”

Andrés nodded agreeably, which Martín took as acquiesce. Finally, he asked,

“Why haven’t you used it, then?”

And to Martín’s great surprise - (or great horror, perhaps) - it seemed he had asked exactly the right thing.  

The moment the words left the Argentine’s lips, Andrés’s eyes twinkled with impossible mischief - his grin shining bright enough to shame a million suns. 

He leaned in close to Martín - smiling earnestly– solemnly– granting the moment all the gravity he could afford– before he finally answered in a voice so, so reverent—

“It’s a long and personal story.”

“Oh you hijo de pUTA—”

On that lazy afternoon in a quiet cafe, Martín had never laughed so hard in his life.

- VIII -
(April 7th - Ten Months Later)

His birthdays, it seemed, were determined to be eventful. Not that Andrés was complaining, of course.

On his twenty-eighth birthday, exactly a year prior, he had met Martín through a key and a phone call. Looking back on that day, he could say with great certainty that his life had since changed - though he certainly hadn’t been aware at the time.

Their calls were the reason Andrés chose to message - the Argentine intriguing him with what little he revealed. Their chats turned to coffees to lunches to date nights (though the labeling as such was generally unconfirmed). Their relationship had progressed so naturally and with ease - and, in all candor - neither had been aware. 

Because of course Andrés wanted Martín’s company at the supermarket. It was a chance to guess at Martín’s use of his key, and he wanted his opinion on the new lettuce types anyway. Why wouldn’t he want the Argentine’s company? It was a wholly preposterous thought.

And so they spent weekends together - spent holidays together - looking for an excuse to be in each other’s company, and meeting just the same when they couldn’t find a reason.  

It was only last Christmas that Martín had paused while hanging ornaments, before he turned to Andrés with a confused tilt of his head. 

“Andrés?” he had asked. “Are we in a relationship?”

Andrés pondered for a moment - fingers fiddling with the tinsel - before his face broke out into a radiant grin. 

“I believe we are. If you’d like to be, of course. Could you pass me the silver ornament just under the- ah, thank you.”

And that had been that.

It was a comfortable relationship, Andrés would attest - genuine and exciting and joyful and steady - easy, in a way his past romances had never been. 

And the longer they were together, the more Andrés learned.

He learned that Martín was kinder with children; gentle when he saw them in the park with their families. Andrés learned that to beckon Martín into an embrace, the artist simply had to spread his arms wide, and the Argentine would fall into them, certain as gravity.

Andrés learned that Martín was an opinionated passenger - that if the Spaniard didn’t strap his seatbelt himself, Martín would reach over and buckle him in. The first time it happened, Martín leaned across him, and Andrés had mischievously pecked him on the cheek. Martín had blushed furiously until he’d worked up a sweat - sputtering as Andrés smiled in satisfied amusement. 

It was a blush that returned rather dependably, even as they did the same dance every day.

But as Andrés learned of joys, he too learned of sorrows.

He learned that Martín grew quiet in December - that a week would arrive when he’d fall somber and silent, and Andrés glimpsed a pain whose tale he knew not. Sometimes, he was tempted to call that pain ‘longing’, but he struggled to grasp what the Argentine longed for. He knew that Martín preferred not to speak of it, though, and that the way to spark joy was to drag him to the couch, and replay Argentina winning in ‘86.

Andrés was still grateful to learn all he could.

But among all of these lessons and insights and knowledge, what the artist was thankful to learn most of all, was the way his smile shone under a thousand different lights. He learned what it looked like under the soft hues of dawn - under the silver of moonlight - the radiance of noon. The crinkle of his eyes when Andrés ventured a guess. The way it softened in fondness when he tried to look annoyed - because Andrés was still whining “just tell me who you chose, cariño”, as he did every day. 

Andrés learned, and he saw, and he loved what he saw.

It was no great surprise when the words slipped from his mouth. 

He remembered that night with impeccable clarity - the TV and the couch cushions and the football match that played. It was a match between teams that Martín hadn’t even supported, but he had cursed at each foul with great fervor, regardless. Martín had been hissing at the ref in his outrage, when Andrés had smiled fondly and said simply, “te amo”.

Martín’s tearful smile then was his most treasured one yet.

The Argentine had whispered the same words in reply - softly; sincerely; in the gentlest of kisses - syllables and salt against the press of Andrés’s lips. He said it again once he wiped away his tears - and again, for good measure, against the crown of the artist’s head. And after that moment had finally passed, he had smiled at Andrés with all the love in the world, before asking him if he wanted Chinese food or pizza.

That had been months ago, and now, they were here.

On the morning of Andrés’s twenty-ninth birthday, Martín stood with his boxes and knick knacks and toothbrush - ready to move into the artist’s apartment. They spent most of the daytime unpacking and sorting, and once they were finished, Martín turned to Andrés, and he said to his boyfriend: “Antoni Gaudí”.

The architect - a suggestion. The Spaniard smiled as he kissed him.

So yes, Andrés’s birthdays were rather eventful. Each one seemed to bring such momentous occasions - altering the shape and the trajectory of his life.

But his birthdays had also brought him Martín - and as Andrés felt his boyfriend nestle sleepily in his arms, the artist soon found that he could never complain.

- IX -
(December 8th - Eight Months Later)

“Oh my god, hurry up, Andrés, we’re going to miss the previews!”

The Spaniard in question was having a less than stellar day.

In his defense, it wasn’t his fault that they were running late to the cinema - he greatly preferred to blame it on the weather. He had meticulously planned his outfit for the day, but the skies thought it fit to ruin absolutely everything. With the chill in the air being colder than reasonable, Andrés had been forced to put on a coat, which threw all his outfit plans out of the window. He now had to improvise a whole new aesthetic, and it was currently the cause of all the delay.

But again, to be clear - it was not Andrés’s fault - it was the weather’s.

The Spaniard absolutely despised these scenarios - he hated them deeply, right down to his core - these moments when he couldn’t give his appearance the care it deserved.

“Andrés, it's a shoe - how hard can it be to pick one?!”

And Martín– god, he loved him, but he was this close to murder.

“Martín - god, I love you but I am this close to murder.”

“Likewise, cariño - let’s get to the damn car.”

Grumbling incessantly as he donned his black dress shoes, Andrés sat in the driver’s seat with a huff and a glare, before he turned to Martín who sat just beside him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Andrés felt that he had forgotten something.

But regardless–

“I’m wearing black shoes that don’t match my wristwatch,” the artist said grumpily. “If you ever doubt my affections, you best remember this moment.”

“I will - I promise - now go fucking drive.”

Andrés peeled from the parking spot–

“NOT THAT FUCKING FAST!”

“Murder, Martín, murder. So very very close.”

However, as chaotic as the start of the ride had just been, it genuinely seemed that they would make it in time. Andrés had been ready to floor the gas pedal, but Martín was an astonishingly opinionated passenger, and he’d screech at the artist if he so much as accelerated.

Unfortunately, it seemed that another driver didn’t share in his fervor.

They were already near the park by the cinema, when a car at the intersection ran the red light.

Their car swerved. 

Andrés was thrown forward as the car screeched and skidded- his brow making contact with the edge of the steering wheel. He fought to regain control of the vehicle, and it was only through luck that he was able to do so - the car finally stopping on a bare patch of grass. 

‘Thank goodness the park was empty,’ Andrés thought as he sighed, before he sat back heavily against the cushions of his seat.

Then suddenly—

‘Martín!’

Andrés shot up in his chair - pulse quick and gaze frantic as he searched for the other man. His bones quivered with relief when he spotted the Argentine, who - upon quick inspection - looked relatively unharmed.

It was only his expression that made Andrés pause. 

Because Martín—

Martín was looking at him - eyes wide and lips trembling and fingers shaking in his lap - his frame rattling like a leaf in the winds of a hurricane. He was looking at Andrés in absolute horror - a guilt so unfathomable that it squeezed the artist’s own chest.

“Cariño, what’s the matter? Are you—”

“I didn’t put your seatbelt on.” 

The choked words froze Andrés's blood in his veins.

“What?” the Spaniard breathed.

“I didn’t—” Martín tried to force out - but to the artist’s great horror, the words splintered into a sob.

“Martín, it’s no matter–” Andrés reassured, “I forgot to wear it myself—”

“But it’s my fault Andrés!” Martín exploded – tears staining his cheeks– his face splotched with red– “I always do it for you! You trust me to take care of it, but I didn’t because we were rushing, and you hit your head on the steering wheel– you could have– oh god ohgodohgodohgOD—”

So that’s what he had forgotten. Their tradition - their dance - Martín would lean over - Andrés would peck him on the cheek - he would blush - Andrés would smile—

But was forgetting that the only thing drawing such a reaction?

“Martín, we’ll stop by the clinic,” Andrés offered weakly, hoping it would assuage the Argentine’s fears. “We’ll get everything sorted - we’ll make sure we’re alright - but I need you to calm down, cariño, tell me what’s wrong—”

“I’m so sorry Andrés, don’t leave me, por favor, please please don’t leave me—”

‘What in all hell?’ Andrés couldn’t keep the disbelief from his mind’s voice. 

Very, very rarely did the artist find himself helpless - but Andrés would never forget how it felt. He had felt it when both of his parents had died; he had felt it whenever Sergio got sick. The desperation - the anger - the wild urge to just scream—

Andrés felt helpless now - watching as his boyfriend fell apart right before him, and he still had no fucking clue why.

And so he did the only thing that he could: Andrés opened his arms as he’d done many times before, and hoped that the Argentine would understand what he meant.

He did; of course he did.

As certain and as natural as the tug of gravity, Martín fell forward into the artist’s embrace.

The Argentine grasped desperately at the lapels of Andrés’s coat - burying his face against the silk of his shirt, as the cries finally clawed their way past his throat. Martín sobbed - loud and ugly - visceral and raw - so vicious and so forceful that they emptied the air from his lungs. 

All the while, Andrés held him - steady, grounding, and firm.

“I’m such a mess–” Martín babbled, chasing for breath. “I’m so sorry Andrés– I-I-I can explain—” 

“Martín, you don’t have to, I just need you to calm down now—”

“My key– it’s my key–” the Argentine pleaded, “I can explain Andrés, I promise– the ones that I met– I’ll tell you– I’ll tell you– don’t leave me– I promise—”

“I don’t want you to tell me.”

The Spaniard’s firm declaration jammed the words in Martín’s throat. He glanced up at Andrés - eyes wide in confusion - as if his resolute statement made absolutely no sense.

“Yes you do–” Martín insisted, tearful in his desperation. “Yes you do– of course you do– from the very very start you’ve always wanted to know—”

Andrés tightened his embrace - his voice ringing with steel.

“Not like this– never like this, Martín. Never in a thousand years.” The artist met Martín’s gaze, then - his own, full of conviction. He needed him to understand. “I don’t want you to tell me because you’re afraid– because you’re frightened that, for some ungodly reason, I’ll leave you if you don’t.”

Andrés scoffed in mock-outrage.

“Do you think I’d wear my black shoes and brown watch for just anyone, hm? I would wear a mismatched belt for you.”

When the words had their intended effect - drawing a quiet, watery chuckle from Martín - the Spaniard’s heart veritably soared. 

“So damn romantic,” Martín softly mumbled - muffled against the fabric of the artist’s coat. 

Andrés smiled; echoed:

“You’re welcome. I try.” 

For a few heartbeats they simply stayed that way - Martín and Andrés in the warmth of their car - one resting in the shelter of the other man’s arms. 

However, despite the Argentine calming down considerably, the artist would be hard-pressed to call him relaxed. He could still feel the tension in the other man’s muscles - the way Martín’s breaths still hiccuped and took far too much effort. The Argentine’s fingers were still frigid as frost, and his gaze still held panic and worry and fear.

There was nothing else for it, then; Andrés knew what he had to do. Martín needed a distraction now - much like he needed to rewatch Argentina’s win of ‘86, on the days when he fell somber and silent.

Andrés didn’t have that game on hand, but the Spaniard hoped that this would do.

“I’ve never told you why I haven’t used my key, now, have I?”

Martín paused in his arms - gasping softly in disbelief and confusion.

Thankfully, without fear.

“Andrés?” Martín breathed.

“It was because of Sergio,” the artist said, his voice settling into a rhythm - the words rumbling in his chest where his boyfriend could feel it. “It was because of Sergio and the pair mechanic. I wanted to give him that gift. You can imagine my surprise when you explained how it truly worked. But regardless–”

And there, Andrés told him: how he’d approached Sergio with that plan - about how he told Sergio to ‘go ahead, pick someone’, and Andrés would bring him along. He told him about how Sergio advised that they wait - to see if his hermanito would get a key of his own. 

And he had - Sergio had.

“But by then it had already been eight years past.”

Somewhere in the middle of telling his story, Andrés had propped his chin atop Martín’s head. His boyfriend’s breathing had settled - his posture, relaxed - content to just listen as Andrés spun his tale.

The Spaniard continued, his jaw brushing brown hair,

“As for these past three years… I don’t think I have a reason, if you can believe it. Nothing’s ever felt right - felt worthy of a decade of waiting and wondering. I suppose I could use it to see both of my parents, but if I’m being candid…”

Andrés paused, then. Hesitated. 

What he was about to say, he’d never told a soul. He took a breath before speaking,

“If I’m being candid... I’d spent so much time caring for Sergio after they died that I’d… pushed my grief aside. I learned to be without them - I had to, for both our sakes. And now I… I don’t seem to feel that grief as keenly as he does. And Sergio… I suspect he’s saving his key, just to keep that possibility of seeing them again. He’s waiting for the right moment. But it’s been quite long since all of that happened, and somehow… I’ve already made my peace with it. I suppose I’d rather leave it there.” 

As he finished his tale, Andrés sighed heavily. He carefully blinked the tears from his eyes - steadying the tremors that rattled his breaths.

It was then he felt Martín burrow deep into his arms, and the feather-light kiss that was pressed to his jaw.

“Thank you for telling me,” the Argentine whispered - his voice, steady, peaceful, and calm.

To keep it that way, Andrés would move mountains.

- X -
(December 10th - Two Days Later)

It was snowing when Martín finally told him.

For the rest of his days, Andrés would never forget that night.

They were both in the living room, on that fateful evening - watching but not-watching the weather channel on screen. The television was the sole source of light in the area - (save for the light from the streetlamps that filtered in through the window) - but it bathed Martín’s profile in its silver-white glow, and that was more than enough for Andrés.

The artist was sprawled across the length of the sofa - tucked under a blanket, with his head in Martín’s lap - the Argentine’s fingers brushing absently through his hair. 

And although his vantage point was not quite conventional, Andrés could still glimpse his companion’s face.

It was… distant.

The Argentine’s eyes were continents away - his thoughts traveling to a place only memories could reach. If Andrés listened closely, he could hear his breath hitch - and if Andrés observed closely, he could glimpse the well of tears.

And so whenever he listened and he observed and he saw, Andrés pressed his cheek firmly against the rough of Martín’s jeans - grounding the Argentine to the warmth of their room. He took one of Martín’s hands in his very own, before he settled twined fingers against the heat of his chest.

An eternity passed in that calm, steady quiet. 

And then, came the whisper,

“It was mi familia.”

Andrés paused - fingers stilling - his brown eyes tilting upward.

“Martín?” the artist whispered, searching his partner’s face.

The Argentine’s gaze was fixed far ahead.

“You’ve always wondered who it was that I met,” Martín softly continued. “I’ve never told you before - but I want you to know now...”

The Argentine sighed, his breath trembling with tears.

“It was mi familia, Andrés. I used my key to see my family.”

The Spaniard’s breath hitched at the new revelation.

Because that only meant—

“I was barely eleven,” Martín continued, salt spilling slowly from his ocean blue gaze. “It was a family reunion - just before Christmas. We were on our way home on a late afternoon. Three cars and ten people. Mi—”

Martín swallowed a sob.

“Mi mamá and papá. Mis tios and tias. Mis primos and primas. A pile-up, Andrés - in the middle of the highway—”

The Argentine’s voice fractured, a cry breaking free. 

Andrés lifted his fingers - brushed Martín’s cheek—

“Cariño. Cariño—”

“My seatbelt had saved me– everyone else was still hurt–” the words tumbled from Martín’s lips, unintelligible through his tears, “I begged them not to leave me, Andrés– I pleaded, again and again– I was the only one left– I lost my whole family and I was the only one left—”  

In an instant, the Argentine found himself in the circle of the artist’s arms. Martín wasted no time in burrowing deeper, burying his face in the crook of Andrés’s neck. His breaths hiccuped loudly - short, desperate, whimpering gasps - his tears painting rivers across the hills of his cheeks.

“I used it, Andrés–” the Argentine sobbed loudly - his arms tightening around the artist in impossible desperation. A drowning man in the ocean– searching for flotsam in the sea– anything– anything to keep his head above water— 

“I used my damn key as soon as I could. I saw them– I saw them again. All of them were there– after seven whole years alone, I saw them again Andrés—”

There was nothing that could have ripped him from Andrés’s arms in that moment. As the Argentine’s words finally gave way to cries - heart-wrenching sobs that held a lifetime of pain - Andrés held him as close as the laws of matter allowed. He hugged Martín closer - until his heart beat against his - pressing feather-soft kisses to the Argentine’s temple, and murmuring whispers against the tremble of skin.

All through the night, Andrés sat there and listened. 

He listened to Martín’s stories from childhood - about his mamá and papá and tios and tias - about sleepovers and playgrounds with his primos and primas. He learned about a house in Palermo, Buenos Aires - with its periwinkle walls and the smell of asado - with scribbles on the wallpaper and wooden floorboards that creaked.

Martín spoke of his papá who thought puns were prime comedy. His tia who never learned to manage their TV. His younger, smaller cousin who kept stealing his alfajores. His older, kinder prima who always gave him hers. His tio’s old workshop - his mamá’s lullaby just for him. Their house’s comfort - its safety - its peace and its joy—

Andrés learned of a family. He learned of a home.

And he learned of the strength Martín needed to piece himself together, after losing his whole world in the course of an afternoon.

Andrés learned, and he saw, and he loved what he saw.

And he would stay here - he knew. For as long as Martín needed him - for months or for years - Andrés didn’t care how long. For as long as Martín needed to seek refuge in his embrace - to hide in the safety and the warmth of his touch - nothing would take the Argentine from his arms. Not until his partner chose to leave them himself.

And so, even as the moon sailed its course through the sky - even after Martín fell asleep in exhaustion - Andrés stayed there, a sentinel, standing guard through the night.

Outside their window, the snow continued to fall.

- XI -
(December 24th - Christmas Eve - Two Weeks Later)

“Sergito! Sergito! Amigo querido de mi corazon!”

Andrés had seen many things in his life - but Sergio’s awkward expression as he received Martín’s hug was certainly the most amusing one yet. Giving his hermanito a warm hug of his own, Andrés ushered his brother into their apartment, towards the table ladened with food.

It was a feast fit for Christmas.

While they usually saved the Christmas dinner for the day itself - (last year, Sergio had first met Martín on that very day) - this year, they would celebrate on Christmas Eve instead.

“I… um… have plans for Christmas, actually,” Sergio had confessed via video call, eyes ducking at the inquisitive looks from both Andrés and Martín. The university student had blushed before saying, “I’ve been invited to Raquel’s - to celebrate with her family.”

Martín’s exaggerated sob had startled both brothers.

“Andrés - Andrés–” the Argentine had cried loudly, brushing non-existent tears from the corner of his eyes. “He’s growing up so fast, I’m not ready for him to get married—”

Ignoring Sergio’s indignant sputtering, Andrés had smirked mischievously before his face utterly crumpled.

“I know, Martín,” he crooned, taking his boyfriend into his arms. “I’m not ready for it either. It seems like it was just yesterday, he was going through diapers like you would not believe–”

“ANDRÉS, BE QUIET—!”

“But now–” the artist choked on a fake sob of his own. He placed both hands against the sides of his boyfriend’s face, gazing intently into the Argentine’s eyes. “I know this is hard, but we knew this could happen. We have to be strong, cariño - do you understand?”

Impressively, Martín’s eyes welled with ungenuine tears. 

“Uh huh, I do, Andrés,” he nodded pitifully, before he suddenly went in for a rather passionate kiss. Andrés met him halfway, already thinking the same thing.

And just like clockwork –

“DO YOU TWO HAVE TO DO THIS EVERY TIME I CALL?!”  

At the sound of Sergio’s embarrassed protests, both Andrés and Martín dissolved into laughter. The artist looked at his brother who was red as tomatoes - clearly uncomfortable with watching Andrés’s face get eaten - before he raised an eyebrow in curious challenge.

“Oh please, Sergio, as if you and Raquel don’t do the same thing—”

**Sergio Marquina has left the call**

And thus they coordinated the rest over text.

However, even though their plans had gotten off to a rough start, the dinner itself was quite the success. While the couple still took the opportunity to tease Sergio every now and again, the youngest found he had missed his brother’s company, and was growing to become quite fond of Martín’s.

And that was how they found themselves after dinner, sitting on the sofa as Andrés showered down the hall.

“Martín?” Sergio began hesitantly - fiddling with the wine glass perched in his lap. Martín looked up from his drink.

“Yes, Sergio? What is it?”

The younger man adjusted his glasses.

“I, um… I’m thinking about using my key.”

Martín’s eyebrows rose inquisitively.

“Oh? Is there a problem? Can I help with anything in particular?”

Sergio shook his head, eyes flicking from Martín to his wine.

“No, it’s alright. It’s just… you know I’m celebrating with Raquel’s family tomorrow, right?”

The Argentine chuckled lightly - the sound bare of all mocking.

“Yes, yes - I remember. We may tease you a lot, Sergito, but we are actually happy for you, alright?”

“I know,” Sergio replied with a warm smile of his own. “It’s just that - all this talk of seeing her family? I…” 

The younger man swallowed thickly, before he finally confessed:

“I can’t help but miss my own. I… I miss my parents, Martín.”

The Argentine’s eyes softened.

“You want to make sure it’s actually possible to meet them?” Martín asked, his voice gentle. Sergio nodded in reply.

“I can, can’t I? Use my key to see them? I’ve read some places that you can meet more than one person - that you can even bring another person - but that’s besides the point– They never said it had to be anyone famous from the past, so there’s no reason I can’t, really, but I just wanted to ask–”

“Tranquilo, Sergio - yes, yes you can,” Martín assured, before his face grew more pensive, “But if I’m being honest? I’m not sure if you should yet.”

Sergio gaped at Martín.

“What on earth does that mean?” he asked, voice rising in distress. “Why shouldn’t I meet them already? It’s been so long, Martín–”

“I think it depends,” the Argentine cut in. “Are you serious about Raquel, Sergio? Do you think she’s the one?”

“What does that have to do with anything–”

“Humor me, Sergio. Please.”

“I…” the younger man hesitated. “I-I-I don’t know. I’m not sure. But I’m asking about my parents, Martín—”

“Then I don’t think you should see them yet.”

“You’re not making any sense!” Sergio finally exploded - staring at his brother’s partner in agonized confusion.

Martín sighed heavily, before he regarded Sergio with a gentle gaze.

“Listen to me, alright, Sergito?” he said. “This is just a bit of advice - it’s up to you if you want to take it. But… to keep it short and simple, I used my key to see my family too.”

The younger man gasped - a sharp intake of breath.

“Martín—”

“It was a long time ago,” the Argentine continued. “I used it as soon as I could. And using my key to see them?”

Martín met his gaze.

“It was the happiest night of my life.”

The breath fled from Sergio’s lungs - his eyes wide and filled with sympathy.

“Then why are you…?”

“Why am I telling you to wait?” Martín asked, and Sergio nodded. The Argentine sighed.

“I want to be very clear,” Martín began. “That night meant more to me than anything in the world. The joy that I felt then? The gift of that moment? It’s the reason I got into this line of work. I wanted to make those moments happen for everyone else.”

The Argentine chuckled fondly.

“It’s why I was so determined to make sure your brother didn’t waste his key - because I know just how big of a gift it can be.” His face grew somber, then. “But I stand by my advice, Sergio: don’t use it - not yet.”

Martín took a careful sip from his drink - steeling his courage before he finally confessed,

“I could never regret using my key to see my family. But… sometimes I regret using it too soon.”

And suddenly, there it was - painted on his face: the longing that Andrés never quite understood, braided with sadness and a lifetime of grief. Martín tipped his gaze to the ceiling - tears shimmering in the fluorescent.

“Sometimes I wonder,” the Argentine whispered, “if I had just waited… maybe I could have introduced them to Andrés.”

Martín shook his head.

“There’s no point dwelling on any of it now,” he said - smiling tearfully at the younger man. “But sometimes… sometimes I look at your brother and I can’t help but wonder: what would mamá and papá think of him? Would he get along with my tia? Play nice with my cousins? I like to think they’d have loved him but… I’d give anything, Sergio– anything to be able to hear it from them. But I lost that chance a long, long time ago; I just don’t want you to have the same regrets.”

Martín smiled - soft and sorrowful.

“It’s all up to you, Sergio,” he clasped the younger man’s shoulder. “But a bit of advice? Wait for someone you really want to be with - and then, take them with you when you go see your parents. Just something for you to consider, hermanito.”

- XII -
(December 25th - Christmas Day - One Day Later)

On the golden sunset of Christmas Day, Andrés de Fonollosa donned his best suit.

It was nothing too opulent, but it was poised and refined - the finest outfit his wardrobe could offer. He had chosen it with good reason: they had a dinner reservation, after all.

“Martín?” he called out - voice carrying to the bathroom. “Are you ready, cariño? We’ll be late to the restaurant!”

“This better be a damn good restaurant, Andrés!” Martín grumbled indignantly, before he finally stepped out into the room.

And there he was.

Andrés couldn’t help but grin at the sight of his partner: dressed in smart-casual; elegant and sleek. Hair combed and shoes polished - the dress shirt complementing his eyes—

He looked beautiful.  

Powerful.

Andrés greeted him with a kiss.

“If this is the welcome this outfit gets me, I may just overhaul my wardrobe,” Martín grinned against the artist's lips. When they lingered that way for a moment, he raised a curious brow, “I thought we were rushing to get to dinner?”

“Oh, we definitely are,” the Spaniard laughed as he broke the kiss, before leading Martín by the hand.

Once they’d gotten to their car, the Argentine wasted no time in buckling Andrés’s seatbelt - and the artist, as ever, pecked his partner on the cheek. The car ride passed in relative normalcy - with Martín humming along to whatever was on the radio - but his carefree demeanor shifted when they took an unexpected right turn.

“Andrés?” the Argentine asked, turning in his seat to look behind him. In the rear window, the intersection grew farther away. “Andrés, we were supposed to turn left there.”

“I know, cariño,” the Spaniard assured. “Just trust me.”

That did nothing to lessen Martín’s confusion, but it was enough to keep him from voicing it for the rest of the ride. After a few more minutes of riding in silence, the car finally came to a halt in a suburban neighborhood. 

Martín scanned the brownstone facades.

“Where are we, Andrés?” the Argentine asked. This area looked nothing like the bustling shopping district they planned to visit. The entire lane was devoid of shops or restaurants - offering only apartment buildings that stretched on for miles.

Andrés smiled at him from the driver’s seat.

“I canceled our dinner reservations.”

Martín’s head whipped incredulously towards the artist.

“What? Andrés, you know that reservation took us months to get–”

“I know, I know. Forgive me, cariño, I just thought we’d try something else.”

Without another word of explanation, Andrés quickly stepped out of the car - Martín following his lead despite his confusion. The artist took him by the hand - fingers twining - before he smiled at his partner for reasons Martín didn’t yet know.

“Just come with me, cariño. I promise it will all make sense.”

And so he did.

Martín rambled the whole walk toward wherever Andrés was leading them - asking ‘is this one of those home pop-up restaurants, Andrés, I really wish you’d have run this by me first, cariño’ - the artist smiling at him indulgently the whole way.

Finally, they stopped in front of a building. 

At the sight of it, Martín gasped.

It was an old building - seemingly abandoned - rusty and unmaintained and in moderate disrepair. There didn’t seem to be anyone living within its walls, and to anyone else, it may have simply looked like a structure lost to memory and time.

But Martín knew better.

“This can’t be where we’re having dinner,” the Argentine breathed. “This brownstone is empty, Andrés. I know for a fact there can’t be anyone living here.”

His eyes drifted to the bright yellow door at its entrance - pristine and vibrant - a stark contrast to the facade.

He knew it for certain—

“This is one of the doors, Andrés,” Martín said, his eyes widening. “We can’t go in there. To open this door you would need–”

“A key?”

The Argentine gasped sharply - his gaze spinning towards the artist–

And suddenly all Martín could see was Andrés. 

Andrés - who was haloed gently by the streetlight. Andrés - who regarded him with soft eyes and a softer smile. Andrés, who was looking at him in astonishing kindness–

Andrés, who was holding his key in his hand.

Without a word, the artist slotted it through the keyhole.

“Andrés, what are you doing—”

Andrés turned the key.

* Click *

Martín could only stare in impossible disbelief. Ever so gently, he felt the artist’s fingers thread between his.

“Just follow me, alright, cariño?”

The rational part of Martín’s mind wanted nothing more than to protest. He had no idea of what awaited them there. He had no idea as to the who or the why– had no idea Andrés even decided to use his key—

But he could feel the way the artist’s hand trembled - the way it shook as it only did when Andrés was nervous and uncertain.

And so he nodded. Because of course he did.

Smiling gratefully, Andrés took one, final bracing breath, before he finally - finally - opened the door. 

Hand-in-hand, they stepped through the threshold.

Martín hadn’t the faintest idea of what to expect. There were a number of possibilities of where the door could lead: would it lead to a room full of like-minded artists? The studio or the workshop of some brilliant, creative mind? Would it lead to a lecture hall? A sitting room? A grand office or a study?

It turned out to be none of these places at all.

Instead, the door opened to the entrance hall of a house.

Martín frowned in confusion.

Immediately, something nagged at his mind; a wisp of a memory he couldn't quite grasp. This was someplace he recognized, he just didn’t know where.

Had he seen it in pictures while researching suggestions?

No. No– this place was important. 

He was about to ask his partner - his mouth already forming the words - when the smell of the room finally hit him.

Every word died on Martín’s tongue.

His breath hitched and trembled as it was pulled from his lungs - his eyes filling with tears and legs turning to jelly. His gaze quickly scanned the walls and the ceilings– his mind swiftly processing each sight, sound and smell—

The smell of asado– 

The creak of the floorboards–

Scribbles on a wallpaper of periwinkle blue–

Palermo, Buenos Aires–

“Andrés, what in the hell–” 

“Martín?” came a voice from just down the hall.

It took everything Martín had to keep himself standing, even as the first sob finally broke free.

Oh god, it was them.

It was them.

There was absolutely no mistaking it. He knew the sound of that chatter coming from the dining room - the timbre of his tio’s boisterous laugh. There was the whining protests of his younger cousins – his prima’s quick and snappy rebuke. His tia’s complaining– papá’s attempts to appease her—

The sound of his mamá who hummed as she cooked.

But how on earth was it possible– there was absolutely no way–

“I heard you and Sergio talking.”

The Spaniard’s voice quickly cut through his thoughts. 

Gaze tearful and frame trembling, Martín finally turned to his partner beside him. Andrés grinned at him, then - watery and bright.

“Merry Christmas, Martín.”

The Argentine broke into a sob.

Oh god. Oh god. Was this happening? There was no way on earth that any of this was happening.

People didn't just give away opportunities of a lifetime for Christmas. People gave sweaters and sneakers and saccharine greeting cards—

But Andrés— 

Andrés Andrés Andrés Andrés—

He—

He had been saving his key for a decade. For more than a third of his entire life. He had been searching for something that would justify so many years of waiting - Martín knew too well his struggle to choose.

The artist could have chosen anyone - anyone - from all who ever was—

But instead, he chose to give Martín one more night with those he'd lost.

Did Andrés understand what it was he had done? What he had given Martín? What he’d given up in turn?

“Andrés, I—” the Argentine fought to steady his breaths - guilt and shame burning deep in his gut. “I’m so sorry Andrés- I didn’t mean for you to hear that. I was just telling Sergio– I would never want to force you—”

“That’s not how it works,” Andrés said with a smile - remembering an old, lazy afternoon in a café. “Isn’t that what you told me? When you explained how it operates?”

He gave Martín’s hand a comforting squeeze, grounding his partner with the warmth of his touch.

“It all comes down to me, you said - and I want to meet your family, Martín. These people so near and dear to your heart. I want to meet your mamá and papá. I want to meet your tios and tias. I want to meet all your primos and primas. I want to hear their puns and watch them steal your alfajores. This—”

The artist gently cupped Martín’s face - wiping his tears with the pads of his thumbs. 

He smiled - reverent.

“This would be worth a decade of waiting.”

And like a lost, lonely moon finally falling into orbit, Martín fell into the artist’s embrace. 

Andrés held him closer, then - gentle fingers combing through coffee-colored hair - hushing Martín as he cried into his collar. 

“Thank you, thank you—” Martín gasped out - a prayer - spoken through tears against the skin of Andrés’s neck. 

After a few heartbeats nestled in the safety of the artist’s arms, Martín composed himself as quickly and as well as he could. He knew how precious each minute here was.

Wiping the tear tracks and calming his breaths, Martín let Andrés lead the way forward—

“Everyone! Martín is here!”

The sight that greeted him was one he’d only ever dreamed of.

Because there they all were– his loved ones– his familia– his mamá and papá and tios and tias– primos and primas– all of them smiling– waving him over- so happy to see him because they’d missed him just as much—

And standing with all of them at the very, very front - looking for all the world like he already belonged - was Andrés de Fonollosa.

“Well?” Andrés grinned - eyes shining with enough love to bring death to its knees. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Martín laughed brightly through a jubilant sob.

Of all the tears he'd ever cried, it was these that felt like healing.

‘Yes. Yes. You don’t know how long I've wished for this ‘yes’.’

Winding an arm around the Spaniard’s waist, Martín hugged the artist close to his side, before he announced, his voice ringing with impossible joy:

“Hi everybody, this is Andrés.”

The Argentine’s smile that night was the one the artist treasured most.

And as the whole room erupted in exuberant cheers - ‘welcome’; ‘we missed you’; ‘we’re so happy you’re here’ - on that precious evening, in the warmth of that home, Andrés and Martín basked in laughter and light.

Somewhere behind them, the door clicked close.