#next ficlet will have Andrés be the sick one

[sorrydearie]

Since I am probably not allowed to request for more than one, I'd go with "13 - Nose kisses" if you feel like writing ❤️

“That’s it, we’re done, yeah?” Martín asks, his tone bordering on hostile. “Can you leave now?”

Andrés’s eyes narrow, his lips purse into a thin line. He’s doing that thing with his face again – allowing every single emotion to flicker through, like ink on tracing paper. Sometimes Martín thinks he’s overcompensating. That he’s exaggerating, playing it up. 

“You’re being rude,” Andrés chides him. “Your wonderful boyfriend has gone out of his way to bring you dinner, and you send him away like he’s some low-life concierge?”

Martín groans. 

“I am grateful,” he insists, summoning all the patience he’s got. “But I don’t want you here right now. Because frankly, I’m feeling like shit.”

Even worse: he looks like shit. 

His eyes are bloodshot, the skin around his nose cracked and dry. He’d actually winced when he had caught sight of himself in the mirror on his way to the door. 

He feels ugly and disgusting, and… Well.

He barely thinks he’s good enough to be with Andrés on his better days. When he puts in an effort, he can almost trick himself into believing that he deserves Andrés. That he’s refined and sleek and clever enough. Like Andrés’s slew of ex-wives. 

But right now all he wants to do is hide. Fall back into bed, press his tired face into the pillow. And succumb to his cold. 

His fingers twitch and tighten around the doorhandle. 

“Look, I’ll call you when I’m feeling better?” It’s a question. A peace offering. A plea for reassurance: yes, Martín, he wants Andrés to say, I’ll still want you in a week from now, don’t you dare doubt me.

Andrés’s expression is clouded, the candidness from moments ago gone. All because Martín couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. Because he had to go and ruin it all by losing control, by insulting Andrés, by telling him to fuck off. 

He shouldn’t have opened the door, shouldn’t have let Andrés see him like this – so weak and vulnerable, a fucking mess. 

But against all odds Andrés smiles. That drawling, sprawling smile. The one that feels like sunrise.

“Do it soon,” Andrés says. “I don’t like being separated from you.”

The words squeeze at Martín’s heart. Warmth floods through him, tickling his tired limbs, his aching muscles – it’s reinvigorating. 

He clears his throat. His voice rasps when he speaks: 

“It’s just a cold,” he mumbles, flustered. “How long can it last anyway – a few more days? Anyway, I— wait, what are you— Andrés, I’m sick—”

But of course Andrés doesn’t listen to him. He leans in close, his lips just a breath away from Martín’s – before they change course and press against the rounded tip of Martín’s nose instead. 

Martín blushes. Violently. 

When Andrés pulls away, his grin is wide and bright. 

“Get well soon, mi ingeniero.”