[fic] Morocha (Martín/Luciano)
Title: Morocha
Pairing: Martín/Luciano (Argentina/Brazil)
Warnings: nsfw sexytimes
Word Count: 8000~
A/N: This would not exist without sipmiau's help. Seriously. Also I left a few things in Spanish because they sound REALLY DUMB in English, trust me, but there are translation notes at the end. :Db
Summary: Tango AU, takes place in Buenos Aires sometime around the early 20th century.
This was the moment when Martín would let go of Luciano’s hand with a smile and walk with him to the bordello. Luciano would say goodbye and would not ask why Martín always disappeared after they were done in their separate rooms. And after Luciano was alone with his woman for the night, Martín would turn around and walk out the door with the eyes of the men and women mingling in the parlor trained on the back of his head.
The night closed in on the streets of Buenos Aires, the air sultry and thick with broken promises, sending out its standing invitation to the people of the city. On one particular side street, lamplight shown on the dirty cobblestone and bricks, baptizing the people outside the brothel in a golden glow. Martín arrived later than usual and disinclined to wait for a girl to be free, but of course there were already several men milling around and talking, playing cards on the steps or dancing, all of them biding their time until their turn for love’s substitute came. It always made him a bit queasy to talk to other men who might be waiting to fuck the same woman as he was, and once he started gambling, he never knew how to stop while he was ahead. None of that mattered, however, because even if he enjoyed chatting with a bunch of sleazy men or knew the trick to upsetting the dealer every time, he would never pass up a chance to show off his true talent, especially in front of the men against whom he needed to measure up. He knew he was worth more than ten of them, but that did not matter if no one else realized it.
One of the dancers went inside the bordello, leaving his partner free for Martín to intercept. With a smile, the other man took Martin’s outstretched hand and closed the gap between them. He had a smudge of dirt on his cheek that Martín would have liked to rub away, but it would have been presumptuous of him to do so for a man he had barely met. Instead he stepped forward between the man’s feet, forcing him to back away and begin the dance. They traded steps to the moan of the bandoneón, short then long, quick then slow. Martín could see over the top of his partner’s head without much effort, his view marred only by a few stray curls that sprung up wildly and bounced with their movements. He watched the people around them, gaging their reactions to his prowess, biting his lip with pride when they threw glances at him. His partner was not a great dancer, nowhere near Martín’s caliber, but he rotated his hips enough to keep Martín’s attention-in more ways than one, much to Martín’s dismay, though that might also have been thanks to his true purpose for being on this particular street late at night. When Martin curled a leg around his partner’s knee and leaned in, the man pressed him back upright and dipped him low, his biceps bulging under his shirtsleeves as he grinned down at Martín. He was playing Martín’s game without even blinking. Even if his lack of talent would not have normally held Martín’s interest, he was making up for it in sheer audacity. Martín turned his attention from their audience to rest fully on his partner and his wide brown face with his wide nose, his wide lips quirked up at the corners, and his wide, sparkling brown eyes.
“I’m Luciano,” he said. Martín nearly stumbled at the sound of his voice, but he kept up their rhythm. “I just moved here recently, you know. A friend of mine told me he could get me a job, so I came down here and he did, and so far everything’s worked out just fine, at least for now. So I decided to celebrate a little with my first paycheck, but I don’t really know anyone here yet, so this is my first stop.”
Martín stared at him and said, “Why are you telling me this?” He immediately regretted it when Luciano’s entire body seemed to droop and he looked away and sighed. “No, I mean-” he came to a stop for a moment and stood in the middle of the street, still holding Luciano’s hand and shoulder. “People don’t usually talk while waiting.”
Luciano looked over at the group of men who were speaking animatedly with each other on walkway opposite them. Martín bit his lip and said, “I mean, I don’t usually… I’m Martín.” He started them moving again, pulling Luciano with him, but the magic had faltered. Their sweaty hands slipped against each other. He tightened his grip and turned them around. “You’ll like it here. This is the greatest city on Earth.” He grinned down at Luciano, who snorted and rolled his eyes but didn’t try to hide his smile. Martín forgot to feel queasy about talking to another customer, and by the time their turns in the bordello came, he was almost reluctant to let go. As they went to their separate rooms, Luciano winked at him before shutting the door. In his own room, Martín surged up against his whore, pushing her to the bed with kisses to her neck. He felt hot all over and breathless, like he had just been running through the streets at midday and his vision was swimming with exertion. Below him the woman-her name was Fabiana, she told him so he would have something to moan-wrapped coffee colored legs around his waist. In one of the rooms near his he could hear the squeak of a mattress and low groaning. He softened slightly, but Fabiana knew how to take care of him, and when he finished he left her a tip and strode out into the humid night to try to forget about Luciano who talked too much to other bordello customers.
-
Of course they ran into each other the next week again, and Martín felt like he was being guilted into dancing with him when Luciano caught his eye and raised a hand to beckon him over. Luciano had a smudge on his face again, almost black over the curve of his cheek, and this time Martín pointed it out to him. Luciano laughed and tried in vain to wipe it off with the sleeve of his shirt. It was from his job, he said, he was always dirty, no matter how many times he wiped himself down with a washrag, but he didn’t mind. Martín did not take the bait and ask where he worked. It did not matter anyway. Luciano was simply an immigrant laborer, like hundreds of thousands of other immigrant laborers coming to the city to find work and the keys to their dreams. His Spanish lilted with an accent he would probably never rid himself of, and his head would forever be filled with longing for his old home, no matter how poorly it had treated him. And of course no matter how long he stayed, no matter if he married a pretty Porteña and had pretty little Argentinian children who would speak only Spanish, and no matter if he began forgetting his mother’s language and all the intricacies of what it meant to be Brazilian, he would never completely belong to Buenos Aires. He would be like a puzzle piece with one of the tabs ripped off, so that no matter how hard he tried and how many times he called the city home, one small movement would dislodge him and remind him of who he really was.
Martín almost felt bad for him. He wondered if any such misgivings had passed through Luciano’s mind before he made the decision to come here, or if the full weight of his choice would not hit him until he was picking himself off the dirty streets after being kicked down by the city’s fierce temper and unbridled passion for dangling hope before its inhabitants’ eyes before snatching it away again. Luciano was not bitter enough to thrive in such a place. He would never love the city the way it deserved-because of its flaws rather than in spite of them.
Martín could teach him.
Starting with this: he told him that he needed more practice dancing. Luciano looked offended even though it was the truth. “I’m not a bad dancer,” he said, “I danced all the time back home. Just because I haven’t danced tango all my life, it’s not like I can’t dance at all. I should show you samba or maxixe and then we’ll see who needs more practice-”
A quick turn shut him up, giving Martín time to grin and say, “I was going to offer to help practice with you, but if you’re going to be ungrateful about it…”
“What do you mean help practice with me?” Luciano tried to take over the lead from him, but he stumbled a bit, his face glowing red as he gave up and followed Martín again.
“You’ll never get a lady to dance with you if you bumble around like that.” Martín glanced at the dark, wooden door on their right now and amended his statement. “I mean, you’ll never get a lady you don’t have to pay for.”
“If you’re so good, why are you here waiting for whores, too?”
Martín shoved him away and stalked down the street, ignoring the ache in his body. There were other brothels in the city, plenty of them, and if he really wanted to he could seduce a girl at a club and spend the night with her. As he browsed through his options in his head, he felt a hand on his arm.
“Look, you don’t have to be so sensitive about it,” Luciano said, pursing his chapped lips as he pulled him back. “I’m here too, right? I’ll practice with you, if you want.”
He really was not that bad, Martín thought while they danced the minutes away until they parted again to warm the beds. Sometimes his steps were off, like he was dancing a different dance-similar, but still different-that he must have known from his other home. When they let go finally, Martín gave him the directions to his conventillo. “Monday, seven o’clock,” he said, watching Luciano’s smile until it disappeared behind a door.
Fabiana was available for him again. He asked her to smile for him while he lay on top of her, so he could be sure was enjoying herself, or so he told himself. She told him that she always enjoyed her time with him, he was just so good, but he barely heard her praises as he trained his eyes on her lips and wondered what they would feel like against his if they were just slightly chapped.
-
When Luciano finally showed up a half hour after the time Martín had given him, Martín’s friends were there, dancing and singing bawdy songs on the bandoneón like they used to do in the old days before the dance and the music became tamer and more acceptable in higher social circles. They greeted Luciano warmly and added his name to the lyrics, so that Luciano would either lose in a dick measuring competition to them or would spend his days fucking all the girls in town. They laughed when Martín told them to shut up, even when he threatened to tell their sisters and mothers about their stupid songs, ignoring the fact that he had a few of his own under his belt. Luciano laughed too and told him it was fine, but Martín doubted he could understand all the colloquial Lunfardo. He dragged Luciano off to a side and went through the steps with him over and over again until they were both exhausted and sweating. With a tired smile, Luciano promised to come back in a few days.
And he did. Between practices at the conventillo and their time outside the bordello, Martín and Luciano discovered the intricacies of each other’s body, the speed with which they could turn, the precision of their steps. Luciano laughed every time Martín added little kicks of his heel to spice things up, and Martín could not stop grinning when Luciano danced a mirror image of him. Dancing with Luciano was more fun and left Martín more breathless than with any other partner.
Despite the people around them, their closeness while dancing afforded them an intimacy that they took to their advantage. Luciano told him about his sisters back in Brazil, about their laughter spilling out the door of their shack on the outskirts of town, about the dirt lining the creases of their palms, about the way his mother would stroke his hair when he was sick, even after he had grown up. About his father, who, while never openly supporting any of Luciano’s choices, gave him a brand new coat the night before he left that looked like it must have cost a month’s pay, and a crucifix that had once belonged to Luciano’s grandfather. The coat was hanging safely in his closet where it could not possibly come to the ruin Luciano feared, but when Martín asked, he promised to wear it some time for him. The crucifix hung around his neck at all times; Martín wanted to ask if he took off when he was at the bordello, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead he asked what Luciano thought of Buenos Aires and Argentina and so learned how to see the city through the eyes of a newcomer, with all its little facets of normality that became strange and foreign in Luciano’s words. And once, when they were both a little drunk and dancing with their bodies pressed closer than necessary, Luciano told him about his fears of failing and dying in a gutter with his family never finding out what had happened to him.
In return Martín talked about his short tempered, demanding mother who died when he was ten, his distant father so focused on everything but his own son, and his sweet step mother who ran the conventillo where he lived and treated him as if he were her own child. He talked about all the amazing things he would do and see in his lifetime, the adventures he had already had in the Pampas, his plans to make sure that people would be talking about him long after he was gone. Luciano laughed in all the right places, and he made no criticism of his dreams like everyone else did.
“You’re a crazy guy,” he said, squeezing Martín’s shoulder. When Martín opened his mouth to defend himself, he continued. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long without someone trying to kill you.” His smile grew soft at the edges. “Sounds like an exciting life.”
You could do all that, too, Martín almost told him, you could be part of it. Instead he said, “It is, thanks,” and pushed them into another quick round of steps that took both their minds off talking for a while.
-
The next time Luciano stepped inside the bordello, Martín waited until the door closed behind him before he turned around and searched for the nearest bar to get piss-drunk.
-
Luciano was oblivious. This was a double edged sword, depending on how Martín was feeling during a particular minute. Or maybe he just never let on that he noticed the stupid little things that Martín did, like how he stared at his eyes and mouth too long, or that Martín’s hands were always sweaty and trembling ever so slightly when they first touched, or how loud and fast his heart beat. With their chests so close together, he could surely feel it while they danced, drumming against Martín’s ribcage as if it wanted to tear itself out of him and settle in Luciano’s hands.
The worst was the arousal. All the men got hard at some point or other; it really was not surprising considering all the rubbing and bumping they did over the course of a song. No one ever mentioned it when they felt something stiff growing against their leg, Luciano included, so at least Martín did not have to explain that he was thinking about Luciano dancing with his trousers off. However, that made the issue only marginally more bearable. He could not stop himself from imagining Luciano rubbing against him purposefully, as if he wanted to see Martín flushed and panting, or that Luciano would open his mouth against him if he dipped him for a kiss.
The more he fought to control his emotions, the stronger they rose up in him, until some days he was sure that all his thoughts and feelings would burst out of him and bury both him and Luciano. And then when Luciano had dug himself out of the emotional landslide, he would leave without a backwards glance.
Singing was the only way to alleviate the itch to take Luciano’s face in his hands and kiss him until he could not breathe. When he wrote his songs, the words seemed to flow freely like blood from an artery, spilling onto the pages of his battered notebook. He could weave his own feelings into a story with just enough fiction in it to not raise anyone’s suspicions too high.
Well, at least not everyone’s suspicions. He sang in forlorn tones about a charming, foreign woman who danced her way across his heart each night before leaving his embrace for the arms of other men. As he crooned about her fleeting warmth and the way he was forever left with love clinging like ice to his heart, his friends stole meaningful glances at Luciano, who sat on the dirty curb, stretching his legs out into the street and swaying his head to the rise and fall of Martín’s voice. No one made any pointed jokes or comments, for which Martín was grateful, but it was still unsettling to know that they all knew. Still, he could not stop himself from singing about his morochita dicharachera que vino desde lejos.
Luciano finally asked about the song later while they were dancing. “Did you actually write it?” His eyes were wide in awe of Martin, so good at dancing and singing, so smooth and suave. He could surely sense when Martín’s entire body locked up, his limbs still dancing, but stiffly like a marionette. After a minute of trying to force himself to breathe, Martín finally said yes. That was all. A simple yes, the full truth hidden in his strained voice. They were both quiet for a while after that, dancing in silence, with Martín unable to meet Luciano’s eyes. A few more minutes passed until Luciano began talking about something else, as if they had never spoken of the song. He knew. At least, Martín was sure that he did. He had to, and now he was waiting for Martín to slowly fall apart.
The thing that was eating Martín up was that he knew he was good at romance. He knew all the right things to say and do, all the little details to cultivating passion. He knew how to please women’s hearts and minds and bodies, yet the person he truly wanted would never return his love. It would have been easier on his heart to just let Luciano slip slowly from his life and try to forget about him. But while he had spent twenty something years without him, now that he had him in his arms he could not bring himself let him go, even if his very presence kept beating at the bruise on Martín’s heart.
Every time they danced in front of the bordello, Martín could not stop himself from imagining all the things Luciano could do to him instead of the prostitutes, all the things he could do to Luciano. And not just sex, but holding his hand without an excuse, kissing his tired eyelids, and hearing him snore under the covers beside him. All the little things that two people in love might do with each other to pass a lifetime.
-
There came a day like any other, when Martín and Luciano were dancing as always. The air was cooling off with each passing day, and by now the weather was cold enough that Luciano had finally broken down and worn the jacket from his father. It was heavy and of deep, rich brown wool lined with green silk that flashed under the cuffs around his wrists as he moved. It looked dashing on Luciano, but Martín made a note to help him find a warmer coat for winter, since he was still shivering heavily in it. Luciano’s cheeks were red despite the night breeze only having a slight briskness to it. It took quite a bit of effort on Martín’s part to stop himself from rubbing his palms against Luciano’s face to help him warm up, but he was able to control himself. He also stopped himself from trying to kiss Luciano’s cheeks or wrap his arms around his waist and hold him close to ward off the cold.
“Watch it, Morocha, your nose is going to freeze off when winter comes,” he said when they had stopped to rest, rubbing the back of his hand against the tip of Luciano’s nose. “Dainty ladies should stay inside when it’s cold out or they’ll catch a chill.”
“Back off,” Luciano said, batting Martín’s hand away. “It’s not my fault this city is cold.”
Martín rolled his eyes. “Buenos Aires is not cold, you big baby.”
“Yeah, maybe for you it’s not, but it is if you’re not used to it.” Luciano’s voice was rising, and some of the other men were beginning to stare uneasily at them.
“Well you’ll just have to get used to it. Unless you’d rather be back in Porto Alegre, or however you call that shit hole, and who would?”
“Maybe I do want to go back to that shit hole, alright?” Luciano shouted.
“Calm down-”
“I was calm! And then you had to go and-just leave me alone!” Luciano stomped off, leaving Martín gaping after him. What a petty thing to get worked up about, Martín thought. And then he looked over to the other men, his friends, who where whispering amongst themselves, and a heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach. They were staring at him warily, as if he were a kicked dog three seconds away from biting back. One of them muttered something about morocha, and…
It clicked. A wave of numbness spread through his entire body, his limbs and mind useless for a few seconds as everything fell into place. Morocha, and the song, and Luciano’s sudden anger, and the fight over nothing. And if Luciano had not put everything together before, he knew now.
Martín knew there was no one to blame but himself, but he wanted to punch and kick and throw things at someone or something-anything. He wanted to tear his hair out and his clothes off and scream until his lungs gave out, until he could take it all back, every word, every song, every touch, every glance that might have tipped Luciano off. How could he have been so stupid and careless? He had let something so precious slip through his fingers before he even had a proper grasp on it.
The feeling of dread remained with him all through the day and into the evening, when he found himself back on the streets. He should have stayed at home, curled up in his bed under the covers while the city awoke for a night of revelry outside his window. He could have pretended that Luciano had not discovered his poorly hidden secret and was not avoiding him, and if he stayed in bed this evening, he could have kept that fantasy alive at least for another day. Maybe if he had been able to sleep, he would have done all that, but his conscience would not give him that luxury. He knew he would not rest easy until he was sure whether Luciano was avoiding him or not.
His clothes were wrinkled and his hair disheveled, but he went out without even checking the looking glass by his dresser anyway. The air was even colder now that the sun had fallen past the horizon, and Martín shivered a little wondering if Luciano was dressed warmly enough for the autumn night. Maybe he would have the good sense to stay inside somewhere and spend his weekend in a bar.
But of course he should have known that Luciano had no good sense. There he was, sitting on the curb outside the bordello, watching the other men dancing and talking and laughing with a look of distance in his eyes and a frown on his lips.
Martín stopped a little way off from him, close enough that Luciano could hear him but far enough that he could pretend not to know him if he wanted. He called to him and waited for a reaction, dreading the hate he might see directed at him.
When Luciano looked up, Martín winced, but unnecessarily. Luciano’s eyes widened at the sight of him, and he stood and went to him, grabbing his wrists, and then his shoulders, as if he was unsure of where to put his hands. “I thought you might not come tonight.”
“What, did you think I was scared?” Martín asked with a forced smile.
Luciano settled into a close embrace and waited for Martín to walk. “Of course not,” he said. “I thought you were mad. And I was mad ‘cause you were being an ass, but I didn’t want to ruin things. I didn’t ruin things, did I?”
Martín looked into Luciano’s concerned eyes for a second and then bringing their cheeks close before Luciano could see anything in his own. “Of course not,” he echoed, his voice laced with relief. Stupid, precious, oblivious Luciano.
“Good,” Luciano said. “Good.” He was quiet for a minute, and then he burst out, “But it’s just so frustrating, and then you say something that sets me off, and I just blow up. I don’t mean to.”
Martín took his time before asking, “What’s so frustrating?”
Luciano scowled, but it did not seem to be directed at him. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said.
“Try me.”
Luciano huffed and said, “Doorknobs.”
Martín raised an eyebrow. “Doorknobs?”
Luciano rolled his eyes as if it were supposed to make sense. “Yes. And the cobblestones and the street signs. And the way people greet each other and the smell of the air. The color of the sky.” His face scrunched in again. His emotions fell flat as soon as they were translated to words, but Martín realized what he was trying to say.
“Are you seriously homesick?” And then a little more incredulously, “Do you really not want to be here?”
Luciano shrugged. “Of course I want to be here. I just want to be home, too. It’s like if you woke up one morning, and suddenly there’s someone missing who no one noticed was there in the first place. It’s hard to explain exactly what’s wrong, but it makes you uneasy and you just want everything to be right again, even if that’s impossible. Except it’s more than that because you start missing stupid things, and you just feel dumb and useless all the time.”
“You’re not useless,” Martín assured him with a squeeze of his hand. He did not quite understand how Luciano could think about such insignificant things when he had all of beautiful, seductive, cruel Buenos Aires at his fingertips, but he was obviously upset about this, and Martín was not about to contradict him, at least not now. “Just stick with me; I’ll make you forget to miss those things.” He relaxed a little when Luciano laughed.
“It’s not that easy,” Luciano explained. At least he was smiling now, and not mourning his old life or thinking about how creepy and dependent Martín was. “But being around you does help.”
It was not fair how he could say such innocuous things and not realize how much they made Martín want to kiss him. Martín settled for a wide, unrepentant grin and led him in a turn. “Tell me more about how good I am for your health.”
The day was saved, and considering he was still pining after someone he could not have, Martín was left with higher spirits than he had expected-at least until it was time for them to part again. This was the moment when Martín would let go of Luciano’s hand with a smile and walk with him to the bordello. Luciano would say goodbye and would not ask why Martín always disappeared after they were done in their separate rooms. And after Luciano was alone with his woman for the night, Martín would turn around and walk out the door with the eyes of the men and women mingling in the parlor trained on the back of his head. It would hurt. It would hurt so much to know that Luciano was lying with another person, but as long as Martín was able to dance with him for another day, he could handle the pain.
Or so he thought, because on this particular night, when the brothel door swung open to let the most recent customers out, Martín’s hands tightened their grip on Luciano. For the first second or two he could still have let go and laughed the gesture off as a reaction to the cool air, but soon Luciano was staring at him with concerned eyes, his own hand loose in Martín’s grip. Martín could not look at him, not like this, so he bit his lip and stared off to the side at the ground, waiting for Luciano to tear himself loose. When Luciano asked what was wrong, he swallowed and blinked, but still could not bring himself to let go. Luciano should have been able to guess at least part of the problem due to the incriminating bulge in Martín’s trousers, but he waited for him to explain himself.
“Come on, tell me…”
And then Martín was babbling, “Don’t go. You can go another time, but please, not tonight. I can’t-” Here he gasped for breath and finally looked at Luciano.
Luciano’s eyes were hard and serious, and Martín almost squirmed under his gaze. “You can’t what?”
I can’t stand the thought of what you do in there without me, he wanted to say, I can’t breathe for want of you, but Luciano did not need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Now he was being too quiet for too long again, and Luciano was going to realize something was wrong if he did not say something soon. Knowing that did not make it any easier to break the silence. He flinched when Luciano slid a hand over his forehead and pushed his bangs out of the way. His fingertips were freezing against Martín’s skin.
“I said I didn’t mean to run off earlier,” said Luciano. “I’m not going to leave just because I miss home.”
Martín wanted to laugh. Luciano was completely missing what was really going on, but he was so earnest in his concern that Martín wanted to assure him that nothing was wrong, he was just feeling a little under the weather, anything to make him stop frowning like that with his beautiful eyes and his pouting lips. “It’s not that,” he managed to say finally. “It’s-” He could feel everyone’s eyes on them, boring holes into the back of his head, making his neck itch. He could not do this, not here, and he was about to tell him as much, when Luciano brushed his hand through his hair and said, “Do you think you could talk if we were somewhere a little more private?”
He swallowed and followed Luciano to an empty lane a few blocks away. In his throat his heart thumped out an unnecessary warning not to do anything stupid. From somewhere nearby drifted the sounds of weekend revelry, the harsh scent of diesel. The stone buildings rose high on either side of them. They each shivered for different reasons.
“So,” Luciano said. He stood across from Martín, a little farther away than when they danced, but still close enough that Martín could feel each warm puff of breath on his neck. “What are you thinking about? Can’t you tell me?”
What am I thinking about? Martín stared at him with trembling limbs. I’m thinking about how I want to make you moan into my mouth. I’m thinking about how I want tear off your clothes and kiss every inch of your body. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Let’s start with you not wanting me to leave tonight.”
“What about it?”
Luciano ran a hand over his own hair and sighed. “Don’t do this, come on.” Still keeping his eyes on Martín, he lowered his chin and tilted his head a little. His words came out almost tentatively. “Is it…about that woman?”
“What?”
“The one you sing about,” Luciano huffed. “That danced with you but never stayed. You still love her, don’t you?”
Martín blinked. “Morocha…”
“Don’t start with that!” Luciano pulled his coat tighter around him. “Look, I can tell you’re upset about her, and-” His voice died in his throat, and he froze as his brain dropped the last piece of the puzzle in place. “Morocha,” he repeated back, very slowly. “Que vino desde lejos. Were you…singing about-?!”
Martín could not let him finish that thought. Before he could think of another option, he launched himself at Luciano, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and smashed their lips together. His mouth hurt where his teeth crushed against the inside of his lips, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his trousers or the deeper one in his chest. Luciano’s eyes were wide open, staring at his in shock, dark in the shadows like the empty spaces between the stars in the sky. The reality of what was happening struck Martín like buckshot. He reeled forward into Luciano, and then was about to pull back and rectify the situation, when he felt something: Luciano’s hands settling on his waist, his lips softening and moving against Martín’s.
Martín’s breath caught in his chest. He had not been thinking when he’d jumped Luciano, but if he had been, he would have expected either horror or rage in response. So many people wanted either to be with Martín or at the very least be him, but he had happened to fall in love with someone who did not, and he had tried so hard to accept that fact. Luciano did not want him; he wanted the beautiful, soft, available women of the brothel. He wanted a pretty wife who would do his laundry and fix him food and warm his bed every night. But now Luciano was mouthing at his lower lip and tracing its swell with the tip of his tongue, which was not how you kissed someone you did not want.
It was too much. Martín felt a low growl rise in his chest, all the want and fragmented hope shifting loose. He let his forehead touch Luciano’s and forced him back, step by step, just like dancing, until Luciano’s back bumped against the wall behind him. One hand slid beneath the coat and up behind Luciano’s shoulder blade to clench at his shirt while the other gripped the back of his neck. His fingers threaded through the curls there, cradling his head and forcing it to tilt so that his mouth was raised to Martín’s, making it that much easier for Martín to press his mouth open and taste the sweetness it held.
He growled when Luciano pulled away and tried to move in to kiss him again, to give him everything they had been missing, but this time he was evaded. Luciano held his wrist and led him down the alley and out onto the open street, smiling against each quick kiss Martín tried to trap him with as they made their way through the city. There were people around them, somewhere, the source of the laughter and the music and the lights, but Martín did not care-he could not care, not when Luciano was right here for him this night. Let them see him delirious with want, for it might be the only time he had this chance, and he was not going to give up the opportunity for propriety’s sake. He pushed Luciano up against the coal stained wall of a conventillo and rolled his hips into him.
“Right here’s fine,” he said between kisses, “No one will bother us. Stay with me.”
Luciano rubbed the back of his fingers along his cheekbone and turned to lead him up the rickety steps to the second landing where he unlocked a door and showed him inside. Martín found himself standing in a dark, stuffy room with five mattresses and two large dressers scattered along the perimeter. It was empty and cold, and smelled of unwashed men. He did not care. When Luciano turned to lock the door again and light a lamp, Martín fitted himself close behind him and caressed his hips and the sides of his ass.
“Just give me a few minutes,” Luciano said, turning to give him a quick kiss before shimmying out of his reach. “Ah, don’t worry about the others, they’ll be out till late tonight.” Martín followed him across the room where he shrugged out of his coat and hung it with care on a hook on the wall, brushing the grit from Martín’s enthusiasm in the streets off the back. Martín struggled to take off his own jacket, getting his elbow stuck in one of the sleeves and nearly ripping a seam in the process, but finally he tossed the thing intact onto one of the beds. Then he went to kiss the back of Luciano’s neck, but again Luciano squeezed passed him and went to crouch by the heater to start a fire. “It seems like I’m always the one stoking the fire now. Before I was living with some other Brazilians-my friend who invited me here, remember? Well he got married. I think they already have a kid on the way. And some of the others got married, too, and some went back because they couldn’t take it. So before it was all Brazilians and Italians here, but now I’m with some Lithuanians, and they don’t seem to mind the cold as much. Oh, sorry, you can sit down. That one’s mine.” He pointed to the bed with the sheets still rumpled and three thick blankets piled on top. Martín stared at him for a second before going to him and pulling his shirt free from his trousers.
Luciano laughed and held his wrists. He brought their entwined hands to his lips and kissed the backs of Martín’s fingers. “Will you sing for me?” he asked.
I’ll sing for you, Martín thought, I’ll sing anything you like. I’ll sing every day. But right now I need you before all this disappears. He kissed Luciano on the mouth, rested a hand on the small of his back to pull him into his body, and he could feel Luciano half hard against his thigh. He straddled one of Luciano’s thighs himself and rubbed-God it felt so good to do this purposefully-and when Luciano hissed, it was possibly one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. But then Luciano pulled his face away and whispered in his ear, “Sing the song, would you? I want to hear it.”
Martín tightened his grip on Luciano and hid his face in the crook of his neck. It was like earlier that evening in front of the brothel replaying itself all over again, except this time Martín was so close to getting a fraction of what he wished for from Luciano, and he was not ready to give up on this dream quite yet.
“Please,” he pleaded against Luciano’s skin, “Please just let me touch you. Even if it’s just tonight, even if it’s just for a little bit. Just let me have this before it goes away.”
He could feel Luciano stroking his hair. “Not that I don’t like your eagerness, but you don’t have to rush things so much,” Luciano said. “I don’t know what gave you such an impression, but no one’s going anywhere.” He lightly stroked his fingers across Martín’s nape.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Martín dragged the tip of his nose up to rub it against Luciano’s cheek. “I’ve just been waiting, wanting so long,” he mumbled.
“I know-I mean, I get it. I don’t know when it started-but I’ve been wanting you, too.” Luciano cupped Martín’s cheek and gave him a light kiss, pulling away before Martín could deepen it. “Here I spent this whole time thinking you were pining after a woman you used to know. Sing it for me, please?”
“Can’t it wait?” Martín groaned, rubbing himself against Luciano’s leg. “I need to touch you now.”
“No!” The force behind Luciano’s voice took Martín by surprise; he flinched and stared. Luciano scowled at him as he dug his fingers into Martín’s arms. “I’ll touch you all you want, everywhere, every way, as long as you want. But you’re going to sing for me first, got it?”
“But-”
“Just do it!”
Martín’s face heated up even more, if that was possible, and he gasped around the breath that stuck in his chest. With anyone else he would have laughed at their orders or ignored them completely. He would have gone back to fondling them and rutting against them until they gave in, but Luciano’s nostrils were flaring and his eyes were hard, and Martín, his mind a blur of too many emotions, could do nothing else but open his mouth to sing. He watched Luciano close his eyes, saw the small lopsided smile that pulled at his lips, felt his body sway to the melody. As Martín sang, they fell into a mindless, lazy series of tango steps. The arousal was still there, thrumming through Martín’s body, but it was tempered for the time being. Luciano’s body was there, the musky smell of his skin, the pressure of his groin against Martín’s, but it was not going anywhere. He could take the time to do this right.
“All falling over their feet to be with me,” he sang as he let go of Luciano’s hand and touched his own chest, right over his too tender heart. “But I love the only one that doesn’t have eyes for me,” he sang as Luciano slowly undid each button on his shirt, and then on his union suit, revealing pale skin and fine hair. He returned the favor and slid the clothing from Luciano’s shoulders. “The only one whose smile lights the world,” he murmured against Luciano’s cheek as he stroked the front of Luciano’s trousers with his fingertips, caressing the hard length trapped inside. They toed off their shoes and kicked them into a corner. While they spun slowly in a series of half turns and crosses, they undid each other’s trousers and the rest of the buttons on their underwear, and then stepped out of their clothing. “The only one who makes me act like a child.”
The song trailed from Martín’s lips. He stopped and stared at Luciano, as if to remind himself once again that he was not dreaming. He snapped out of the spell when Luciano stroked a toe up his instep and ankle, flexing the muscles in his calf and thigh as he did so. The crucifix hung heavy over Luciano’s chest. He pulled the cord over his head and turned to lay it gently on the nearest dresser before turning back to Martín. His body right here, right now, with all its dips and hollows shadowed in the low light, made all of Martín’s fantasies pale in comparison. Luciano chuckled at his starstruck reaction, and then gasped sharply when Martín wrapped a hand around his cock.
Martín did not stroke it, not yet, but he did run his thumb up and down the shaft gently as he cradled it in his grip. He licked his lips and said, “I wanted to do this every time we danced. I wanted-”
He was interrupted by Luciano’s mouth on his, hot and demanding, a kiss that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, his toes curl, his hands clench, and his heart and groin flicker with want. Then Luciano was pushing against his shoulders, and they both tumbled over onto the mattress. Luciano crawled over him to straddle his thighs, hovering above him so their erections were just centimeters apart. A shiver ran down his arms, and he reached over and grabbed one of the blankets to drape over his shoulders and Martín’s legs.
“I’m cold,” he explained unnecessarily. He grinned and bit his lip. “You should help warm me up.” And then he leaned down on his elbows, bringing their cocks together and kissing Martín deeply.
Martín’s hips jerked up on their own, searching for more friction, more pressure. He wrapped his arms around Luciano’s shoulders and kissed back without thinking-biting, licking, and sucking on his lips and tongue. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, pounding in his ears, pulsing in his fingertips. He wanted it to last forever, wanted to keep himself surrounded in Luciano’s scent and taste. He wanted to hear Luciano moan and call out for him, wanted to feel him lose control again and again and again.
He came too soon with a sob of Luciano’s name. Through the pleasant haze and ringing in his ears, he could feel Luciano rubbing himself against him, panting against his neck until he collapsed onto him and spilled hot over his abdomen.
It was all over so quickly, almost as if it had never happened. Martín might blink and find one of the women of the brothel lying beside him, and Luciano would be long gone, dancing with other people he needed more in his life than Martín. He might reach his hand up and find cold, empty air rather than a soft head of hair perched above his chest. Yet here they were, their hearts still dancing, a new song of love and longing playing through Martín’s body. He ran his fingers up and down Luciano’s back, tracing the dip of his spine, sticky with drying sweat. Luciano shivered, so he rolled them over and drew another blanket up around them. With Luciano’s leg thrown over his hip and his head tucked against Martín’s shoulder, a feeling of peace settled over the room that Martín was afraid to break. He settled a hand on Luciano’s back over his heart and sighed. There was so much he wanted to say now that he was allowed to put his thoughts into more than just lyrics, but the words piled up behind his tongue like debris behind a dam, one thought stacking on top of the other until nothing could get through.
Luciano, seemingly oblivious to his plight, sighed his name in a low, pleased voice. He kissed Martín’s chest and said, “We should get dressed before my roommates come back.”
There, a conversation starter, something Martín’s mind could latch onto. “I thought you said they wouldn’t be back until later?”
“Do you trust yourself not to fall asleep like this?”
“You know,” Martín mused while mindlessly stroking Luciano’s hip, dragging his fingers back and forth, back and forth over the soft skin, “we wouldn’t have to worry about that if we were at my place. I never thought it was amazing, but it’s paradise compared to this.” He patted his ass and bent to kiss the top of his head.
Luciano gave a short huff against his chest. “Well sorry I can’t afford anything better. And it’s not that bad.”
“No, I mean-” There was a memory yet to be written playing behind Martín’s eyes. A possibility or a probability if he could just make himself understood. There was Luciano swaddled in a blanket on the single bed in a room, laughing into the pillow, Luciano smiling around a spoonful of polenta as Martín’s step-mother ladled still more on his plate, Luciano coming back to the room dripping from the bath and getting breathlessly sidetracked before he could put on his night clothes. Martín’s breath stuttered at the thought. “I mean, you could come live with me. My room’s kind of lonely right now. Plus it’s a lot nicer than this place, and you’ll get good food. Though waking up next to me every morning should be reason enough, right?” He grinned down at Luciano, but the smile was laced with the uncertainty, that little niggling notion that he was still dreaming.
“Oh.” Luciano’s arm tightened around him. “That sounds kind of nice.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Martín kissed him hard, so both their lips would be left tingling long after they parted. “We could get married, too. Not officially, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll save up and get you a ring. Just stay with me.”
Luciano rolled away from him, but he was laughing as he did it. “Now you’re getting ahead of yourself.” He stood and helped Martín to his feet. They grinned at each other for a moment, until Martín ran his thumb over Luciano’s lips. Luciano kissed it while staring into his eyes. Outside the window, the yearning song of Buenos Aires played on, winding its way through plazas and boulevards and into every inhabitant’s heart, urging them on through the night. Martín felt its melody bubble up in him and found himself singing again, mi morochita dicharachera. Luciano kissed the words from his mouth.
A/N: morochita dicharachera que vino desde lejos: Morochita/morocha is a pet name for someone with dark hair/features. Soooo happy morocha who came from far away. I told you it sounds dumb in English.
Pairing: Martín/Luciano (Argentina/Brazil)
Warnings: nsfw sexytimes
Word Count: 8000~
A/N: This would not exist without sipmiau's help. Seriously. Also I left a few things in Spanish because they sound REALLY DUMB in English, trust me, but there are translation notes at the end. :Db
Summary: Tango AU, takes place in Buenos Aires sometime around the early 20th century.
This was the moment when Martín would let go of Luciano’s hand with a smile and walk with him to the bordello. Luciano would say goodbye and would not ask why Martín always disappeared after they were done in their separate rooms. And after Luciano was alone with his woman for the night, Martín would turn around and walk out the door with the eyes of the men and women mingling in the parlor trained on the back of his head.
The night closed in on the streets of Buenos Aires, the air sultry and thick with broken promises, sending out its standing invitation to the people of the city. On one particular side street, lamplight shown on the dirty cobblestone and bricks, baptizing the people outside the brothel in a golden glow. Martín arrived later than usual and disinclined to wait for a girl to be free, but of course there were already several men milling around and talking, playing cards on the steps or dancing, all of them biding their time until their turn for love’s substitute came. It always made him a bit queasy to talk to other men who might be waiting to fuck the same woman as he was, and once he started gambling, he never knew how to stop while he was ahead. None of that mattered, however, because even if he enjoyed chatting with a bunch of sleazy men or knew the trick to upsetting the dealer every time, he would never pass up a chance to show off his true talent, especially in front of the men against whom he needed to measure up. He knew he was worth more than ten of them, but that did not matter if no one else realized it.
One of the dancers went inside the bordello, leaving his partner free for Martín to intercept. With a smile, the other man took Martin’s outstretched hand and closed the gap between them. He had a smudge of dirt on his cheek that Martín would have liked to rub away, but it would have been presumptuous of him to do so for a man he had barely met. Instead he stepped forward between the man’s feet, forcing him to back away and begin the dance. They traded steps to the moan of the bandoneón, short then long, quick then slow. Martín could see over the top of his partner’s head without much effort, his view marred only by a few stray curls that sprung up wildly and bounced with their movements. He watched the people around them, gaging their reactions to his prowess, biting his lip with pride when they threw glances at him. His partner was not a great dancer, nowhere near Martín’s caliber, but he rotated his hips enough to keep Martín’s attention-in more ways than one, much to Martín’s dismay, though that might also have been thanks to his true purpose for being on this particular street late at night. When Martin curled a leg around his partner’s knee and leaned in, the man pressed him back upright and dipped him low, his biceps bulging under his shirtsleeves as he grinned down at Martín. He was playing Martín’s game without even blinking. Even if his lack of talent would not have normally held Martín’s interest, he was making up for it in sheer audacity. Martín turned his attention from their audience to rest fully on his partner and his wide brown face with his wide nose, his wide lips quirked up at the corners, and his wide, sparkling brown eyes.
“I’m Luciano,” he said. Martín nearly stumbled at the sound of his voice, but he kept up their rhythm. “I just moved here recently, you know. A friend of mine told me he could get me a job, so I came down here and he did, and so far everything’s worked out just fine, at least for now. So I decided to celebrate a little with my first paycheck, but I don’t really know anyone here yet, so this is my first stop.”
Martín stared at him and said, “Why are you telling me this?” He immediately regretted it when Luciano’s entire body seemed to droop and he looked away and sighed. “No, I mean-” he came to a stop for a moment and stood in the middle of the street, still holding Luciano’s hand and shoulder. “People don’t usually talk while waiting.”
Luciano looked over at the group of men who were speaking animatedly with each other on walkway opposite them. Martín bit his lip and said, “I mean, I don’t usually… I’m Martín.” He started them moving again, pulling Luciano with him, but the magic had faltered. Their sweaty hands slipped against each other. He tightened his grip and turned them around. “You’ll like it here. This is the greatest city on Earth.” He grinned down at Luciano, who snorted and rolled his eyes but didn’t try to hide his smile. Martín forgot to feel queasy about talking to another customer, and by the time their turns in the bordello came, he was almost reluctant to let go. As they went to their separate rooms, Luciano winked at him before shutting the door. In his own room, Martín surged up against his whore, pushing her to the bed with kisses to her neck. He felt hot all over and breathless, like he had just been running through the streets at midday and his vision was swimming with exertion. Below him the woman-her name was Fabiana, she told him so he would have something to moan-wrapped coffee colored legs around his waist. In one of the rooms near his he could hear the squeak of a mattress and low groaning. He softened slightly, but Fabiana knew how to take care of him, and when he finished he left her a tip and strode out into the humid night to try to forget about Luciano who talked too much to other bordello customers.
-
Of course they ran into each other the next week again, and Martín felt like he was being guilted into dancing with him when Luciano caught his eye and raised a hand to beckon him over. Luciano had a smudge on his face again, almost black over the curve of his cheek, and this time Martín pointed it out to him. Luciano laughed and tried in vain to wipe it off with the sleeve of his shirt. It was from his job, he said, he was always dirty, no matter how many times he wiped himself down with a washrag, but he didn’t mind. Martín did not take the bait and ask where he worked. It did not matter anyway. Luciano was simply an immigrant laborer, like hundreds of thousands of other immigrant laborers coming to the city to find work and the keys to their dreams. His Spanish lilted with an accent he would probably never rid himself of, and his head would forever be filled with longing for his old home, no matter how poorly it had treated him. And of course no matter how long he stayed, no matter if he married a pretty Porteña and had pretty little Argentinian children who would speak only Spanish, and no matter if he began forgetting his mother’s language and all the intricacies of what it meant to be Brazilian, he would never completely belong to Buenos Aires. He would be like a puzzle piece with one of the tabs ripped off, so that no matter how hard he tried and how many times he called the city home, one small movement would dislodge him and remind him of who he really was.
Martín almost felt bad for him. He wondered if any such misgivings had passed through Luciano’s mind before he made the decision to come here, or if the full weight of his choice would not hit him until he was picking himself off the dirty streets after being kicked down by the city’s fierce temper and unbridled passion for dangling hope before its inhabitants’ eyes before snatching it away again. Luciano was not bitter enough to thrive in such a place. He would never love the city the way it deserved-because of its flaws rather than in spite of them.
Martín could teach him.
Starting with this: he told him that he needed more practice dancing. Luciano looked offended even though it was the truth. “I’m not a bad dancer,” he said, “I danced all the time back home. Just because I haven’t danced tango all my life, it’s not like I can’t dance at all. I should show you samba or maxixe and then we’ll see who needs more practice-”
A quick turn shut him up, giving Martín time to grin and say, “I was going to offer to help practice with you, but if you’re going to be ungrateful about it…”
“What do you mean help practice with me?” Luciano tried to take over the lead from him, but he stumbled a bit, his face glowing red as he gave up and followed Martín again.
“You’ll never get a lady to dance with you if you bumble around like that.” Martín glanced at the dark, wooden door on their right now and amended his statement. “I mean, you’ll never get a lady you don’t have to pay for.”
“If you’re so good, why are you here waiting for whores, too?”
Martín shoved him away and stalked down the street, ignoring the ache in his body. There were other brothels in the city, plenty of them, and if he really wanted to he could seduce a girl at a club and spend the night with her. As he browsed through his options in his head, he felt a hand on his arm.
“Look, you don’t have to be so sensitive about it,” Luciano said, pursing his chapped lips as he pulled him back. “I’m here too, right? I’ll practice with you, if you want.”
He really was not that bad, Martín thought while they danced the minutes away until they parted again to warm the beds. Sometimes his steps were off, like he was dancing a different dance-similar, but still different-that he must have known from his other home. When they let go finally, Martín gave him the directions to his conventillo. “Monday, seven o’clock,” he said, watching Luciano’s smile until it disappeared behind a door.
Fabiana was available for him again. He asked her to smile for him while he lay on top of her, so he could be sure was enjoying herself, or so he told himself. She told him that she always enjoyed her time with him, he was just so good, but he barely heard her praises as he trained his eyes on her lips and wondered what they would feel like against his if they were just slightly chapped.
-
When Luciano finally showed up a half hour after the time Martín had given him, Martín’s friends were there, dancing and singing bawdy songs on the bandoneón like they used to do in the old days before the dance and the music became tamer and more acceptable in higher social circles. They greeted Luciano warmly and added his name to the lyrics, so that Luciano would either lose in a dick measuring competition to them or would spend his days fucking all the girls in town. They laughed when Martín told them to shut up, even when he threatened to tell their sisters and mothers about their stupid songs, ignoring the fact that he had a few of his own under his belt. Luciano laughed too and told him it was fine, but Martín doubted he could understand all the colloquial Lunfardo. He dragged Luciano off to a side and went through the steps with him over and over again until they were both exhausted and sweating. With a tired smile, Luciano promised to come back in a few days.
And he did. Between practices at the conventillo and their time outside the bordello, Martín and Luciano discovered the intricacies of each other’s body, the speed with which they could turn, the precision of their steps. Luciano laughed every time Martín added little kicks of his heel to spice things up, and Martín could not stop grinning when Luciano danced a mirror image of him. Dancing with Luciano was more fun and left Martín more breathless than with any other partner.
Despite the people around them, their closeness while dancing afforded them an intimacy that they took to their advantage. Luciano told him about his sisters back in Brazil, about their laughter spilling out the door of their shack on the outskirts of town, about the dirt lining the creases of their palms, about the way his mother would stroke his hair when he was sick, even after he had grown up. About his father, who, while never openly supporting any of Luciano’s choices, gave him a brand new coat the night before he left that looked like it must have cost a month’s pay, and a crucifix that had once belonged to Luciano’s grandfather. The coat was hanging safely in his closet where it could not possibly come to the ruin Luciano feared, but when Martín asked, he promised to wear it some time for him. The crucifix hung around his neck at all times; Martín wanted to ask if he took off when he was at the bordello, but he kept his mouth shut. Instead he asked what Luciano thought of Buenos Aires and Argentina and so learned how to see the city through the eyes of a newcomer, with all its little facets of normality that became strange and foreign in Luciano’s words. And once, when they were both a little drunk and dancing with their bodies pressed closer than necessary, Luciano told him about his fears of failing and dying in a gutter with his family never finding out what had happened to him.
In return Martín talked about his short tempered, demanding mother who died when he was ten, his distant father so focused on everything but his own son, and his sweet step mother who ran the conventillo where he lived and treated him as if he were her own child. He talked about all the amazing things he would do and see in his lifetime, the adventures he had already had in the Pampas, his plans to make sure that people would be talking about him long after he was gone. Luciano laughed in all the right places, and he made no criticism of his dreams like everyone else did.
“You’re a crazy guy,” he said, squeezing Martín’s shoulder. When Martín opened his mouth to defend himself, he continued. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I’m just saying, I’m surprised you’ve survived this long without someone trying to kill you.” His smile grew soft at the edges. “Sounds like an exciting life.”
You could do all that, too, Martín almost told him, you could be part of it. Instead he said, “It is, thanks,” and pushed them into another quick round of steps that took both their minds off talking for a while.
-
The next time Luciano stepped inside the bordello, Martín waited until the door closed behind him before he turned around and searched for the nearest bar to get piss-drunk.
-
Luciano was oblivious. This was a double edged sword, depending on how Martín was feeling during a particular minute. Or maybe he just never let on that he noticed the stupid little things that Martín did, like how he stared at his eyes and mouth too long, or that Martín’s hands were always sweaty and trembling ever so slightly when they first touched, or how loud and fast his heart beat. With their chests so close together, he could surely feel it while they danced, drumming against Martín’s ribcage as if it wanted to tear itself out of him and settle in Luciano’s hands.
The worst was the arousal. All the men got hard at some point or other; it really was not surprising considering all the rubbing and bumping they did over the course of a song. No one ever mentioned it when they felt something stiff growing against their leg, Luciano included, so at least Martín did not have to explain that he was thinking about Luciano dancing with his trousers off. However, that made the issue only marginally more bearable. He could not stop himself from imagining Luciano rubbing against him purposefully, as if he wanted to see Martín flushed and panting, or that Luciano would open his mouth against him if he dipped him for a kiss.
The more he fought to control his emotions, the stronger they rose up in him, until some days he was sure that all his thoughts and feelings would burst out of him and bury both him and Luciano. And then when Luciano had dug himself out of the emotional landslide, he would leave without a backwards glance.
Singing was the only way to alleviate the itch to take Luciano’s face in his hands and kiss him until he could not breathe. When he wrote his songs, the words seemed to flow freely like blood from an artery, spilling onto the pages of his battered notebook. He could weave his own feelings into a story with just enough fiction in it to not raise anyone’s suspicions too high.
Well, at least not everyone’s suspicions. He sang in forlorn tones about a charming, foreign woman who danced her way across his heart each night before leaving his embrace for the arms of other men. As he crooned about her fleeting warmth and the way he was forever left with love clinging like ice to his heart, his friends stole meaningful glances at Luciano, who sat on the dirty curb, stretching his legs out into the street and swaying his head to the rise and fall of Martín’s voice. No one made any pointed jokes or comments, for which Martín was grateful, but it was still unsettling to know that they all knew. Still, he could not stop himself from singing about his morochita dicharachera que vino desde lejos.
Luciano finally asked about the song later while they were dancing. “Did you actually write it?” His eyes were wide in awe of Martin, so good at dancing and singing, so smooth and suave. He could surely sense when Martín’s entire body locked up, his limbs still dancing, but stiffly like a marionette. After a minute of trying to force himself to breathe, Martín finally said yes. That was all. A simple yes, the full truth hidden in his strained voice. They were both quiet for a while after that, dancing in silence, with Martín unable to meet Luciano’s eyes. A few more minutes passed until Luciano began talking about something else, as if they had never spoken of the song. He knew. At least, Martín was sure that he did. He had to, and now he was waiting for Martín to slowly fall apart.
The thing that was eating Martín up was that he knew he was good at romance. He knew all the right things to say and do, all the little details to cultivating passion. He knew how to please women’s hearts and minds and bodies, yet the person he truly wanted would never return his love. It would have been easier on his heart to just let Luciano slip slowly from his life and try to forget about him. But while he had spent twenty something years without him, now that he had him in his arms he could not bring himself let him go, even if his very presence kept beating at the bruise on Martín’s heart.
Every time they danced in front of the bordello, Martín could not stop himself from imagining all the things Luciano could do to him instead of the prostitutes, all the things he could do to Luciano. And not just sex, but holding his hand without an excuse, kissing his tired eyelids, and hearing him snore under the covers beside him. All the little things that two people in love might do with each other to pass a lifetime.
-
There came a day like any other, when Martín and Luciano were dancing as always. The air was cooling off with each passing day, and by now the weather was cold enough that Luciano had finally broken down and worn the jacket from his father. It was heavy and of deep, rich brown wool lined with green silk that flashed under the cuffs around his wrists as he moved. It looked dashing on Luciano, but Martín made a note to help him find a warmer coat for winter, since he was still shivering heavily in it. Luciano’s cheeks were red despite the night breeze only having a slight briskness to it. It took quite a bit of effort on Martín’s part to stop himself from rubbing his palms against Luciano’s face to help him warm up, but he was able to control himself. He also stopped himself from trying to kiss Luciano’s cheeks or wrap his arms around his waist and hold him close to ward off the cold.
“Watch it, Morocha, your nose is going to freeze off when winter comes,” he said when they had stopped to rest, rubbing the back of his hand against the tip of Luciano’s nose. “Dainty ladies should stay inside when it’s cold out or they’ll catch a chill.”
“Back off,” Luciano said, batting Martín’s hand away. “It’s not my fault this city is cold.”
Martín rolled his eyes. “Buenos Aires is not cold, you big baby.”
“Yeah, maybe for you it’s not, but it is if you’re not used to it.” Luciano’s voice was rising, and some of the other men were beginning to stare uneasily at them.
“Well you’ll just have to get used to it. Unless you’d rather be back in Porto Alegre, or however you call that shit hole, and who would?”
“Maybe I do want to go back to that shit hole, alright?” Luciano shouted.
“Calm down-”
“I was calm! And then you had to go and-just leave me alone!” Luciano stomped off, leaving Martín gaping after him. What a petty thing to get worked up about, Martín thought. And then he looked over to the other men, his friends, who where whispering amongst themselves, and a heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach. They were staring at him warily, as if he were a kicked dog three seconds away from biting back. One of them muttered something about morocha, and…
It clicked. A wave of numbness spread through his entire body, his limbs and mind useless for a few seconds as everything fell into place. Morocha, and the song, and Luciano’s sudden anger, and the fight over nothing. And if Luciano had not put everything together before, he knew now.
Martín knew there was no one to blame but himself, but he wanted to punch and kick and throw things at someone or something-anything. He wanted to tear his hair out and his clothes off and scream until his lungs gave out, until he could take it all back, every word, every song, every touch, every glance that might have tipped Luciano off. How could he have been so stupid and careless? He had let something so precious slip through his fingers before he even had a proper grasp on it.
The feeling of dread remained with him all through the day and into the evening, when he found himself back on the streets. He should have stayed at home, curled up in his bed under the covers while the city awoke for a night of revelry outside his window. He could have pretended that Luciano had not discovered his poorly hidden secret and was not avoiding him, and if he stayed in bed this evening, he could have kept that fantasy alive at least for another day. Maybe if he had been able to sleep, he would have done all that, but his conscience would not give him that luxury. He knew he would not rest easy until he was sure whether Luciano was avoiding him or not.
His clothes were wrinkled and his hair disheveled, but he went out without even checking the looking glass by his dresser anyway. The air was even colder now that the sun had fallen past the horizon, and Martín shivered a little wondering if Luciano was dressed warmly enough for the autumn night. Maybe he would have the good sense to stay inside somewhere and spend his weekend in a bar.
But of course he should have known that Luciano had no good sense. There he was, sitting on the curb outside the bordello, watching the other men dancing and talking and laughing with a look of distance in his eyes and a frown on his lips.
Martín stopped a little way off from him, close enough that Luciano could hear him but far enough that he could pretend not to know him if he wanted. He called to him and waited for a reaction, dreading the hate he might see directed at him.
When Luciano looked up, Martín winced, but unnecessarily. Luciano’s eyes widened at the sight of him, and he stood and went to him, grabbing his wrists, and then his shoulders, as if he was unsure of where to put his hands. “I thought you might not come tonight.”
“What, did you think I was scared?” Martín asked with a forced smile.
Luciano settled into a close embrace and waited for Martín to walk. “Of course not,” he said. “I thought you were mad. And I was mad ‘cause you were being an ass, but I didn’t want to ruin things. I didn’t ruin things, did I?”
Martín looked into Luciano’s concerned eyes for a second and then bringing their cheeks close before Luciano could see anything in his own. “Of course not,” he echoed, his voice laced with relief. Stupid, precious, oblivious Luciano.
“Good,” Luciano said. “Good.” He was quiet for a minute, and then he burst out, “But it’s just so frustrating, and then you say something that sets me off, and I just blow up. I don’t mean to.”
Martín took his time before asking, “What’s so frustrating?”
Luciano scowled, but it did not seem to be directed at him. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said.
“Try me.”
Luciano huffed and said, “Doorknobs.”
Martín raised an eyebrow. “Doorknobs?”
Luciano rolled his eyes as if it were supposed to make sense. “Yes. And the cobblestones and the street signs. And the way people greet each other and the smell of the air. The color of the sky.” His face scrunched in again. His emotions fell flat as soon as they were translated to words, but Martín realized what he was trying to say.
“Are you seriously homesick?” And then a little more incredulously, “Do you really not want to be here?”
Luciano shrugged. “Of course I want to be here. I just want to be home, too. It’s like if you woke up one morning, and suddenly there’s someone missing who no one noticed was there in the first place. It’s hard to explain exactly what’s wrong, but it makes you uneasy and you just want everything to be right again, even if that’s impossible. Except it’s more than that because you start missing stupid things, and you just feel dumb and useless all the time.”
“You’re not useless,” Martín assured him with a squeeze of his hand. He did not quite understand how Luciano could think about such insignificant things when he had all of beautiful, seductive, cruel Buenos Aires at his fingertips, but he was obviously upset about this, and Martín was not about to contradict him, at least not now. “Just stick with me; I’ll make you forget to miss those things.” He relaxed a little when Luciano laughed.
“It’s not that easy,” Luciano explained. At least he was smiling now, and not mourning his old life or thinking about how creepy and dependent Martín was. “But being around you does help.”
It was not fair how he could say such innocuous things and not realize how much they made Martín want to kiss him. Martín settled for a wide, unrepentant grin and led him in a turn. “Tell me more about how good I am for your health.”
The day was saved, and considering he was still pining after someone he could not have, Martín was left with higher spirits than he had expected-at least until it was time for them to part again. This was the moment when Martín would let go of Luciano’s hand with a smile and walk with him to the bordello. Luciano would say goodbye and would not ask why Martín always disappeared after they were done in their separate rooms. And after Luciano was alone with his woman for the night, Martín would turn around and walk out the door with the eyes of the men and women mingling in the parlor trained on the back of his head. It would hurt. It would hurt so much to know that Luciano was lying with another person, but as long as Martín was able to dance with him for another day, he could handle the pain.
Or so he thought, because on this particular night, when the brothel door swung open to let the most recent customers out, Martín’s hands tightened their grip on Luciano. For the first second or two he could still have let go and laughed the gesture off as a reaction to the cool air, but soon Luciano was staring at him with concerned eyes, his own hand loose in Martín’s grip. Martín could not look at him, not like this, so he bit his lip and stared off to the side at the ground, waiting for Luciano to tear himself loose. When Luciano asked what was wrong, he swallowed and blinked, but still could not bring himself to let go. Luciano should have been able to guess at least part of the problem due to the incriminating bulge in Martín’s trousers, but he waited for him to explain himself.
“Come on, tell me…”
And then Martín was babbling, “Don’t go. You can go another time, but please, not tonight. I can’t-” Here he gasped for breath and finally looked at Luciano.
Luciano’s eyes were hard and serious, and Martín almost squirmed under his gaze. “You can’t what?”
I can’t stand the thought of what you do in there without me, he wanted to say, I can’t breathe for want of you, but Luciano did not need to know that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Now he was being too quiet for too long again, and Luciano was going to realize something was wrong if he did not say something soon. Knowing that did not make it any easier to break the silence. He flinched when Luciano slid a hand over his forehead and pushed his bangs out of the way. His fingertips were freezing against Martín’s skin.
“I said I didn’t mean to run off earlier,” said Luciano. “I’m not going to leave just because I miss home.”
Martín wanted to laugh. Luciano was completely missing what was really going on, but he was so earnest in his concern that Martín wanted to assure him that nothing was wrong, he was just feeling a little under the weather, anything to make him stop frowning like that with his beautiful eyes and his pouting lips. “It’s not that,” he managed to say finally. “It’s-” He could feel everyone’s eyes on them, boring holes into the back of his head, making his neck itch. He could not do this, not here, and he was about to tell him as much, when Luciano brushed his hand through his hair and said, “Do you think you could talk if we were somewhere a little more private?”
He swallowed and followed Luciano to an empty lane a few blocks away. In his throat his heart thumped out an unnecessary warning not to do anything stupid. From somewhere nearby drifted the sounds of weekend revelry, the harsh scent of diesel. The stone buildings rose high on either side of them. They each shivered for different reasons.
“So,” Luciano said. He stood across from Martín, a little farther away than when they danced, but still close enough that Martín could feel each warm puff of breath on his neck. “What are you thinking about? Can’t you tell me?”
What am I thinking about? Martín stared at him with trembling limbs. I’m thinking about how I want to make you moan into my mouth. I’m thinking about how I want tear off your clothes and kiss every inch of your body. “I’m not sure where to start.”
“Let’s start with you not wanting me to leave tonight.”
“What about it?”
Luciano ran a hand over his own hair and sighed. “Don’t do this, come on.” Still keeping his eyes on Martín, he lowered his chin and tilted his head a little. His words came out almost tentatively. “Is it…about that woman?”
“What?”
“The one you sing about,” Luciano huffed. “That danced with you but never stayed. You still love her, don’t you?”
Martín blinked. “Morocha…”
“Don’t start with that!” Luciano pulled his coat tighter around him. “Look, I can tell you’re upset about her, and-” His voice died in his throat, and he froze as his brain dropped the last piece of the puzzle in place. “Morocha,” he repeated back, very slowly. “Que vino desde lejos. Were you…singing about-?!”
Martín could not let him finish that thought. Before he could think of another option, he launched himself at Luciano, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and smashed their lips together. His mouth hurt where his teeth crushed against the inside of his lips, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his trousers or the deeper one in his chest. Luciano’s eyes were wide open, staring at his in shock, dark in the shadows like the empty spaces between the stars in the sky. The reality of what was happening struck Martín like buckshot. He reeled forward into Luciano, and then was about to pull back and rectify the situation, when he felt something: Luciano’s hands settling on his waist, his lips softening and moving against Martín’s.
Martín’s breath caught in his chest. He had not been thinking when he’d jumped Luciano, but if he had been, he would have expected either horror or rage in response. So many people wanted either to be with Martín or at the very least be him, but he had happened to fall in love with someone who did not, and he had tried so hard to accept that fact. Luciano did not want him; he wanted the beautiful, soft, available women of the brothel. He wanted a pretty wife who would do his laundry and fix him food and warm his bed every night. But now Luciano was mouthing at his lower lip and tracing its swell with the tip of his tongue, which was not how you kissed someone you did not want.
It was too much. Martín felt a low growl rise in his chest, all the want and fragmented hope shifting loose. He let his forehead touch Luciano’s and forced him back, step by step, just like dancing, until Luciano’s back bumped against the wall behind him. One hand slid beneath the coat and up behind Luciano’s shoulder blade to clench at his shirt while the other gripped the back of his neck. His fingers threaded through the curls there, cradling his head and forcing it to tilt so that his mouth was raised to Martín’s, making it that much easier for Martín to press his mouth open and taste the sweetness it held.
He growled when Luciano pulled away and tried to move in to kiss him again, to give him everything they had been missing, but this time he was evaded. Luciano held his wrist and led him down the alley and out onto the open street, smiling against each quick kiss Martín tried to trap him with as they made their way through the city. There were people around them, somewhere, the source of the laughter and the music and the lights, but Martín did not care-he could not care, not when Luciano was right here for him this night. Let them see him delirious with want, for it might be the only time he had this chance, and he was not going to give up the opportunity for propriety’s sake. He pushed Luciano up against the coal stained wall of a conventillo and rolled his hips into him.
“Right here’s fine,” he said between kisses, “No one will bother us. Stay with me.”
Luciano rubbed the back of his fingers along his cheekbone and turned to lead him up the rickety steps to the second landing where he unlocked a door and showed him inside. Martín found himself standing in a dark, stuffy room with five mattresses and two large dressers scattered along the perimeter. It was empty and cold, and smelled of unwashed men. He did not care. When Luciano turned to lock the door again and light a lamp, Martín fitted himself close behind him and caressed his hips and the sides of his ass.
“Just give me a few minutes,” Luciano said, turning to give him a quick kiss before shimmying out of his reach. “Ah, don’t worry about the others, they’ll be out till late tonight.” Martín followed him across the room where he shrugged out of his coat and hung it with care on a hook on the wall, brushing the grit from Martín’s enthusiasm in the streets off the back. Martín struggled to take off his own jacket, getting his elbow stuck in one of the sleeves and nearly ripping a seam in the process, but finally he tossed the thing intact onto one of the beds. Then he went to kiss the back of Luciano’s neck, but again Luciano squeezed passed him and went to crouch by the heater to start a fire. “It seems like I’m always the one stoking the fire now. Before I was living with some other Brazilians-my friend who invited me here, remember? Well he got married. I think they already have a kid on the way. And some of the others got married, too, and some went back because they couldn’t take it. So before it was all Brazilians and Italians here, but now I’m with some Lithuanians, and they don’t seem to mind the cold as much. Oh, sorry, you can sit down. That one’s mine.” He pointed to the bed with the sheets still rumpled and three thick blankets piled on top. Martín stared at him for a second before going to him and pulling his shirt free from his trousers.
Luciano laughed and held his wrists. He brought their entwined hands to his lips and kissed the backs of Martín’s fingers. “Will you sing for me?” he asked.
I’ll sing for you, Martín thought, I’ll sing anything you like. I’ll sing every day. But right now I need you before all this disappears. He kissed Luciano on the mouth, rested a hand on the small of his back to pull him into his body, and he could feel Luciano half hard against his thigh. He straddled one of Luciano’s thighs himself and rubbed-God it felt so good to do this purposefully-and when Luciano hissed, it was possibly one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. But then Luciano pulled his face away and whispered in his ear, “Sing the song, would you? I want to hear it.”
Martín tightened his grip on Luciano and hid his face in the crook of his neck. It was like earlier that evening in front of the brothel replaying itself all over again, except this time Martín was so close to getting a fraction of what he wished for from Luciano, and he was not ready to give up on this dream quite yet.
“Please,” he pleaded against Luciano’s skin, “Please just let me touch you. Even if it’s just tonight, even if it’s just for a little bit. Just let me have this before it goes away.”
He could feel Luciano stroking his hair. “Not that I don’t like your eagerness, but you don’t have to rush things so much,” Luciano said. “I don’t know what gave you such an impression, but no one’s going anywhere.” He lightly stroked his fingers across Martín’s nape.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Martín dragged the tip of his nose up to rub it against Luciano’s cheek. “I’ve just been waiting, wanting so long,” he mumbled.
“I know-I mean, I get it. I don’t know when it started-but I’ve been wanting you, too.” Luciano cupped Martín’s cheek and gave him a light kiss, pulling away before Martín could deepen it. “Here I spent this whole time thinking you were pining after a woman you used to know. Sing it for me, please?”
“Can’t it wait?” Martín groaned, rubbing himself against Luciano’s leg. “I need to touch you now.”
“No!” The force behind Luciano’s voice took Martín by surprise; he flinched and stared. Luciano scowled at him as he dug his fingers into Martín’s arms. “I’ll touch you all you want, everywhere, every way, as long as you want. But you’re going to sing for me first, got it?”
“But-”
“Just do it!”
Martín’s face heated up even more, if that was possible, and he gasped around the breath that stuck in his chest. With anyone else he would have laughed at their orders or ignored them completely. He would have gone back to fondling them and rutting against them until they gave in, but Luciano’s nostrils were flaring and his eyes were hard, and Martín, his mind a blur of too many emotions, could do nothing else but open his mouth to sing. He watched Luciano close his eyes, saw the small lopsided smile that pulled at his lips, felt his body sway to the melody. As Martín sang, they fell into a mindless, lazy series of tango steps. The arousal was still there, thrumming through Martín’s body, but it was tempered for the time being. Luciano’s body was there, the musky smell of his skin, the pressure of his groin against Martín’s, but it was not going anywhere. He could take the time to do this right.
“All falling over their feet to be with me,” he sang as he let go of Luciano’s hand and touched his own chest, right over his too tender heart. “But I love the only one that doesn’t have eyes for me,” he sang as Luciano slowly undid each button on his shirt, and then on his union suit, revealing pale skin and fine hair. He returned the favor and slid the clothing from Luciano’s shoulders. “The only one whose smile lights the world,” he murmured against Luciano’s cheek as he stroked the front of Luciano’s trousers with his fingertips, caressing the hard length trapped inside. They toed off their shoes and kicked them into a corner. While they spun slowly in a series of half turns and crosses, they undid each other’s trousers and the rest of the buttons on their underwear, and then stepped out of their clothing. “The only one who makes me act like a child.”
The song trailed from Martín’s lips. He stopped and stared at Luciano, as if to remind himself once again that he was not dreaming. He snapped out of the spell when Luciano stroked a toe up his instep and ankle, flexing the muscles in his calf and thigh as he did so. The crucifix hung heavy over Luciano’s chest. He pulled the cord over his head and turned to lay it gently on the nearest dresser before turning back to Martín. His body right here, right now, with all its dips and hollows shadowed in the low light, made all of Martín’s fantasies pale in comparison. Luciano chuckled at his starstruck reaction, and then gasped sharply when Martín wrapped a hand around his cock.
Martín did not stroke it, not yet, but he did run his thumb up and down the shaft gently as he cradled it in his grip. He licked his lips and said, “I wanted to do this every time we danced. I wanted-”
He was interrupted by Luciano’s mouth on his, hot and demanding, a kiss that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, his toes curl, his hands clench, and his heart and groin flicker with want. Then Luciano was pushing against his shoulders, and they both tumbled over onto the mattress. Luciano crawled over him to straddle his thighs, hovering above him so their erections were just centimeters apart. A shiver ran down his arms, and he reached over and grabbed one of the blankets to drape over his shoulders and Martín’s legs.
“I’m cold,” he explained unnecessarily. He grinned and bit his lip. “You should help warm me up.” And then he leaned down on his elbows, bringing their cocks together and kissing Martín deeply.
Martín’s hips jerked up on their own, searching for more friction, more pressure. He wrapped his arms around Luciano’s shoulders and kissed back without thinking-biting, licking, and sucking on his lips and tongue. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, pounding in his ears, pulsing in his fingertips. He wanted it to last forever, wanted to keep himself surrounded in Luciano’s scent and taste. He wanted to hear Luciano moan and call out for him, wanted to feel him lose control again and again and again.
He came too soon with a sob of Luciano’s name. Through the pleasant haze and ringing in his ears, he could feel Luciano rubbing himself against him, panting against his neck until he collapsed onto him and spilled hot over his abdomen.
It was all over so quickly, almost as if it had never happened. Martín might blink and find one of the women of the brothel lying beside him, and Luciano would be long gone, dancing with other people he needed more in his life than Martín. He might reach his hand up and find cold, empty air rather than a soft head of hair perched above his chest. Yet here they were, their hearts still dancing, a new song of love and longing playing through Martín’s body. He ran his fingers up and down Luciano’s back, tracing the dip of his spine, sticky with drying sweat. Luciano shivered, so he rolled them over and drew another blanket up around them. With Luciano’s leg thrown over his hip and his head tucked against Martín’s shoulder, a feeling of peace settled over the room that Martín was afraid to break. He settled a hand on Luciano’s back over his heart and sighed. There was so much he wanted to say now that he was allowed to put his thoughts into more than just lyrics, but the words piled up behind his tongue like debris behind a dam, one thought stacking on top of the other until nothing could get through.
Luciano, seemingly oblivious to his plight, sighed his name in a low, pleased voice. He kissed Martín’s chest and said, “We should get dressed before my roommates come back.”
There, a conversation starter, something Martín’s mind could latch onto. “I thought you said they wouldn’t be back until later?”
“Do you trust yourself not to fall asleep like this?”
“You know,” Martín mused while mindlessly stroking Luciano’s hip, dragging his fingers back and forth, back and forth over the soft skin, “we wouldn’t have to worry about that if we were at my place. I never thought it was amazing, but it’s paradise compared to this.” He patted his ass and bent to kiss the top of his head.
Luciano gave a short huff against his chest. “Well sorry I can’t afford anything better. And it’s not that bad.”
“No, I mean-” There was a memory yet to be written playing behind Martín’s eyes. A possibility or a probability if he could just make himself understood. There was Luciano swaddled in a blanket on the single bed in a room, laughing into the pillow, Luciano smiling around a spoonful of polenta as Martín’s step-mother ladled still more on his plate, Luciano coming back to the room dripping from the bath and getting breathlessly sidetracked before he could put on his night clothes. Martín’s breath stuttered at the thought. “I mean, you could come live with me. My room’s kind of lonely right now. Plus it’s a lot nicer than this place, and you’ll get good food. Though waking up next to me every morning should be reason enough, right?” He grinned down at Luciano, but the smile was laced with the uncertainty, that little niggling notion that he was still dreaming.
“Oh.” Luciano’s arm tightened around him. “That sounds kind of nice.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Martín kissed him hard, so both their lips would be left tingling long after they parted. “We could get married, too. Not officially, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll save up and get you a ring. Just stay with me.”
Luciano rolled away from him, but he was laughing as he did it. “Now you’re getting ahead of yourself.” He stood and helped Martín to his feet. They grinned at each other for a moment, until Martín ran his thumb over Luciano’s lips. Luciano kissed it while staring into his eyes. Outside the window, the yearning song of Buenos Aires played on, winding its way through plazas and boulevards and into every inhabitant’s heart, urging them on through the night. Martín felt its melody bubble up in him and found himself singing again, mi morochita dicharachera. Luciano kissed the words from his mouth.
A/N: morochita dicharachera que vino desde lejos: Morochita/morocha is a pet name for someone with dark hair/features. Soooo happy morocha who came from far away. I told you it sounds dumb in English.