"You've got a nice place here, Sergio," said Martín. They were alone on the back deck of the mansion-home, a beautiful wooden construct lit by yellow lanterns, facing forward to the sea. The Philippine summer night (night? or was it almost morning?) was warm, but a gentle breeze blew, and the sounds of the ocean were like the breathing of a sleeping giant. Martín was on the edge of wine-drunk, and everything was softer than usual. He didn't feel like himself. He felt like he was floating. He realized vaguely that Sergio was in his striped pajamas- he had probably been woken by Martín's late wandering. Everyone else must be asleep.
(That was a lonely thought.)
"Well, yes. We- um, Raquel and I- bought it in good condition, but we've had a few renovations. Hiring local contractors in cash, of course." Sergio said quietly, flicking his glasses up his nose as he joined Martín by the rail.
"And they say crime doesn't pay," Martín murmured, and he took another sip of his wine, and silence fell between them.
Of all these people, he had known Sergio the longest. He was, in a way, almost like a brother- and oh, hadn't Martín wished for years to have Sergio as his brother (in law)? He had been so desperate for such a thing. Lucky number six. But that chance was long dead, and Martín didn't even know where it was buried.
Looking at the ocean, Martín found he did not feel that yearning anymore. He held the memory of it- it was a very deep pain- but in that moment he didn't feel it. In truth, all he felt was empty.
Empty, and rather guilty.
"I think I'm a bad person," Martín said slowly, and though he felt Sergio turn he didn't meet his gaze. "But you knew that already. You've known that for ages."
"Martín," Sergio said, and Martín knew the culprit behind what was bubbling up on his tongue was in his glass, but he didn't really care. It wasn't like he was lying. Wasn't it good, to tell the truth?
"I'm a bad person, and I can't…" he shook his head like he was exhausted with himself. "I can't even tell him...you know I haven't said it once, Sergio? I haven't said it even once…"
"Martín, I think that's enough," said Sergio, and he took Martín's glass. Martín let it slip from his fingers without protest. It didn't matter. "It's very late. Whatever it is, I'm sure it will seem different in the morning."
He tried to take Martín's arm, his touch gentle, like Martín was too far gone to think clearly. Martín thought his thinking was very clear. Clearer, even, than it usually was.
"You tell your Lisbon, don't you?" he said pathetically. "You tell her you love her, don't you?"
Sergio looked up at him, and for a moment their eyes met, and Sergio released him, setting the wine glass down on a nearby table.
"I do," he said, somewhat awkward, putting one hand in his pocket and lifting the other to adjust his glasses again. His eyes flickered back and forth, flustered. "I do tell her that, yes."
Martín nodded, and hummed. He was very calm, drifting like this, as though on a raft atop the peaceful sea.
"The others are right about me," Martín continued before Sergio could speak again. "You were right. I'm poison, Sergio. And so I...I don't know what to do."
He hadn't thought he was going to cry until just then, but on this last admission something hot rose up in his eyes, and he had to look away, blinking quickly to dispel it. There was silence between them for a long moment, and it was a damaging silence, the kind that dug too deep and too roughly. Martín waited for the gavel to fall- in some way, it would be a relief, if Sergio were to give him a sentence, become 'judge' just as he was 'professor'. It would make things easier, wouldn't it? Then Martín wouldn't have to figure out the punishment himself.
Sergio spoke again.
"I've seen how you look at him," he said carefully. "Helsinki. Mirko, that is. I saw you watching him at dinner last night, when he was telling stories."
Martín just shook his head. He barely remembered. Everything was moving too slowly.
Sergio raised one hand, holding it in a loose fist, the thumb pointed toward Martín's chest, like he was about to give a lesson.
"I've seen how you look at him," he repeated. "And I recognize that look, because it is the same one on my face when I look at Raquel. It is the same one on Denver's face when he looks at Stockholm."
"That's not true," Martín said weakly. "I'm not a...a lover. I can't be. I used it all up, Sergio. I used it all up on your brother, and now I'm just…"
He lifted his hands and dropped them again, unable to think of the right words.
Empty.
(A doll.)
"Perhaps," said Sergio, still teaching. His eyes had a laserlike focus- this was the Professor, not little Sergio, Martín had mistook him. "Perhaps not. But it doesn't matter either way."
"...it doesn't?" Martín felt stupid. He was used to standing at the front of the classroom, playing the clever engineer- not sitting in the pupil's chair.
"No. It doesn't matter, because Mirko loves you. And so the best thing that you can do is give back that love- even if it is difficult for you, you must do it anyway. Because personal relations work best when both partners are lovers and beloveds."
There was a pause, and then the moment was broken. Sergio looked away, putting both hands back in his pockets and shuffling his feet.
"Um, well, I'm not an expert in romantic matters, but that's what I would say."
Martín looked at him, and found he had nothing to say in return. The night had taken away all his words.
But maybe that was for the best- he had never been able to use them for anything good.
With some direction from Sergio, Martín made it back to his room, where the Professor bade him goodnight. Inside, Mirko was sleeping.
Moving quietly so as not to wake him, Mirko changed into his nightwear, but once he had he found he was reluctant to sleep- or rather, reluctant to claim his place in that bed, maybe. So instead of slipping under the covers Martín curled in the plush armchair that sat in one corner of the room, where he could watch Mirko's half-covered chest rise and fall. His breathing sounded like the slow movements of the ocean outside.
Eventually, thinking nothing and feeling only vague despair, Martín fell asleep.
...
When he woke up, the sun was bright where it came through the window, and he heard the sound of children's laughter- a little boy, and a slightly older girl. He remembered he was in the Philippines, attending the yearly reunion, and he found he had a pain in his neck from lying in a ball on the armchair- and that someone had tucked a blanket around him while he had been sleeping.
Well, not just 'someone'.
Martín sat up, blinking hard even though he knew the blur in his eyes would never really clear, and when he found the room was empty a certain quiet desperation took hold of him.
No.
He didn't want this.
Without so much as even looking in the mirror Martín threw himself from the chair and out into the corridor, which was the unforgiving wild, and he wrapped himself in the blanket as if it was a shield to the elements. Barefoot and wholly feral Martín darted through the house, not caring what he looked like or who saw him, checking every room.
Denver and Stockholm were in the kitchen, but they were the only ones there, so Martín didn't stop to say anything.
"Palermo-?" The former.
"...is he alright?" The latter.
In the lounge Rio was tinkering with his computer, but he was alone, so Martín took off again, the blanket whipping around like a cape.
"What are you doing, Palermo? You look like a supervillain…"
In the front yard Marseille was throwing a ball for Seoul, who barked a little anxiously when she saw Martín in the doorway.
"Easy there, girl," was what Martín heard as he turned back inside.
In the corridor Martín almost ran into Sergio- they stopped and looked at each other, equally stunned, and then Sergio said gently:
"...he's down by the water."
On the back deck Tokyo and Lisbon were discussing something, and Tokyo sent him a seemingly automatic glare which he instinctively returned before flying past them, running down the path towards the beach. On the way, the blanket slipped out of his grasp, falling into the grass behind him.
"What's going on there?" said Lisbon, but her voice was already far away.
Mirko was standing on the beach. Martín could always tell it was him, even when he was so far away that he stood in the broken places of Martín's vision- his presence was simply too big, too overwhelming not to see. He was like a mountain on the horizon.
"Mirko!" Martín gasped, out of breath as he came to a standstill at last before the larger man, feeling the water wash over his feet. Mirko looked surprised to see him, or maybe just surprised at his state of disarray.
"Martín, you're-"
"I'm sorry!"
Mirko started at that, but was silent.
"I'm sorry," Martín said again. "I'm sorry, I'm not very good at this. I've never had any practice. I- I'm just- there are so many bad things inside me, you know. They're all still there."
Mirko started to shake his head, and Martín hushed him, holding a hand up to his lips.
"It's the first time I've had something like this, and I shouldn't have it at all, not with the way I am. So I'm very sorry."
Mirko raised one hand, and Martín hushed him again. He felt crazy. He didn't know if he was making any sense. Did it even matter?
"No, listen. I have a secret. Understand? It's a terrible secret, and I think it's destroying me. I've never let it out before. I don't know what will happen if I do."
Martín took a deep breath, steeling himself as though he was about to leap from a cliff to a five hundred meter fall, or put a loaded pistol to his head and pull the trigger. The things he had wanted to do, before all this, but hadn't found the strength for. This was just the same.
She said it took courage.
His heart was beating so hard it physically hurt. It wouldn't be a surprise, if he was to explode like a dying star the moment this was over- in fact, it might be best that way. He was going to disappear, supernova, burn himself alive until he was nothing, because surely he couldn't survive this.
Trembling, he stood on tiptoe to cup his hand around Mirko's ear, and even though there was no one else around he had to do this because if he didn't the secret would escape, be stolen by the wind, and then surely it would become a monster that would ruin everything. He couldn't let that happen- but he had to let it out. Martín squeezed his eyes shut one last time, and pulled the trigger.
"I love you."
...he whispered.
Then he turned away, taking several steps into the water and covering his face with his hands, feeling all the heat rush to his eyes and becoming certain he was going to cry if his heart didn't burst. Over the fire that was igniting every bone in his body, he heard Mirko laugh- a familiar, deep, full-body laugh.
He was embraced from behind, and since he wasn't really exploding, the slight pressure of the body against his began to soothe the tremors, holding all the fragmented, vibrating pieces of him in place. But Mirko had always done that.
"I love you, too."
