Epilogue
Xavi
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 meant siesta in 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 the Plaza 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 Espanol.
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 gay madrilenos left 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.
“?Senor 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 since the 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 it enthusiastically.
“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 of the 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 colors lately.
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.
Wiping his hands along his face, Xavi rubbed his eyes, then straightened.
He could fucking do this. He fucking could.
Briefly, a long-forgotten memory flashed through his head: his dad running after him down their street, Xavi on his bike, his dad cheering him on as Xavi rode the bike for the first time without the training wheels.
He’d felt so free back then, like he could take on the entire world, his dad’s words carrying him across the asphalt.
Just like Lulu was now cheering him on every step of the way, always. Yeah, he could fucking do this.
At first, the bookstore was quiet, the streets slowly filling outside, when the siesta ended and the temperatures dropped to a more pleasant warmth.
Then people started spilling through the doors, some clutching their own copies of Xavi’s book against their chests, excited smiles on their faces.
After half an hour of signing, Xavi’s hand started aching slightly, but it was a good kind of ache, because it matched the ache in his jaw from smiling back at all the faces who looked at him like he was special to them.
“It’s really you!” A young guy had looked just about to faint, before his boyfriend had nudged him closer, and he’d started reciting his favorite passages from Xavi’s book back to him.
‘A Daniel,’ Xavi had written with the pen Lulu had gifted him for their three-month anniversary.
‘Gracias por todo.’ He’d continued to sign books, looking up at short intervals, finding Lulu’s eyes on him from across the room, his back leaning against a bookshelf, a proud look in his eyes, a tender smile playing on his lips.
A Cezar, a Mercedes, an Emma, a Julio… The names went on and on, one smiling face giving way to another.
In the end, Xavi’s heart spilled over, so much love in the small bookstore.
Eventually, the line grew shorter, and when he looked up, it was Lulu, his cisne, his love, standing in front of him, his eyes brimming with anticipation, his bottom lip sucked into his mouth as he handed Xavi his own copy of the Loneliest Hour.
Xavi shook his head, chuckling, because it was just too cute how Lulu had annotated the fuck out of the well-read copy.
“A quien?” Xavi rasped, clenching his hand, before picking up the pen.
“A Lulu.”
“Lulu.”
“Sí.”
Xavi opened the book, smoothing out the page with the dedication on it.
‘A los días en detención y las amistades que te mantienen durante el dolor.’ Because that’s where it had all begun, wasn’t it?
That day in detention, when a lifelong friendship had formed between three boys.
Three boys, who were now men but still friends, still carrying each other through the pain.
They’d all experienced loss. Through all stages in life they were there for each other—he, Lulu and Joe. Noah now, too.
Holding the pen against the paper, Xavi wrote what he hoped would be the beginning of yet another chapter of his life. Then he closed the book carefully and handed it back to Lulu.
“Gracias. Por todo,” Xavi whispered.
“De nada,” Lulu smiled back, then turned and walked back to the spot in the corner, in front of the rows and rows of books.
Xavi signed a few more books before the store closed, and when the room was empty, he dropped his pen on the table and sighed deeply, with gratitude and a feeling of closure, almost. He’d come full circle.
Looking up, he saw Lulu moving toward him, greeting a few employees on the way, the book still clutched against his chest.
“That was incredible.” Lulu shook his head when he reached Xavi. “You’re fucking famous, oso!”
“Nah, I don’t know about that,” Xavi felt a blush creeping across his cheeks.
“You are! You’re the fucking… I don’t know… You’re the fucking queer Stephen King.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“You always say that when I’m right.” Lulu smirked.
“Do I now?” Xavi rose, then walked around the table and came to a stop in front of Lulu.
“Yes.”
Nodding at the book, Xavi’s voice was raw and shaky when he spoke. “Did you read it?”
“Jeeez, mano, are you freaking out on me?” Lulu held a hand up against Xavi’s forehead. “Of course I read it. I was the first one to read it, remember?”
“That’s not… I meant the inscription. Did you read it?” His heart pounded in his chest, beating furiously against his ribs.
“Oh, no, not yet,” Lulu frowned.
“Read it, baby.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
Opening the book carefully, Lulu found the title page, his gaze trailing along the words Xavi had written, the most important words he would ever write.
He watched Lulu’s lips move, then he looked up, his eyes wild and wondrous, a silent question in them, before his gaze dropped back to the book, his lips moving as he read the words again.
Lulu’s bottom lip started trembling, and he sucked it into his mouth.
A few tears landed on the cream paper, like summer rain, hot and heavy.
“Do you mean it?” Lulu eventually sniffled.
“Every word,” Xavi breathed, his chest suddenly light, lighter than it’d ever felt.
“Ask me, then.” Lulu blinked at him. “Ask me, Xavi.”
Reaching out, Xavi cradled Lulu’s chin in his hand, brushing his thumb along Lulu’s trembling bottom lip. “Marry me, Lulu.”
Lulu nodded slowly at first, smiling through his tears. Then the nod grew insistent and eager, the smile overtaking his entire face.
“Yes,” he cried. “I will. You better fucking believe I will,” he laughed, and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. Then the sound mingled with Xavi’s own laughter.
“Yeah?”
“Of course.” Leaning in, Lulu’s lips found his, warm and wet and so wonderfully familiar. “Always,” he murmured against Xavi’s mouth. “A thousand times if you want to, oso.”
“A thousand times,” Xavi repeated, as Lulu’s words wormed their way under his skin, healing all his scars.
“Yes.” Lulu kissed him again and again, repeating that one word, the best fucking word in the English vocabulary.
Dropping kisses along Xavi’s chin and neck, Lulu held Xavi’s book between them, Xavi’s truth.
Of how lonely he’d been, but how his loneliness was now gone, how it now belonged in the past. And how bright his future now was, filled with hope, and love, and endless days, hours, and minutes of happiness. And Lulu. Siempre, Lulu.
The End