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Once upon a time, Martín hated Christmas.
The evergreen trees, the sparkling lights, the gingerbread houses, and pompous wreaths. If Martín had his way, he would have retreated to a hut on a cliff overlooking whatever city he lived in that year to be as far away from the festivities as humanly possible. He would have protected that poor heart of his that was, unfortunately, normal-sized and could feel pain just as sharply.
He'd never been a fan of the holidays, but somewhere around the fourth invitation to the Christmas dinner at the house of señor and señora Fonollosa he came to loathe it. Plus, what with his burning wish to put a match to the mistletoes set up in all the hot spots of the house, that invitation became hazardous to the hosts.
Yet Andrés kept inviting him, and Martín couldn’t bring himself to say no any longer.
He was his best friend. That’s what friends did, right? Come through for each other, through thick and thin, whatever the cost.
In this case, ‘the cost’ was sitting through dinner with the woman of the month (or the year) drooling at Andrés handing her the Christmas gift. And oh, what a gift it was. A portrait of the woman, oil on canvas or watercolours or whatever the fuck it was, and she gushed and blushed at how thoughtful and original Andrés was, even though Martín had been to enough (four!) Christmases to know Andrés had never even painted those himself. He commissioned them from some local artist; Christmas was usually a very busy time for thieves. Lots of work to do, no time to throw yourself into preparing homemade presents. It gave Martín just a little bit of satisfaction, enough to last ‘til the end of their dreadful dinner anyway.
What infuriated him was that the women could never even tell it wasn’t Andrés’ work. Martín wasn’t well versed in art techniques, probably wouldn’t be able to tell a Murillo from a Zurbarán, but the way Andrés sketched and painted – he’d pick it out of a thousand pieces of art.
The girls seemed satisfied with the reproductions.
Martín wouldn’t be.
He was only ever exposed to the unabridged, authentic, and real version of Andrés.
The original.
They never deserved the real version anyway because, in the end, none of them stuck around. Unlike Martín, who followed Andrés to a secluded monastery to plan their heists away.
As Florence saw its first snow, misery and dread once again took root in Martín’s heart.
But the devastation never followed. After all, this Christmas was a little jollier and a little merrier.
This Christmas, Andrés had no girlfriend or wife.
That didn’t, however, excuse Andrés from slamming open the door to Martín’s room and strolling in with a cheer that would rival that of a child who’s about to meet Santa Clause for the first time.
“It’s time, Martín!” His voice boomed, and the hangover made itself known in Martín’s pulsating temples. “Christmas Eve dinner. We’ll exchange presents before eating.”
“Can we delay this to New Year’s Eve? My head might have stopped pounding by that time.”
In reality, he didn’t feel that bad. He just didn’t want to leave his bed for the chilly monastery hallways.
“Come on, this will be a traditional Christmas present unwrapping.” Andrés grinned, and Martín felt a smile creeping onto his own lips. “By the tree, next to a fireplace, in our pyjamas.”
Supposedly for effect, Andrés gestured at himself.
Martín took in his 1,500 euros Tom Ford gown – which wasn’t even stolen, it was bought – and raised an eyebrow.
“You sure this qualifies as pyjamas?”
Andrés narrowed his eyes and, ignoring Martín’s less than dignified yelp, pulled both the quilt and the blanket off him to reveal his white tank top and black boxers.
“Does this?”
“I wasn’t notified in advance!”
“Oh Martín,” Andrés breathed out in that sweet, almost condescending tone, with a pinch of You simple fool! and an ounce of I’m gonna have to explain it to you, don’t I? “Pyjamas aren’t traditionally supposed to be seen by outsiders, only by those closest to us, our family, so you don’t need to be warned in advanced. On Christmas mornings we hide nothing from each other, we appear at our most relaxed and honest in front of those we treasure the most.” Andrés let his eyes roam over him, and Martín thanked the ghosts of all Christmas tenses that the dimmed candlelight hid his blushing cheeks. “Although pyjamas were originally just loose trousers with a string around the waist. So if you simply put on your fleeces,” he looked around the room as if trying to detect the hiding spot of Martín’s casual wear, “you’ll be good to go.”
Martín watched Andrés head for the door with the unabashed certainty that he would be followed. He was about to pull the covers over himself again when Andrés’ voice reached him from the hallway.
“Maybe a sweater too, with those fleeces? The dark turquoise one. It’s chilly out here.”
“Is dark turquoise a heat-saving colour?” Martín mumbled, getting out of the bed and shuffling to the closet, determined to not colour-coordinate with Andrés’ whims.
Tugging at the sleeves of his blue-green sweater (sue him, the other ones weren’t warm enough), Martín walked into the chapel and stopped at the entrance.
“Why does this chapel have a fireplace?”
Andrés paused his poking at the brushwood with the fire iron and looked at him over his shoulder.
“A mystery that isn’t likely to be uncovered. You know that the monks don’t talk.”
“This doesn’t look like it used to be a calefactory,” Martín mused, looking around the room. He hadn’t had a chance to familiarize himself with every corner of the monastery yet. “Though maybe at some point it’s been rebuilt. Would have loved to take a look at the structural drawings.”
When he got no reply, he glanced at Andrés and found him staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Andrés shook his head. “But next time do give me your Christmas list in advance. I’ll do my best to fulfil your wishes.”
Andrés jumped to his feet before Martín could embarrass himself with some kind of inappropriate comment, and grabbed him by the shoulders. Martín barely managed a half-hearted, “The fuck—?” when Andrés brought him closer to the fireplace and sat him into a chair.
“Here, take this.” Andrés handed him something wrapped in red and golden paper and then dropped into the chair opposite him. “Merry Christmas.”
Martín looked at the present in his hands. He was painfully familiar with that shape. Thin and rectangular. Just like a picture frame.
This didn’t make any sense.
“Am I your Christmas girlfriend stand-in?” Martín blurted out before he could catch himself. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m flattered, of course—”
“No, Martín.” Andrés leaned back in his chair, casually. “You’re much more important than that to me.”
Martín could only drop his gaze to the wrapped-up present in his hands.
He quietly took the wrapping paper off, feeling Andrés’ eyes on him.
It was a picture frame alright.
But in it wasn’t an oil-on-canvas or a watercolour or whatever the hell Andrés usually gifted his girlfriends.
“It’s…”
“It’s charcoal. I’m yet to move all my art supplies here and it’s all I had for now but… It was perfect for what I had in my mind anyway.”
What Andrés apparently had in mind was a charcoal-on-paper, strikingly life-like portrait of Martín. It was in three-quarter view, it had sharp lines, it depicted Martín with ruffed-up hair like he’d just gotten out of bed, but the most important thing was…
It had been done by Andrés himself.
It hadn’t been commissioned from some random artist; it had the lines and style and passion that were unmistakably and unapologetically Andrés’.
It even had his “AdF” in the bottom right corner.
Right under a “Mi ingeniero” in perfect calligraphy.
Martín’s chest tightened.
“It’s…” He struggled to find words, and as he looked up, he saw Andrés watching him intently. “It’s perfect.”
Andrés’ face broke into a smile.
The left corner of his lips went up first, the right one immediately followed.
Andrés could have gifted him just this smile, and Martín would have been the happiest man in the world still.
“So.” Andrés clapped his hands, and Martín was thrown back into reality. “What are you giving me?”
Martín’s hands tightened around the picture frame and he winced as if an ice-cold bucket of water had been poured over him.
The present.
Andrés buying the monastery, Martín packing his things in Palermo, waiting for their cargo from Norway for the heist, moving to Florence—
Martín had forgotten to get his best friend anything.
He swallowed slowly.
“I—” He started; eyes fixed on the pattern on the sleeve of Andrés’ dressing gown. “Andrés, I’m sorry… With the move, I just—”
When he lifted his head, he saw Andrés squinting at him.
“You forgot?”
“I forgot.”
Andrés tapped his finger against his chin. The silence stretched.
“Don’t worry about it. In fact, I’m feeling generous. I’ll spare you the trouble. I’ll think of something myself.”
Martín frowned.
“What did you have in—”
The words died on his lips as Andrés covered them with his own.
He was kissing him.
Lips opened just so, arms perched on the armrests, nothing else touching but their lips; a whimper escaped Martín. The kiss was soft, light, fleeting and careful, warm, loving.
Then they parted.
Andrés looked composed and calm but, unless Martín was imagining it, there was a tint to his cheeks.
“Thank you for the present,” Andrés murmured, his gaze momentarily dropping to Martín’s lips. “I’ll go get our dinner, it must be ready by now.”
He was almost out in the corridor when Martín finally regained his ability to speak.
“Andrés?” Martín called after him, his voice slightly hoarse. Andrés halted his steps and turned around. “Did you like your present?”
For a moment it seemed like all air had gotten sucked out of the room.
But then Andrés smiled.
“Oh Martín.” He shook his head and briefly touched his fingers to his lips. “I loved it.”
Andrés left the room, and Martín could finally breathe again.
Tentatively, Martín checked the ceiling above him for mistletoes. There were none. Nothing to burn, then, Martín thought.
He also thought that maybe he doesn’t hate Christmas that much after all.