Lulu had just summed it all up.So beautiful and so sad all at once.If Xavi didn’t know he was wide awake, he’d think he’d hit his head and was caught in the most perfect dream. Because it had to be a dream, surely, he and Lulu sitting close like this, sharing Lorca in a private moment, a version of Lulu he’d never seen before but which only made Xavi desire him even more.
“And he was so young when he died,” Lulu sniffled, burrowing his face against Xavi, right where his neck met his collarbone. “Only thirty-eight.”
Xavi nodded. He didn’t know Lulu knew so much about Lorca. Perhaps it was because of Xavi, but it didn’t matter. Something was changing. They’d never spoken of such things before. Xavi had never shared this part of his life with Lulu, and he actually felt a little ashamed that he had perhaps thought Lulu lacked the intellectual and emotional depth to understand. When it was clearly not true. Luludidunderstand. And perhaps it was Xavi who was clueless.
“They executed him. Just like that. They snuffed out his brilliant light in the blink of an eye. I read that they don’t even know where he’s buried. If he even was buried…” Lulu trailed off.
“It was quite common during the Spanish Civil War,” Xavi said, and before he could overthink it or regret it, he pressed a light kiss against Lulu’s temple. Lulu froze next to him, then exhaled shakily.
“I read there’s a memorial in Madrid. People visit and pay their respects.” Lulu sniffled again, then eased away from Xavi, their eyes locking onto each other, brown meeting brown. Lulu was so fucking beautiful, his lips slightly puffy, tears still clinging to his eyelashes, and Xavi wanted nothing more than to lean in and claim Lulu’s mouth in a searing kiss that confessed everything with one sweep of his tongue.I love you, cisne. Always have. Always will. You make me feel unbroken. You make me wish for things that can never be. And still, I wish for them. I wish for you.
Instead, he just said, “Yes.La Plaza de Santa Ana. I’ve always wanted to see it, but I’d have to fly.” It was true. Xavi had always dreamed of going to Spain, of following Lorca’s footsteps, of paying his respects to the one poet who stood out above everyone else.
“I’ll come with you.” Lulu blinked at him, his face filled with earnestness. “You should see it, Xavi.Coño, I wanna see it too. We should go.” And for a second, Xavi contemplated how wonderful it would feel to just sayyes. Say yes to everything Lulu was offering. But somehow, he lacked the bravery, the conviction, and he resented himself for it. For always holding back.
“Maybe.” Xavi shrugged, getting up from the loveseat, Lulu’s body suddenly too close, his words suddenly too tempting, breathing life back into that flame inside Xavi. The flame that kept hope alive. It was dangerous. And stupid.
“No, not maybe. We should go. Pay tribute to him.” Lulu got up too, his voice exasperated, eager, a slight tremble to it. Walking toward the desk, he pointed at a small framed portrait of Lorca on the wall above it. Xavi’s favorite portrait of Lorca, with that knowing look in the poet’s eyes as he rested his chin in his hand, looking straight into the camera. Like he already knew then, at such a young age, of the passion and tragedy which lay ahead of not only his poetic soul but of his country too. War, blood, death. So much death.
“Fuck, look at him. I can’t bear it.” Lulu’s voice shook as he pointed at the portrait, indignation in his almond eyes.
“Tu puedes,” a deep voice sounded behind them. Ernesto. They’d been so engulfed in their conversation that they hadn’t noticed the older man had joined them upstairs again. “Hehad to.Hehad to endure it,todo.Solo.”Everything. Alone.Ernesto tipped his chin. “So can we. The mind is stronger thanel cuerpo. A strong mind can endure anything.” The older man’s gray eyes glowed. “Transcend anything.”
Soft steps sounded on the stairs, and Gwyneth appeared, her gaze shifting between the three of them.
“Ernesto, caro, cálmate,” she spoke, affection in her voice, her American accent barely noticeable. Then, moving further into the room, she came to stand in front of Lorca’s portrait. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? The fascists thought that by killing Lorca, they could kill the spirit he tried to invoke in the Spanish people with his poetry. And still, to this day, nearly a century later, his words hold more significance than perhaps ever. Dictators, no matter where they rule or who they oppress, are the same. They are soulless creatures. They are envious of the light of others, so they try to extinguish it. But you can never extinguish the light of true resistance. Lorca, Neruda, Celan. Their words are eternal.”
Xavi swallowed. When he’d woken this morning, he had no idea what a strange turn this day would take. He had no idea what Lulu had planned. Looking at his friend, adoration grew inside Xavi’s chest. How could he ever thank Lulu, not just for this day, but for all the days they’d spent together? How could he ever repay him for mending his broken soul, bit by bit, day by day, just by being Lulu?
Gwyneth eyed them, then brushed her fingers along the surface of the desk. “He was gay, you know. Some say he had a love affair with Salvador Dalí.”
“He was gay?” Lulu frowned.
“Yes. He had to hide it, of course.”
Lulu nodded, then stepped closer to Gwyneth, his gaze not leaving Lorca’s portrait.
“He looks a lot like you, you know.” Gwyneth looked between Lulu and the portrait. “I noticed the minute you arrived.”
Ernesto hummed where he stood next to Xavi. Then, facing Xavi, Gwyneth asked, “Doesn’t he look just like our Federico?” And Xavi could only nod, because, yes, Lulu did in fact look a lot like Lorca. “You are lovers?” The older woman tilted her head, her eyes boring into Xavi.
“No, friends,” Lulu quickly spoke while Xavi felt his knees almost buckle beneath him. “We’re friends,” Lulu repeated, and it sounded like there was an edge of regret in his voice, but that couldn’t be. The day had left Xavi emotional and vulnerable, and now his stupid mind was surely playing tricks on him, the lines between reality and dream blurring.
“Well,” Gwyneth said. “Friends can be lovers too, you know, and lovers can be friends. Look at Lorca and Dalí.” She chuckled. “Look at me and Ernesto. Love and friendship are the same, really. Bonds of human affection. Souls meeting.”
Lulu continued to stare at Xavi across the room, a silent question in his eyes. Xavi wasn’t sure if he was brave enough to answer it, whatever it was. Shaking himself, he smiled at first Gwyneth, then Ernesto.
“Thank you. I will never forget this day. But we really have to get going.”
“Claro,” Ernesto nodded. “You will come again,no?”
Before Xavi could answer, Lulu blurted, “Of course. Soon. We’ll be back soon.”
Chapter Twelve
Lulu
“Motherfucking shitballs!”
