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The Art Of Falling In Love

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When had it all started?

Martín was sure it had started about ten years ago in Germany, Berlin, with a handsome stranger stealing his seat.
If you asked Andrés though, these feelings had started much later, when some fat fool had dared to not only insult his newly acquired bowtie, but also continued to make fun of his best friend.

His little brother, Martín and Andrés had been in a small local bar when it had happened. Now, the evening had started wonderfully with two of the most important people right by his side, drinking and laughing with him. They had even managed to convince Sergio to drink some alcoholic drinks, which was a wonder in itself, but Andrés tended to have that effect on people. He knew exactly what to do in order to have things go his way. 
Then his bowtie had gotten loose and Martín, ever the best friend, had tapped his shoulder and beckoned him to turn towards him, so he could redo it carefully. Martín usually knew when something bothered him, it was almost as though he had developed a sixth sense for his friend and Andrés couldn't help but appreciate the sentiment. In return, Andrés liked to think that he could read the other like an open book. 
He smiled lightly as his engineer redid his new tie carefully, to make sure that his shirt didn't gain any wrinkles because they all knew that Andrés hated even the smallest form of imperfection. Sergio stared at them with a knowing look, but that wasn't anything new and neither of the two let themselves be bothered by that. 

It had all started to go to shit as soon as Andrés heard that big bigot claim how atrocious his new bowtie looked. Noone would insult him so loudly in front of his friends, he would have to talk some sense into this man later, but for now he could ignore the laughing, even if it was at his expense. However, his head snapped to the fat guy, when he heard just who his next victim to insult was.

"He's a fag, that one. Look at him, like a dog waiting for their master and redoing his tie. It's disgusting."

Andrés was so busy glaring at that particular gentleman that he didn't even notice Martín had finished with his bowtie and was now getting another drink, blissfully unaware of the table around the fat man bursting out with laughter at his expense. Now, logically, Martín had been faced with much harsher insults and could fully defend himself if he wanted to, but nobody was allowed to call his most important friend a faggot and get away with it. Andrés himself would make sure of that.

So, when the big guy stood up to walk over to the bathroom, Andrés seized his opportunity, excused himself and followed that bigot. The thief had grabbed himself a fork on his way to the bathroom, which he had stuck in his dress pants without anyone noticing. The moment he entered the bathroom, his light expression changed to something much darker. His face was hard, his eyes narrowing at the man. Andrés stepped in front of him when he wanted to leave, grabbed him by the throat and backed him into the sinks. 

"You were brave out there. Now it's time to prove that bravery." 

Andrés grabbed the fork he had snatched from a table, before he uttered his next words:

"Let's look at these balls of yours, shall we?"

With that, he rammed the fork into the balls of the fat guy. That served him right, but it still wasn't enough. He wanted to see this man who had dared to ridicule Martín suffer at his hands. 

"Hang in there. Tell me, what do you prefer? Death or impotence? Sometimes you're forced to make tough decisions. Mine: what do I do with the asshole that's making fun of my bowtie and calling my best friend a faggot. Yours: Was it even worth living without a penis."

He slammed the fork multiple times into the fat guy's balls and made sure to leave as much damage as humanly possible.

 


It was at this moment that Andrés realised just the extent of his feelings for his friend, that he would do anything for him. It was love. Andrés had been married five times, he knew the signs. But it was also the moment, in which he decided to break it all off. 

 

 

Sometimes, you're forced to make tough decisions. His: Do I let my best friend, my soulmate, suffer by giving him hope, only to then slowly wilt away? Or do I gave him time to heal an aching heart?

In the end, it wasn't a tough decision at all. People would call Andrés selfish, yes, but he couldn't give Martín this kind of hope only to break his heart even worse with his death.