When Mirko returned from his trip, it was late at night (or possibly early in the morning), and Martín was very drunk.

He had been out at a club earlier, this much was evident in the smears of black kohl around his eyes, but he had taken off whatever he had been wearing and replaced it with one of Mirko's sweaters (and nothing else). On him, the knit looked ridiculously oversized, the hem settling midway up his thighs and the neck wide enough to show off his collarbones.

Mirko would have found this a very sexy sight to return to, if not for the fact that Martín was crying.

Or had been crying, anyway. There were still tear tracks on his face, and they gathered in glistening lines between his scars. Martín's eyes were overbright, and he turned his head to the side, narrowing them slightly- ah, and then Mirko realized that in the dark, and from so far away, Martín probably couldn't see him very well at all.

"...Andrés?" Martín asked, and his voice sounded tiny, completely different from the way he usually was.

"No," Mirko said, and he made his way down the corridor and into the light, where Martín could see him.

"Oh...oh, Mirko," Martín said, and he took hold of the collar of Mirko's shirt, leaning in like it was a lifeline. He was trembling, and his breath smelled of amaretto.

"You won't leave me, right, Mirko?" Martín asked, his voice little more than a whisper. "You wouldn't...not all alone...with nothing…"

"No," Mirko said, and he slowly wrapped Martín in a tight embrace, cradling him close under his chin. "I won't leave you, I promise."

Martín sighed, and it was such a miserable sigh that Mirko felt a heat grow inside him at the sound- a deep, bubbling, volcanic heat, and its name was anger.

Mirko didn't know exactly what had happened, for no matter how drunk, Martín would never tell him- but what he did know was that Berlin had broken Martín's heart.

Whatever he had done, he had broken it so thoroughly that it had made Martín mad- made him hateful and destructive, made him the cruel and callous creature Mirko had first met in Italy. Now, it made him only drink and use drugs in damaging excess, and made him want sex to be painful and degrading. Berlin had broken him so badly Mirko didn't think he was really fixed, even after all this time- and doubted he ever would be.

And this thought made Mirko very, very angry.

If he could have, then, Mirko would go back in time to the Mint and fight Berlin for this. In hand to hand combat, the way men of honour should, and Mirko knew he would win. He wanted Berlin hurt by it, shaken up, wanted him to understand that he had done something wrong, and that he shouldn't look so arrogant, shouldn't play around so cruelly with that poor girl, shouldn't have thrown Martín away and let him suffer.

But it was too late for that. Berlin was long dead.

"It's alright," Mirko murmured. "Let's go to bed. I'll take care of you."

Martín let himself be led, more docile than he ever was, and Mirko removed the last of his makeup and had him drink a tall glass of water so his head wouldn't hurt in the morning, and kissed the scars on his eyes until he fell asleep. And even when Mirko, too, drifted away into the dark, he didn't let him go. In this way, he would be different.