Air breathed freely tasted better than any other kind, this Martín had concluded.

He didn't just mean freedom from 'prison'- there were, in the world, many kinds of prisons. A dead end job, an unhappy marriage, a doctor's office or a schoolyard- all these things could be prisons in their own right. Almost no one on planet Earth experienced true freedom, not even once in their lives…or at least, not after they entered adulthood…

Martín thought the air he breathed now should be free, but it wasn't.

They had escaped the Bank. The war was over and despite all appearances, they had won it. All the last strings had been severed. Martín had never been so free in his life and yet- and yet-

Martín stood in the shadow of a doorway, the Professor's summerhouse in Laos. The atmosphere was humid and green, damp on the tongue, dew on the fat-leaved plants that sprung from the thick grass. In the garden before him Mirko Dragic slept on a woven hammock, his injured leg propped up in its brace, his fingers clasped serenely on his chest. Martín had with him a bottle of wine, a pair of glasses- he had intended to bring them here and yet suddenly he found he could not take another step. Why not? Was everything really so fragile as that, to be disrupted by the sight of peace on that war-rugged face…?

Martín was free from everything save the guilt.

(...damn him. He had never before realized he was even capable of it.)

His behaviour had been atrocious in the Bank. Or at least, Palermo's had.

Palermo had been cruel, Palermo had been wicked, Palermo had betrayed the band and nearly brought about their ruin. Palermo had been too weak and too egotistical and too self-loathing (oxymoronic, but so be it) and if anyone had to die it should have been him, it was what he had, after all, secretly wanted…but then, in a way he had died.

Martín rubbed his head against the inside of the doorframe, considering this new angle of heartsickness.

Wasn't that what all the reports said? Palermo had been shot dead in a bathroom, riddled with military bullets. He had left the Bank in a body bag. And news agencies were never wrong, and governments never lied. Haha.

Palermo had died in a heist.

(Like Berlin.)

…Martín Berrote, on the other hand, was still alive.

(What a fucking miracle, honestly.)

Martín left the shadow and crossed the garden grass, not confident so much as purposeful, and he sat down in the white lawnchair at Mirko's side. Mirko stirred, hearing him without his needing to say anything, blue eyes opening to look at him fondly. There was no reproach in those eyes, no reserve, no doubt. Martín knew he was adored with no caveats, that Mirko cherished him in full, the way no man before ever had. One hundred percent, not ninety-nine.

Beloved.

(It was his job, then, to live up to it.)

"I brought you some wine," Martín said, and he kissed Mirko's cheek, the kind of open affection Palermo had spitefully withheld during their days in the monastery. "It's good for your health, you know."

Mirko laughed and took his glass, and their conversation came light and easy, their silences surprisingly moreso.

Martín did not think he was entirely absolved- but he would get there eventually.