Two years later
Madrid in summer was fucking brutal. Heat poured off the old buildings, the pavement, everything. It was like being in an oven, and every breath you took was like inhaling fire. The Spanish capital took sweating to an entirely new level, and by the time they reached the small queer bookstore,La Vida Verdad, in Chueca, a vibrant and LGBTQ+ friendly neighborhood steps away from Gran Vía, Xavi’s white shirt was soaked through with sweat. In a panic, he looked at Lulu, who just smiled at him knowingly as he pulled a neatly folded sky-blue shirt from his linen tote.
“But how?” Xavi heaved, still panting from jogging through the mostly deserted streets. It was afternoon, and that meantsiestain Spain, and only tourists roamed the streets, exhausted, with vacant expressions on their faces.
They’d lost track of time as they’d been to see the Royal Palace, then the monument to Lorca in thePlaza de Santa Ana.
‘He really is small,’ Lulu had noted, as he stood next to Lorca, who held out his hands, a lark in his palms, ready to take flight. ‘What kind of bird is it?’ Lulu had squinted in that adorable way of his that sent shivers upon shivers through Xavi’s body even on the hottest of summer days.
‘It’s a lark.’
‘Why a lark?’ Lulu had tilted his head, a slight pout to his full lips, a lock of dark hair clinging to his sweaty forehead.
‘I guess, because Lorca was a poet and larks are pretty common motifs in his poems.’ Xavi’s fingers had tingled, the urge to sweep that lock away from Lulu’s forehead coursing through him, then press a kiss against Lulu’s sweaty skin.
‘Huh,’ Lulu had hummed, deep in thought, and when he lifted his gaze, Lulu had noticed what had ended up making them late. Very late. Because the bronze statue of Lorca stood right in front of the Teatro Español. Lulu had squealed as he’d taken off running toward the historical building, Lorca and the lark long forgotten, at least for now.
“Because I’m your assistant/live-in-boyfriend extraordinaire, ain’t I?” Lulu’s voice brought Xavi back to the present. “I can’t have you doing your first book signing ever in a see-through, sweaty shirt. I’d be fighting off gaymadrileñosleft and right. It’d be fucking anarchy.”
Xavi shook his head. He’d come to accept that Lulu thought he was the embodiment of every gay man’s teenage wet dream. The more Lulu worshipped his body, treating it like a temple, the more Xavi believed it himself. It still surprised Xavi, though, when they went out and Lulu pointed out that another guy was checking Xavi out. Lulu had even hissed once or twice at some poor guy who had apparently been ‘eye fucking my man!’ as Lulu had put it.
“You’re ridiculous,” Xavi chuckled, shaking his head, hair tumbling onto his forehead. He’d let his hair grow out after they’d returned from Oregon, and it still took some getting used to at times. It was worth it, though. Every night when Lulu pulled at his hair in the throes of passion, and Xavi’s scalp stung deliciously, it was fucking worth it.
“You want the shirt or not,cabrón?” Lulu smirked.
“I want it,” Xavi leaned in, his mouth so close to Lulu’s ear. “But I’ll get you back later, you brat.”
“Oh,amor, I’m counting on it.” Lulu shifted on his feet. Xavi’s chest fluttered at the memory of how he’d railed Lulu in the shower this morning, Lulu’s fingers slipping on the wet tiles, Xavi holding him up with one arm wrapped around his waist, Xavi’s other hand clasped firmly around Lulu’s cock, jerking him hard and fast, just the way Lulu preferred.
“¡Señor Bernal!” A middle-aged man called out from the bottom of the stairs leading to the upstairs floor. “¡Bienvenidos a Madrid!” The man beamed, his arms held out as he hurried toward Xavi and Lulu. He was wearing a flowy, flowery shirt in shades of pink and purple, tan slacks, and a small straw hat fashionably askew. “Yo soy Miguel Martin. Encantada!” His lips widened underneath a black mustache with specks of gray in it, while his deep brown eyes blazed with genuine excitement. “Es un privilegio de tener Usted en nuestro librería.”
“Gracias,”Xavi swallowed, overwhelmed by the enthusiasm of the owner, Miguel, whom he’d been emailing back and forth with ever sincethe Loneliest Hour, Xavi’s debut, had been translated into Spanish. Looking at Lulu, who was bouncing on his feet excitedly next to him, Xavi gestured. “Eso es mi novio, Lulu.” Lulu held out his hand, and Miguel grabbed it and shook itenthusiastically.
“Encantado, Lulu.”
Miguel showed them around the bookstore, introducing them to members of the staff, who were all very friendly, some of them asking Xavi to sign their own copies ofthe Loneliest Hour. It was surreal, really. In a haze, Xavi shook hands with people whose names he forgot as soon as he was greeted by a new person. Lulu clung to him the entire time, his arm woven through Xavi’s, grounding him, tethering Xavi to this unfathomable moment.
Eventually, Xavi excused himself and was shown to a bathroom in the back where he quickly changed into the clean shirt, then steadied himself against the edge of the sink. Breathing in deeply, his fingers dug into the cool porcelain. His skin prickled with nervousness. When he’d finished his book, it was never with the intention of publishing it, but when Xavi had seen the expression in Lulu’s eyes when he’d finished reading it, he knew it was good.
‘Xavi…’ Lulu had stood in front of him, the manuscript clutched against his heaving chest, tears cascading down his cheeks. ‘I never knew…’
‘You finished it?’ Xavi had croaked, feeling as naked as the day he was born. ‘Was it…? Was it any good? It’s not… It’s not finished yet. I still—’
‘It’s finished, oso,’ Lulu had whispered as he’d walked toward him, his almond eyes ablaze with so much emotion. ‘And it’s magnificent.’
‘Yeah?’ Xavi had had a hard time concealing the vulnerability in his voice. The hope. Because if he was being honest with himself, he really wanted the book to be good, at least decent, because he’d poured every inch of himself into it, and then some.
‘Yes.’ Lulu had swallowed, placing the manuscript carefully on Xavi’s desk, then clasping Xavi’s chin in his hands. ‘I’m not gonna lie. It’s a tough read, brutal in places. I cried so much, oso. But it’s you, and it’s beautiful. I feel you on every page, in every word, and in all the blank spaces, too. You have to publish it. The world needs books like yours, amor.’
‘Books like mine?’
‘Books that will bring people hope. Real hope. Not the kind that is bound to earthly wealth or success, but the kind of hope you can only find in the beauty of small moments of happiness.’
‘Lulu…’ And then Xavi had been the one who was crying, because Lulu’s words were so true.
That had been Xavi’s intention all along when he’d written the book. It was also the moment Xavi knew he was going to marry Lulu one day. Because Lulu was the one who gave him hope. Every day. Just by existing. Just by sharing the same air and occupying the same space as Xavi, walking beside him every day, sleeping next to him every night, too.
Staring at his own reflection in the mirror, Xavi inhaled deeply, then adjusted the neck of the sky-blue shirt. It was new. He’d been wearing a lot more colorslately. Not just black or gray. To begin with, it had been Lulu, sneaking in colorful T-shirts among Xavi’s black and white ones, but then Xavi had started to pick out colors himself when he bought clothes. Boxer briefs at first, in royal blue and forest green, which had made Lulu squeal with delight when Xavi undressed at night. Then he’d gotten braver and had bought a bright red windbreaker for when they went to the park.
