Chapter Text
1. The Epic of Raskolnikov
Sickness, to Martín, is a steady heartburn, heavy and swelling in his chest with all the weight of an 18-wheeler. It's a pernicious poison that constantly pangs from within; slow, sleeping, subtle. It's the spiraling, stabbing feeling he gets when he tells a joke and looks over his shoulder, out of habit, to see if Gustavo's laughing at it. It's the pathogenic paralysis in his knees every time he passes the section-8 housing to see a 'for sale' sign in front of the Pabón flat. His empty desk is almost like a grave at this point, one that always summons the same, stinging memories with every passing glance. The crackle of punches in the courtyard, the smell of cannabis at Eva's, the raw, ripped-in-two look on Gustavo's face when he left.
The door to the boys' bathroom makes a scratching sound when it slams against the wall. "What the hell, Martín?" Eva accuses, set on scolding him from the second she steps foot in the room. She nags so much that Martín is certain every guy who likes her has a mommy kink.
"What?" Martín shrugs, running his hands through the stream of sickly cold sink water. He can't quite put a finger on what it was that he messed up this time, but Martín surmises it's something reprehensible, as per his track record.
"You haven't called Gustavo at all? What's your problem?"
Ah.
Martín shakes his hands dry. He just couldn't bring himself to keep in touch, not when it felt like he was admitting to something by it. Why would Gustavo want to hear from him anyway? Sure, they were friends, but there's no band-aid big enough to bury the wound of what had happened— what Martín had done. "Why do you care who I call?"
"We're all friends," Eva chides, "Are you really so insecure that you can't even bother to call him? Or you just don't care. That you ruined his life, I mean." The accusation sends an electrical charge of chagrin through Martín, systematically charring each and every nice thought he ever had about Eva. Is she serious? She genuinely thinks that Martín's not suffering at all, that he isn't stuck spiraling into the sandpits of this scalding, soul-eating guilt? He swallows the surging impulse to smack her over the head. It's not quite kosher to go around hitting girls, after all... then again, falsely accusing your best friend of sexual assault isn't exactly exemplary either...
"It's Granados's fault for even telling you in the first place, Eva. If he hadn't, Pabón would still be here. Do you think I wanted this to happen?" Martín spits, the words exploding out of his mouth like ink from a pen; nasty and splattering. Eva's expression soon morphs into the most impossibly grating look of sympathy one could manifest. Martín recoils, screwing his jaw shut tight. God, he just can't stand that look. Who is she to pity him? "Don't fucking talk to me about this," he puffs, swinging back to the mirror and wetting his hair. "He's my friend."
"Are you kidding me?" Eva sighs softly, staring sympathetically at Martín's steely scowl in the mirror. Tch. As if he was some sort of charity case. He shakes the thought out of his head like an etch-e-sketch. There's no reason to pity him, Martín thinks. He's not gay, and he's definitely no saint. And most of all, he's certainly not and never has been in love with Gustavo Pabón. End of story. "Gustavo went out of his way to save your ass, you know, Martín. It's the least you could do."
Martín subdues, soaking in the scope of this obligation he has, the one where he's just supposed to pose as though what happened had never mattered. Of course, Martín knows he owes Gustavo a lot. That's what makes it so... unbearable to acknowledge. "I know, alright?" He says, "Just... get off my back."
"You'll call him?"
When Martín mutters beneath his breath a flimsy, flippant, "...Yes," both of them know it doesn't hold any weight. Eva defeatedly rolls her eyes up to the ceiling, and Martín is certain then that she's definitely out of her depth, here. She just doesn't get it— what phoning Gustavo actually means. It means acknowledging what he and Gustavo did together, and all its consequences; all the whatifs that could now come to strike. Whatif Gustavo holds a grudge? Whatif the only reason Gustavo saved his skin is because he's such a good, upstanding guy? Whatif Gustavo is really gay? Whatif it's not a one-off thing? Whatif that makes Martín gay, too? Whatif Martín's inner self really loves Gustavo? Whatif...
"Oh, hey, found 'em," Alvaro says, appearing from around the corner with the guys. From the second the door splinters from its frame, relief spills over Martín's shoulders. It's over. Now he doesn't have to have this stupid spat with Eva.
"They're in the bathroom?"
"I guessed right. Damn, I've totally got esp," Rodrigo says.
The buzz of easy small talk shadows every conversation with the guys. It's comforting in a way, obnoxious in another. Notably when they get booted out of libraries and cinemas for being chatty. But it totally beats the loud, silent sound of Eva thinking, planning... pitying.
Alvaro pipes in, saying, "Jesus, Salcedo. Do you wanna get assassinated?" before earning an elbow rammed into his ribcage. He's referring to the rife rumor swimming around the school right now; the one about guys getting jumped by green-eyed classmates because they were alone with Eva. Martín rolls his eyes in cynicism. Those are just rumors, anyway.
He gives a small, defensive shrug, stating, "Eva's alone with Granados all the time."
Camilo notices her then; Eva, with her arms tightly hooked and a stern, preoccupied look plagued over her face. "Eva?" Camilo raises. "What's up?" Did something bad happen? Don't tell me Salcedo actually made a move...
"Martín's being an ass," Eva gripes on her way out, a little stormcloud hovering over her head the whole way. Camilo sends a disapproving frown to Martín in the most inculpating fashion possible.
"Salcedo, what'd you do?"
"Nothing, nothing," Martín dismisses, opting to ignore the obnoxious, conspiratorial lilt in Camilo's voice. Martín ticks his tongue in incredulity. Knowing Camilo, whatever he was thinking had happened with Eva, it was definitely far off. "I didn't do jack," Martín continues, "Stop always siding with her."
Alvaro piles on, capturing Camilo's head in a playful headlock and puffing up his hair until it frayed every which way. "Yeah, you little simp," he jokes, "You're so head-over-heels, I get sick."
"I don't always-" Camilo starts.
"I swear to God, it's like watching a shitty rom-com seeing you drool," Martín complains.
Rodrigo adds, "You're always trying to get in her pants, you traitor."
"But Salcedo's always doing something scummy."
"Did you just call me scummy, huh? You wanna fight, brother?" Martin goads, jokingly squaring up.
"No... hahah. Let me goo, Castroo," Camilo whines, wiggling his head in an attempt to escape capture as they file out of the bathroom.
Alvaro releases Camilo, playfully shoving him across the hallway. "You're so mouthy, Granados."
Camilo nods knowingly. "You're right, we should get some food."
"That's not what 'mouthy' means, dumbass," Martín interjects.
"Don't call me a dumbass, dumbass."
"You're the dumbass," Martín prods as they push through throngs of students congesting the halls. It's a little disorientating, the thought of all these people shunning him like they'd done before— like they'd done to Gustavo... Like he had done to Gustavo. It inflames his lungs a little, asphyxiating Martín in the forms of a quiet, crippling contrition and an aching pain that won't seem to shake.
"Hey, I walked past the 68 earlier," Rodrigo raises, "I think some wastoids threw a rock through the window. It's totally shattered."
Alvaro gasps. Everyone knows that the guys who run the 68 are bad business from A to Z. To mess with them is to sign your own death certificate. Man, the balls people have nowadays... "No way. Who?"
"What do you mean, 'who?' How would I know? I wasn't there, bro," Rodrigo retorts.
"I wonder if it's still open."
Rodrigo shrugs doubtfully. "I don't think so. It's, like, being investigated, or whatever..." he reasons.
"Where should we go, then?" Alvaro wonders aloud, lagging on the sidewalk's crust as they exit campus. He's always been painfully similar to a tsunami warning; unhelpfully late and about as dangerous as he is useful. Martín knows he's got opinions aplenty on what had happened—on Gustavo. But he won't voice them until the tsunami's already come and swallowed everyone whole. It's inexorable, Martín decides, but the sinking feeling in his chest only further wells.
"I wanna go to the cinema," Martín offers, shrugging the ghost of stress off his shoulders.
"You always want to go to the cinema," Camilo complains. "You're, like, what do you call it?"
"Porn-addict," Rodrigo supplies.
Martín scoffs indignantly. "That's not a thing."
"Mormons think it's a thing. It's totally in their pamphlet and everything."
"Why are you talking to Mormons?"
Camilo shakes his head, saying, "Bro, I've seen everything at the cinema, anyway. It's all lame."
"How have you seen everything?" Alvaro nitpicks.
"I went to the movies with Eva."
The rest of the guys groan in a consensus unanimous of disbelief.
"Oh my god, this guy.." Rodrigo groans.
"We need to lock you up."
"I can't believe you, bro."
"Despicable."
Camilo sighs in a feigned innocence. "Whaat?" He manages between the playful rolling punches and shoves the guys send his way. This is how it should be, Martín justifies; pretending Gustavo doesn't exist, pretending what happened wasn't gay at all, pretending it makes no difference in their friendship.
Yeah, Eva doesn't know anything.