Almostfoxgloveangstchallenge - Tumblr Posts
Oh my gosh! I have been holding onto this one on my TBR list and phew! The EMOTIONS!!!!! UGH!!!!!
Absolutely beautiful!
Dusk
Javier Peña x fem!reader
Summary: Javier sees you again years after the end of your love affair. Torn between the memories of what happened then and what is now, you both face the weight of your actions from Bogotá to Madrid.
read on AO3 | masterlist
Rating: Explicit, +18
Warnings/Tags: past lovers, secret relationship, angst, smut (penetration, f oral), implied age gap (not mentioned). Reader has hair, foreigner (not explicit which country, she isn't American or Colombian), knows multiple languages and is able-bodied. No use of y/n, Spanish translations are between the paragraphs.
Word count: 8,7k
Tabby note: My first Javi P fic for angst challenge by @almostfoxglove 💔 Even if I go around difficult topics, most of my work is lighter, so this was a great exercise to go deep into emotions! You can the moodboard inspiration here and the list of all fics here! 🐾
now
“Are you happy to be in Madrid?” The receptionist with a pearly smile cheerfully greets him, or maybe not, it sounded more like she was talking for a while, following a script, that he ignored.
He could be in Paris, Tokyo, or anywhere in the world at the moment he wouldn’t give a damn. Tiredness has been consuming him for a while now, and the week passed at an agonizing pace. Inside his head, there is silence and chaos altogether.
Somehow, he comes to his senses already inside the hotel room. What had he answered to the receptionist? He can’t recall but he got the key, which is more than proof that the autopilot was working. Taking off his jacket, he opens the minibar and takes whatever alcohol he can find.
His head mends the last months as just one, a very lonely one. He can’t fully remember what it felt to be together with someone, closely, intimately. From family to friends, everyone becomes a blur as he tries to get his shit together. The alcohol burns down his throat, he doesn’t even mind reading the label. Once he can rest, it will be fine.
The night promises to be a long one, the timezone difference is a pain in the ass to deal with. Whenever he is about to drift away into sleep, his legs kick repeatedly and startle him awake. The clock reads 1 AM, then 2 AM, at 3 AM he decides he has enough and starts to dress up again.
Passing by the mirror, he ignores his reflection, paying attention only to what he will do. Have a cigarette, walk a little, and head back to sleep. Simple. He locks the room’s door, orders the elevator, presses the button to the ground floor, waits, and walks out when it stops.
For a summer night, Madrid is cold. The scenario is drastically different from the streets of Bogotá and further from the ranch in Laredo, everything he wanted for a fresh beginning. For a week of his time, some words on his experience, and training on how to deal with narcotraffic, the Spanish police paid some considerable money, the type of money Peña couldn’t ignore. Now, here, he is watching the downtown buildings and wondering if it was worth it.
Lightning his cigarette, he drags a puff and looks at his surroundings without much curiosity. Neoclassic buildings or whatever style they are, mostly white now warmed by the orange city lights in a classic boulevard. Not many floors, four maximum, but full of balconies. In one of them, on the third floor, a woman screams at her husband.
The small woman is shouting fast words as she throws some clothes down at the man, who tries to ask forgiveness from the street. Another neighbor, from a couple of balconies away, asks them to quit it and go back to sleep, but the woman ignores and continues the fight.
Getting amused by it, Peña keep watching the scene from his place on the other side of the street. Another balcony, now on the fourth floor, opens and reveals a confused sleepy woman. Even with the low light, he can recognize the pout on your lips.
The cigarette is long forgotten as he watches the details on your face waiting for the best moment to enter the fight. It is like a memory played in front of him, seeing you in your underwear and t-shirt, the angle of your hips making your ass jiggle a little every time you try to stretch yourself down at the balcony the floor under. He doesn’t hiss when the cigarette burns his fingertips, lost looking at you.
When the moment comes, you grab the attention of the small woman in tears and murmur something too softly for him to hear from afar, except for how you sweetly say “Vamos a dormir, cariño?” And so he walks back to the hotel to sleep.
("Let's go sleep, love?")
then
Cheerful bubblegum pop fills your room as you carefully paint your lips red. It takes a little effort, but in your lace lingerie and big hair you feel like a woman, not a girl. Next to you, an open big window lets the chill mountain breeze caress your skin, raising goosebumps in your almost naked body.
Your dad had separated what he thought was appropriate for the occasion as if you were still a child. Being the ambassador’s daughter isn’t an excruciating task, except when you get to play into your father’s business. You know little to nothing about the USA’s DEA or whatever their mission is in Colombia, what you had access to was that your dad invited part of the DEA into your house for lunch. Sitting pretty and smiling is your task for the day.
With a pop, you touch your lips together and inspect the lipstick line. Perfect. Voices are filling the garden, gaining your curiosity. Coming to the window, you can see men in suits greeting your father and grandma as they walk on. All of them are looking ahead, but one. His brown eyes are locked with yours, inviting you to come down and see them up close.
“Javi,” someone shouts, making the man return to the group. You stay there watching him go before finishing dressing up.
In a white two-piece Chanel suit, you strut down the stairs to the first floor feeling small compared to the high ceiling. It had become a regular sentiment, to look around and see a big house nettly decorated and think to yourself “Why am I here?”.
By the garden door, the ambassador waits for you as he keeps enchanting his guests with some story. Here you aren’t his daughter, you are a state piece and it is key to remember your place in this chess game.
You can feel the brown eyes boring into your skin as the ambassador introduces you to the DEA officers. Following his command, you greet one by one as if it is normal behavior for a diplomat to know every policeman’s name. You heard him review all their names with his assistant the day before.
“Javier Peña, ma’am,” the owner of the brown eyes says to you. Enveloping your hand on his, you do your best to ignore a shiver when he puts pressure. His thick fingers leave a hot trail, his big hand engulfs yours.
Whatever you feel, he does too.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Peña.” His brown eyes shine when you politely say his last name back at him.
Gathering around the table, you sit in front of him and scold yourself every now and then to look at the others, even if you only want to stare at the handsome man. He, however, isn’t as discreet putting weight in his stare cornering you.
With sips of white wine, you try to ignore it doing your part as a pretty little thing full of questions. How long have you been in Colombia? A few months for most of the department, Javier is in his first week still fresh from Texas. Have you made any progress in your mission so far? Yes, still in the early stages, they are gathering all the information about the cartels. Are you enjoying the country? The food is great and the weather is mostly nice, even in cold Bogotá. Is your family enjoying the country or are they missing the USA? They are getting or already gotten used to it, Javier is single, though.
You laugh when necessary, showing your white teeth in contrast with the red of the lipstick. Legs crossed like a lady, nails carefully done around the glass, you are well-behaved and it shows.
“Your daughter is an exceptional young woman, your grace,” one of the men says in a sincere compliment to the ambassador, even if he is speaking about you.
“She is indeed. Even more now, after her year abroad.” You smile back at your father, who is doing the proud dad bit.
Tradition is that in your culture once fine man and woman become an adult they have to choose a place to spend a whole year, it is supposed to represent their coming of age on their own terms. You don’t count having access to everything money could get, a comfortable house, and stability as the coming of age journey of the century, but here you are.
“Where did you go to?” Javier asks as he drinks more of his wine.
“Egypt, Cairo.” You reply as you drink his facial features without shame. The sharpness of his jawline, the way his mustache heavily adorns his thin upper lip just to emphasize the plump bottom one.
“What an unusual place! What motivated you?” Another man asks, forcing you to move on from Peña’s face after a lingering second.
The ambassador loves that you can captivate the room’s attention so easily, but your father tried to convince you to change your destination many times.
Europe was much more chic, but attending an international boarding school made you get bored by it. If the DEA knew how little you care for the USA, they would quickly find you a pain in the ass. The Middle East was much more interesting, far from the restricted embassy’s house in sunny Colombia.
“I like history, to deeply learn a culture. There wasn’t anywhere else that I could experience it so vividly. I’m glad my family could proportionate it to me.” You smile truthfully, gaining a glance from Grandma.
“Must have learned a lot, being on your own out there,” Javier states in a lower tone.
“She knows where to put her foot, soon will go to Oxford to study just like her father,” Grandma praises raising her glass in your direction.
It was a question of time before they brought it onto the table. It is a sensitive topic to you, still unsure how to navigate that new part of your life. Far from homeland, between boarding schools and the embassy, then an ocean of distance from your family, you hadn’t stuck your feet anywhere for too long and suddenly you had to choose something to call yours for the long run. It feels more than just a diploma.
“Well, if everything goes right. I still need to get their acceptance letter.” You remind Grandma with a small laugh, that doesn’t exactly reach your eyes, but nobody seems to notice.
Grandma, playing as a governess, gets up to announce the dessert order with a tentative to marvelous the guests with your home country food. As everyone gets interested in her chat, you and Javi opt to sneak a glance at each other.
In a moment of courage, you lift your high heels and gently caress his leg under the table. Gaining a smirk from him, he slides his leg to get closer to yours. Hidden by the tablecloth, you keep touching as the conversation goes by.
“Has my son already invited you to the annual ball?” Grandma asks with a smile. The ambassador coughs in surprise but is ready to charm.
“Oh, you absolutely should come. We spend the whole year planning it, a celebration of our culture at its finest. If you liked the food today, just wait until you get the beverage. We are known to be good matchmakers too, you might fall in love there, Peña.”
Javier takes his eyes from you to look at his host, who is waiting for an acceptance of the invitation. Pushing his leg closer to yours, he grabs his glass and raises it.
“I trust your gut, sir. Count me in.”
now
The national police of Spain, or CNP, headquarters isn’t far from the hotel. The district itself is bougie, fancier than what Javi was used to, too formal, too classy with the embassies and mansions. He feels out of his element, but no wonder you chose to live there.
He slept well after seeing you, like old times. Your presence always made him feel at ease, even if your departure was bittersweet. The aftermath is still with him, folded in his wallet as a reminder of what once were you both.
From the hotel to the police, he keeps thinking about you. It wasn't new, during the years his mind would drift to you after a long day, but now that you were here it is a different kind of thrill. He tries to bury it down to that place where all his failures and worries are lost, but he can't.
The job, however, is a great distraction. As soon the formalities are finished, he jumps head in on what he knows how to do. Six years in Colombia were enough to showcase his skills.
During the first break, he goes out to smoke. Sunny day, blue sky, and good weather. A nice sight of a busy fancy street. More than enough to keep his mind in the present and not lost in memories. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he puts a cigarette in his mouth and starts searching for his lighter when you appear in his vision.
Dress pants, a white t-shirt, and a clock with a leather strap on the wrist. In your arms, a plastic case full of paper forces you to bend a little forward. Clipped on your pants pocket is a badge of some kind with the national police logo. Whoever is with you, speaks with a heavy madrileño accent, but you don't bat an eye to understand it.
To simply put, you are different. Far from the glamour of the embassy, from the party life late at night that he knew so intimately because of you. There was a time when your eyes would find his so easily in a crowd, but now you don’t even glance at him as you enter the building, too immersed in your conversation.
Ignoring his cigarette, Javi follows you down the hallways of the CNP until he reads “Traducción y Letras” on one of the plaques outside. This is more like you, classier.
("Translation and Languages")
Checking his clock, he sees that he still has a few minutes before going back to his lesson. You are alone in the room, just you and archives. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door, you invite him in without looking up.
“It's good to see you,” he states without much thought as if it was casual to meet you there. You quickly look up at him with big eyes.
He can't read if the expression of surprise on your face is good or bad.
“Javi,” you say, putting whatever you were working back on the table. Your eyes are locked with his but without the playfulness of before.
“I thought you were in the UK,” the last time he spoke with your grandma she told him, it sounded like brand new information. It had been years since.
You scratch your neck, like you used to whenever you got anxious. He can still read you after so long.
“I was. What are you doing here?”
“CNP asked me to train their DEA.” You scoff in amusement like it is the most obvious thing ever.
“Of course, I heard something about it. Didn't connect it with you, sorry.”
Another glance at the clock, he has less than two minutes before getting back to class but wants to stay here with you.
“Are you free tonight? We should have dinner,” he says straight to the point hoping you will say yes.
He phrased it like that because it is obvious that you should have dinner with him. It isn’t a question, it was a matter of when for Javier.
Still in shock, you swallow hard and shake your head. His heartbeat rises, ready to have another harsh goodbye.
“We can have lunch if you insist. I'm busy tonight. Just come by whenever you're ready.”
Simple as that, you get back to work and ignore his presence. You aren't rude, it isn't your nature, but it feels colder than he remembered.
Nodding at your statement, he leaves you alone and walks down to his office for the week. His bluntness will be a problem, he can't scare you away or he will be settled for another couple of years wondering “what if”.
The weight of his wallet gets heavier with every step, the souvenir of the last night you were his still there begging him to do not fuck it up this time.
After some concentration, he can focus again on training. Work was there for him when he needed to ignore the world and move on. The autopilot was carefully crafted doing the tactical work in South America and reigns free in Europe, for what it seems.
His body craves nicotine, but he needs to guarantee that you won’t run away before. In solid steps, he walks fast toward your office again. At least he thinks it is yours, it is absurd to have you, of all people, working for a police force.
The door is open, but you don’t notice his arrival. With you back to the entrance, you are speaking on the phone in a calm tone.
“Cena es mejor. Aun tengo muchisimo que hacer hoy, harta de trabajo con todo lo que vino de Marruecos.” You heavily sigh before laughing at whatever the person on the other side of the line said. “Sabes que flipo con teatro, mi amor. Ya, nos vemos en mi apartamento a las ocho. Te quiero, bye.”
("Dinner is better. I still have much to do today, I'm full of work with everything that came from Morocco. You know I love theatre, my love. Okay, see you at my apartment at 8 PM. Love you, bye.")
Javi steps back to the corridor before you turn, giving you a few seconds to sit back in your chair. It is logical, you moved on and so did he. Yet, he feels in his chest how unprepared he is to face it.
“Ready?” He knocks on your door as if nothing has happened, like you are still close and this is a regular thing.
“Ah, yeah. Do you have a place in mind?” You ask grabbing your purse and leading the way out, following his play-pretend of acting normal about whatever you two had become.
then
If your lips weren’t so busy kissing Javi’s, you would kiss the landscaper who projected the embassy’s garden. Far from the noise inside the ballroom, further from curious eyes, illuminated only by the moonlight and shadowed by a centennial tree. In the garden’s corner, you are peacefully focusing only on Javi’s body reactions to yours.
How his big hands are divided between caressing your neck and holding your waist so close to his, you can’t but throw your arms around his neck to flush his body into yours.
You didn’t bring a coat, even if is a chilly night. The heat emanating from him to you keeps you warm, almost burning where the skin meets.
You hadn’t touched a single glass since the party started, too busy waiting for the right moment to come to him. Through the open kisses, you taste on his tongue cigarettes and champagne, getting you drunk with every twist and turn.
Your lipstick will be smudged from the pressure of his lips, that’s why you kept the package and a mirror in the pocket of your dress for a small maintenance before going back to the party.
Your neck, hopefully, bruised with every nibble and hot kiss he inflicts on the tender skin, so you opted for using your hair down to keep to yourself the souvenirs of the night.
With a soft moan, he kisses you back before putting some distance as he catches his breath. You want more, so you pressure your open mouth on his again as he softly laughs.
“Eager, huh?” He asks with his thumb making soft circles in your jaw. You nodd back, positively drunk of him.
Everything became Javier Peña the moment he left the diplomat’s house. You counted the days until the annual ball, daydreaming about your next meeting. From the dress to your position in the room, where you could easily see every guest's entrance, it was all a conscious choice.
You saw him before his brown eyes locked with yours. His regular suit, not a tuxedo, appeared to be out of place when sided with your gown, but you didn’t mind a bit as you made small talk waiting for the moment for you to lead him outside. Dividing the attention between guests, you moved inside the ballroom from one person to another, brushing your hands in his whenever crossing his path.
Inside the ballroom, you were a state piece, but in the garden in his arms, you are you.
It started small, as you softly spoke to each other walking further in the garden. Javi isn’t a man of many words, but for you, he tries. When the last guest went inside, you threw yourself in his arms and happily kissed until he lost his breath.
With the moonlight, his sharp profile is a heavenly vision. In his embrace, you wish for nothing but to be there with him forever. Putting both hands on your face, he kisses your lips one final time.
“We should go, people will start to ask questions,” you whisper glancing at the party. His eyes follow yours before his hands leave you to look for a cigarette.
“Want one?” You shook your head, remembering how he tasted seconds ago. “Not a smoker?”
“No, but I like the smell, though.” Licking your lips, you inhale big hoping to look less flustered. Javi stares at you nodding slowly, pondering about what you said.
Taking your pocket mirror and lipstick, you adjust the makeup as he finishes his cigarette. Your eyes roam his body looking for any clue of what just happened, his tie is crooked and he has lipstick in the corner of his mouth.
His eyes stay on your face as you straighten his tie until perfection, they focus on your freshly painted lips when you clean the lipstick on his with your thumb. Looking up at him, you take a deep breath.
“Perfect, shall we?” You suggest and he gives you his arm, taking you back to the party like nothing happened. Just an innocent walk in the garden, a good host for a guest that didn’t match with the ambient he was in.
It is the first of many nights where nothing and everything happens.
now
The sunlight finds your eyes the moment you leave CNP’s door, Javi can’t remember when he last saw you out in the sun. Maybe he never did. The hue of your iris is pretty just like your face, your stare is more like a woman now.
You used to be all smiles next to him, clingy even, constantly touching him in the privacy of taxi cabs. He used to think about holding your hand in public, wonder what would feel like to touch you in front of everyone. To claim you out in the open, where you could be just his.
He signals for a taxi, you enter it giving the driver the restaurant’s address just to be quiet in sequence. Sitting far from him, your eyes are distant in the street, ignoring his that inspects every inch of your body.
Javi never learned how to deal with frustration, so he does what he can and lights up a cigarette.
“Do you mind?” He questions remembering how you would watch him exhale smoke with lust, pressing your body closer to his post-sex cigarette. In the late night of your meetings, the first thing you did was to smell him and close your eyes in comfort.
With your eyes still looking through the window, you speak in what appears to be lost in thoughts.
“A little, don’t like the smell of it.”
He immediately flicks the cigarette out of the car window.
The restaurant is nice, as he expected. Not too fancy, with a minimalist ambiance and small menu. Even if some things are different, you remain the same in others. You wear glasses to read, he isn’t sure if for aesthetic or prescription. The crimson red lipstick is a more cherry tone. You hadn’t smiled yet.
When the waiter leaves and you put down your glasses, he can’t take the silence anymore.
“Didn’t expect to see you working for the police.” A simple statement, you are intelligent and more academically inclined.
“I don’t. I work for their intelligence, translations, and interpretation. I don’t do field work.” Your eyes finally look at his, it bothers him the lack of passion there.
“You do back office work then?” He tries to stretch the conversation to any clue what your life is like.
“Something like that. I work for the government, not the police. Spain has ultramarine territories, plazas de soberanía if you prefer, my job is to provide verbal and cultural translations of information that they might have an interest in. It’s more about the countries that neighbours the territories than these cities.”
“You learned Arabic.” This makes you smirk.
It was an old wish of yours, you wanted to read more, to experience the culture in another way. It wasn’t unusual for you to switch between languages during the day back then, to him you reserved a few words in your native language when alone.
“I did. There’s a diploma that proves it.”
University is a topic he isn’t keen to speak about.
The day you left Colombia to never come back is burning inside his mind, the folded paper in his wallet flashes into his head. He wants to open it up on the table, to interrogate you about it like a fugitive, instead, he chooses another topic.
“Why Spain?”
“Why not?” Your eyes are defiant, you understand what is behind his words. You hated Europe, you tried to stay away, why here?
“You could be anywhere in the world, so, why Spain?” He tries again, watching as you bring your hand to the neck.
“I don’t know.” Looking back at him, you keep your voice soft. “Guess it ties parts of my life. I came here as an intern, when the time came the intelligence decided to keep me and I stayed. It feels familiar to listen to Spanish all day. Almost like home, if I have one.”
“You hated the accent, always preferred the South Americans.” It sounds bitter because it is bitter.
Javi wanted to meet the version of you he knew all about, to come back to the day you left and continue from there.
“Relajate, tío. No te cabrees tanto.” You tease doing the Spaniard lisp. He rolls his eyes in response.
("Relax, tío. Don't worry about it." Tío is a traditional slang in Spaniard Spanish, similar to dude.)
“Your grandma was sad when I last saw her, you didn’t visit enough.”
Javi saw her two times after your departure. One when he went looking for you in the diplomat’s house just to be received by the elder woman who informed him that you had gone away already. The other one was on an official visit to the embassy, where he politely asked about you to receive a sympathetic look from her. “She never stays longer than a weekend.”
“Got tired of Colombia. Seems that you feel the same, you left.” Two can play this game, now is your time to be bitter. You are right, he can understand how you feel about it.
“Finished my mission, it’s different.” He is being reasonable.
“And I left to find one. Who says that this isn’t my mission?”
Enough. Javi always hated games.
“What will you watch tonight in the theatre?” Your eyes subtly widened with the realization that he heard you on the phone.
You open your mouth to reply, but the waiter comes with the food forcing the conversation to an end.
then
With every night spent together, you understand less why you are lying. Javi has a respectable job, treats you well, and, on top of everything, the sex is amazing. He makes you feel like the one, yet, you get to be with him only in the shadows.
It starts with quick whispered calls between the house and the DEA to schedule late night meetings, evolves to random encounters in restaurants and bars far from the embassy district after the sun goes down, and ends on your bed after midnight.
Quickies in his car parked in an alley, heated kisses with hands all over the place in the back of a cinema, and ends up on your bed. All paths lead to your bed.
You know every freckle in his body like it is yours, you kissed all the corners and folds in his skin. He learned when to shut you up before moans get too loud to echo through the house, the exact rhythm of his hips thrust into yours that makes you see stars. You know when he will close his eyes ready to come, appreciate how much he likes to give your face little pecks right after.
There is a lighter inside the drawer of your bedstand in case his don’t work. A jacket he once forgot is hidden far in your coat rack waiting for you to wrap yourself around it on the nights you don’t see him. You sleep on the right side of your bed because the left one is his, but only until before sunrise.
Months of obsession led to this. With perfumed skin and the red lipstick he loved so much, you met for what was supposed to be just a couple of drinks. Javi don’t make it so simple.
Two shots of aguardiente and his tongue taste like anise, which you never really liked, but here you are savoring like it is your last meal. He is drunk and whispering sweet nothings between kisses in the back of the bar.
“Stay with me,” he supplicates as if it wasn’t obvious, you laugh at the absurdity of it.
“You say like I have other plans,” his pupils dilate making his eyes almost black, staring right at you. He smacks his lips into yours hungrily with a groan, earning a full moan from you.
“I mean it. Don’t go,” the words hit you like a bullet.
Don’t go to Oxford, stay here. You thought about it since the acceptance letter came weeks ago, if you should ignore it and study in Colombia instead. It is irrational, you know that you will choose yourself over him in the end, but it sounds lovely to be just his in this fantasy.
He senses your hesitance in giving in, so he pushes a little more.
“I like you, stay,” with a low voice, murmuring like a prayer on your lips.
Your brain gets foggy and you listen to it as I love you, wishing to be the same, to have the semantics of it changed to what you want.
That night you think you made love, not sex. You mistake lust for passion, that his stare is of devotion and not of arousement. He gets inside your body and you don’t care about how vocal you are, focused only on his reactions to your nails scraping his skin.
You are sat by the bed, wrapped by the bedsheet as he uses your lighter on a new cigarette. The window by the vanity is open, welcoming the moonlight to shine on his tan skin and create a halo around his profile. He is up to smoke into the air of the night, fully naked so you can see the red marks on his back.
“Stay,” is your turn to plea. He exhales smoke before looking at you.
“We can’t,” a sober Javi says and you miss the drunk him.
“And? Stay, just for tonight.” You smile biting your lip, wanting to wake up tangled limbs with him.
“It’s better if we don’t.”
With a final puff, he puts away the cigarette and kisses your head before dressing up.
“I have a big lead to search on early tomorrow. I can meet you another time this week, maybe.” His eyes don’t find yours, you feel cheap, even if the sheets around your body are expensive.
With a nod, you try to put away the apprehension and give him a chaste kiss followed by a smile before putting on a robe to take him to the door.
The big house seems bigger in the dark, the coldness of it makes you embrace yourself to get heat. By the door, he puts his hand on your jaw and you lean on it, seeking comfort. He kisses you deeply, but softly, before walking out.
Dragging your feet to the stairs, you do your best not to remember the drunk Javi's words, to not give in to the fantasy. Getting to the top, Grandma calls you by your childhood nickname.
“Are you sure of it?” She asks in your native language and you know exactly what she means.
Her eyes search yours in the dark, filled with concern. It doesn’t take much to read behind them.
“Yes. I am.” You start going up a few steps but stop at the top of the stairs.
“These violent delights have violent ends, and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume.” She murmurs in English to the empty room and you shiver from the instant recognition.
The quote stays with you in your lonely room. It is painfully obvious why you are lying about Javi, keeping him a secret.
Your bed is cold on the left side, even more in the morning. There is a man’s coat that is cheaper than everything you own inside your closet. You keep lavanda incenses inside your drawer to erase every trace of him, a floral scent to clean the cigarettes you hadn’t smoked.
Intimate details about him sound far from whatever you did inside these walls. You kissed all his freckles but don’t know his middle name or the city he grew up in. You know his drink of choice, but not his fears. Everything feels superficial, not enough to get you feeling what you are.
Laid on your bed, you turn your back to the left side and drift to sleep. In the end, you choose you.
now
You don’t tell what play you will be watching and don’t mention once who will take you. Javi doesn’t put pressure, no matter how much he wants to know.
Lunch is almost normal, you answer here and there a few of his questions, but don’t ask him anything. You used to be talkative, intrusive even, trying to learn everything about him, the curiosity is gone and boredness gave in.
He pays for it, but you don’t kiss his cheek with a thank you, instead, you say the words out loud before taking a deep breath.
Now you would head back in a taxi with your legs on his lap as you talk about whatever you wanted on the road to the diplomat’s house. He would hold your high heels in his hand and massage your shins, thinking about how intelligent you are and how much he wants to take your clothes off. You would tease him about being too quiet and he would answer, truthfully, that he likes the sound of your voice. You would smile big, with soft eyes that could see him as a whole.
Except this is Madrid, not Bogotá and you are close, but so far away. Your eyes are once more looking into the window, both hands on your lap tensed by his presence.
The folded paper in his wallet is the anchor that sinks his heart with its weight. He wants to touch your skin, kiss your face and ask you to say anything, but he is six years too late.
By the CNP door, you get out of the taxi before him. Unsure of what to do, you open and close your mouth.
“Thank you for the lunch. It was nice.” It is a lie, but he takes it. You don’t want to hurt him.
“Thank you for the company. I’m glad that you found a place where you belong.”
He is happy for you and sad for him. You always were better than he could be, good to see that you made life on your terms and don’t depend on anyone. Sadly, he doesn’t have a place in it.
Your eyes are big, round as you stare at him moments before you give his cheek a peck. A small smile adorns your face and he feels better for a second, watching you enter the building.
He sleeps well that night, wakes up like it's an ordinary day, tries to keep life going despite knowing there is a possibility to see you for the rest of his stay in Spain.
First, the idea of seeing you again is a threat, then is a wish. He wants to see you, he looks around the people coming and going through the corridors hoping that you will appear in the corner. Giving in to failure, he focuses once more on his work until the break when he listens to your name being spoken by one of the detectives with a mocking tone.
“El Conde ataca una vez más. Ayer la llevó al teatro, tanta cosa más interesante en esta ciudad y es esto lo que amanece en El País!” He laughs while pointing out a photograph in a newspaper.
("The Count attacks once more. Yesterday he took her to the theater, so many more interesting things in this city and this is what is being reported in El País!")
“No seas tonto, hombre! Está en la parte de society, qué esperabas? Geopolítica?” Another mocks back.
("Don't be stupid, man! You are in the society part, what did you expect? Geopolitic?")
From his position, Javi can see you in a cocktail dress next to a good looking man. You are smiling with your teeth as the man has his hand on your lower back. He looks polished, well raised, Javi can smell money on him.
The detectives leave, still in banter, but the newspaper stays. He reads the small note at the bottom of the picture “El Conde y su hermosa pareja, nuevamente en cita”. It must be a recurring thing, he wonders if the nickname is actually this man’s royal title.
("The Count and his beautiful partner, once more on a date".)
Money searches money. From party dresses, two pieces sets to tennis outfits and countryside all-white, you flaunted generational wealth. He invested a big slice of his payment in suits that looked more put together to appear like he belonged in your world. El Conde, from what Javi can see, never had to worry about such triviality.
Putting his work aside, Javi isn’t a name to remember. He doubts that growing up in Laredo, being a small-town man at his heart would be worth the news. Except to you, who treated him like the most interesting person you ever met, even if he tried to keep the personal information to himself.
Looking back, sounds off why he couldn’t give in to you. Rationally he can understand his actions, you were going to live abroad and it could set you back having someone waiting for you on the other side of the world. His life was too dangerous, with the risk of getting those close to him hurt rapidly growing and he wouldn’t be in peace if something happened to you. Despite all of it, you were worth the inevitable pain from day one.
So worth that seeing you in a dress, having fun with another man, made him think about the countless nights spent out in Bogotá.
Your room was his favorite place in the city, he slept on the left side back on his apartment’s bed to imagine that you were there with him when the morning came. He never asked for the coat he forgot in your house, he liked to imagine you wearing it to have a little piece of him. Everything back then felt like home.
He closes the newspaper and goes out for a new cigarette, puffing a cloud of smoke with the smell you can’t stand. El Conde must smell like an expensive perfume.
then
You don’t take him to your bedroom anymore, not since that night. If he notices something about it, he keeps to himself. You are still his sweetheart in the backseat of his car, where his hands are all over you and the heavy air fogs up the windows.
The car is parked in a blind spot, where the light from the streetlamp doesn’t reach. It is dark, mostly shadows inside of it, everything is hidden by the tinted windows.
Words aren’t exchanged, the only sounds are the flesh against flesh and the uneven breath from your lips as you ride him hard. Big hands knead the tender skin of your hips, pushing you further to meet his thighs. He is deep inside you, making you clench with every move. His open eyes stare at you with the same devotion look you try to avoid by shutting yours and hiding your head in his neck.
“So good,” he whispers into your ears as his hips increase rhythm.
You cry out loud from overwhelm, the angle makes your clit rub his pubic hair more and more when he moves. He knows you are close, so he hugs you tighter, almost suffocating. You hate how much you are an open book to him.
“Let it go, baby,” he orders and you follow, giving in to ecstasy.
He is not far behind, as he uses your spent body to achieve his bliss. With legs shaking from oversensitivity, your mind is lost between heaven and earth as he pushes one final time inside of you.
He kisses your face in needy little pecks, softly tracing your silhouette. Your eyes are still closed.
After a minute or two, you start to untangle yourself from his embrace and search for your outfit on the car floor. You still haven’t looked into his eyes and it clearly annoys him.
“I can take you home. Don’t take a taxi.” He offers and you want to accept it, but know better.
“You know I can’t, Javi.”
You haven’t spoken about why you decided to get cold at him, it has been weeks of slowly putting some distance between you two. For every push, he pulls you back in this tug of war.
He breaths harshly from his nose, but gives you a positive nod anyway. Getting out of the car, you start walking to the closest avenue, but he promptly pulls your arm and kisses you.
It makes your head spin, your bodies illuminated by the street lights where everyone can see it. For a second you want to ignore your guts and stay there, claim him as yours until daylight, but you don’t.
“Call me when you get home,” he asks with puppy eyes, already searching for a cigarette inside his pocket.
You don’t call.
The next days pass in a hurry, with your attention divided between doing your bags and ignoring the heartache that is creeping in. Javi asks you out and you find an excuse, if he doesn’t buy it, he doesn’t say it.
Your room constantly smells like lavanda. At night, you try to fill your head with anything that takes your attention from him until you can fall asleep from tiredness. The sheets don’t smell like him anymore, but you know it from memory and let fill your mind when you feel lonely.
You are strong in your decision, to choose you until the night before your flight. His coat is in your bed and you have been thinking about packing it or not. If you let it here, every summer break it will be waiting to shove in your face what you once had and it is still free in Bogotá. If you take it with you, will be a constant reminder of what you can’t have.
Before you reprimand yourself, you call for a taxi to the other side of town. It is after midnight on a weekday, he must be at home, preferably, by himself. You don’t know what to do if he has someone there.
Paying the driver fast, you sprint out of the taxi to look around trying to find the number in the paper. Javi wrote down his address once in case of emergency, you think that having him one last time is one. You locate the apartment and knock erratically on the door.
The moment your eyes see his, you throw yourself at him and leave all worries free when he kisses you back with hunger.
He tastes like cigarettes and you love it. His mustache tickles the hollow of your throat, as he fastly goes down on your neck. Goosebumps everywhere his hands touch while clumsy undressing you. When you are naked, he pushes you into the wall and you arch your back inviting him to where he belongs.
On his knees, he starts to eat you out letting out a heavy groan when you stretch your arm behind and tug on his hair. He alternates between sucking your clit and twisting his tongue inside you, making your body feels heavy with pleasure.
You try to look behind your shoulder, to find his eyes, missing the heat behind them. He happily obliges, gaining his height back just to hold your head in his hands and look deeply into your eyes before devouring your mouth. It tastes like you and him, like happiness.
“I missed you,” he whispers and you believe it because you missed him too.
The rational part of you is stronger, so you decide to show instead of putting out in words, taking off his clothes just like he did to you.
He fucks you against the wall, biting on your earlobe and breathing his airy moans directly into your ear. On his sofa, he looks into your eyes up close as his hips thrust so deep you let your mouth hang. With his hand squeezing harshly your jaw, he guides you to his bed until your head reaches the pillow.
It is a mix of wanting, needing, and despair as he opens your legs and positions himself back inside of you. The warm lights inside his room make his tan skin glow, you feel heated up by sunlight when he slides his nose on the side of your face, bracing himself as your hips find his.
There are no words, but this time silence is forced by the moment’s intensity. He gasps directly in your mouth, unable to keep his breath and kiss at the same time. His whole skin feels wet, from the thin layer of sweat in his collarbones to your sex soaking him up.
You place one heel on his back, urging him to give it all to you. He responds by increasing his tempo, going harder until you lock your fingers with his and let pleasure overcome your conscience.
He frantically searches for his own release, looking at you like you are his. You bring your interlocked hands to your lips and kiss his fingertips while staring back at him. When he spills inside you, is your turn to give his face little pecks in a silent devotion.
His body weight is on you, his face is tucked in your neck. You can feel his fast heartbeat, still high as his needy hand is caressing the side of your face. It feels different than everything you did. It feels like love.
But you have thought about it before and it was just drunk words. Yet, you let yourself feel whatever he wants to give you. He raises his head until you are eye to eye.
He keeps touching you delicately in silence for a while, his eyes never leaving yours. You can’t control the smile that beams from you to him.
The night gets darker by the hour, but you don’t care. His body is constantly touching yours, begging you to stay. It is his turn to say whatever he wants to, he tells you about his week, the mission and how time went by slowly without you. When exhaustion comes, you sleep on the right side of his bed, with his arm on your waist and his face in your hair.
With the first rays of the sun entering between the shutter gaps, you wake up and it takes all of your will to leave the bed without making him notice.
Your flight will be soon. It chokes you to see him so peaceful in his sleep, to know that he will be searching for your heat when the morning comes.
Having mercy, you get paper and a pen and write down a final message. With precision, you paint your lips red and kiss the paper corner before placing it on the pillow.
The way back to the diplomat’s house is sad and dark, even if the sky is slowly brightening with the sunrise. You cry until there are no tears left. Grandma is having coffee in the garden by the time you get there, she sees your puff face and gives you a sympathetic look.
The sun is high in the sky when your plane departs.
now
Javi stopped looking for you in corridors and the streets near his hotel. He is the one who wants closure, yours happened years ago and it is folded in his wallet. It feels bittersweet to find you and not have you, but he lived it before and didn’t kill him.
The years after your departure were busy. One can’t mourn a love that didn’t live to see the light of day when work is suffocating. He found joy in the small victories against the cartels, consoled with the bodies of the many women he slept with over time. The aftermath is what bites him back, the way your eyes avoid his with such precision.
Madrid is pretty in the summer. He likes to walk around until late at night having so much daylight still, calms his nerves and lets him rest once. The only thing left to do is to repack his luggage, but he doesn’t want to be alone in the hotel room on the final night of his stay.
He doesn’t notice how much time passed since he started to walk. It must be late, the sunset is starting. Shades of orange, lilac, and pink are coming together on the horizon, the warmness of the sky reminds him of the red of your lips back then.
Stopping by a bridge, he lights up a cigarette and stays on the sidewalk admiring the dusk. It is peaceful, a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time.
There aren’t many people around, the street is almost empty, he looks around until his eyes lock with yours. It’s warm, but you are wearing his coat, both hands in the pockets.
He meets you in the middle of the bridge, following the pace of your timid footsteps.
“Hi,” you almost whisper still staring back at him, “I couldn’t stay alone in my apartment.”
“Why?” He stomps on the cigarette and takes a mental note of your traces in the warm colors of the sky, flashes of the bliss on your face back in his apartment appear in his mind.
“You know why.”
He does. Too many memories flowing, a ghost from a past life that keeps haunting, but in the flesh and front of you. He is your ghost and you are his too.
“You kept the coat.” It is a simple statement, no more than an observation, but enough to make you embrace yourself around as if you were searching for comfort inside of it. “I kept something too.”
For the first time in many years, he opens his wallet and unfolds your note from the last night spent together. The corners have little dents from how much his fingers pressed on, reading it again and again. The color faded a little, just like the mark of your lipstick isn’t vibrant anymore.
He places the note between your bodies and you take it, fingers slightly scrapping his. You read it like it is a surprise as if you forgot whatever you poured your heart into that final time.
Your eyes are glossy, the waterline is full and about to overflow when you look back at him. The sun shines one last time into your skin before disappearing, allowing the night to come.