THE WEEKEND THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING 23 - WEEKEND PART 4 -

THE WEEKEND THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING 23 - WEEKEND PART 4-

(CONTINUES FROM THE PREVIOUS STORY)

Martín poured two glasses and handed one to Pedro. They sat on the large couch, leaving a space in the middle, and Martín turned on the television. He looked for something to watch, flipping through channels without really paying attention, until he stopped on a soccer match that was already in the second half.
"Who's playing?" Pedro asked.

"Boca-River."

"Ah, look at that. What's the score?"

"One to one, it seems."

They stayed watching the match in silence, drinking whisky.

The water in the bathroom shut off. Juan appeared at the entrance to the living room, naked, his face wet but with no visible tears anymore. His eyes were still swollen, reddened, but he had recovered some composure. Enough to stay standing without trembling.

He stood in the doorway, waiting. He didn't sit, didn't move toward anywhere. He simply waited for instructions, as he had learned to do.

Pedro glanced at him sideways without taking his eyes off the television.

"Come here," he said, patting the empty space between him and Martín. "Sit here."

Juan walked toward the couch. Each step was a small torture: the movement activated the muscles of his ass and these, in turn, awakened the pain of the mistreated skin. But he didn't complain. He made no sound. He sat down slowly, holding back a hiss of pain when his punished skin touched the leather of the couch.

Pedro had moved to the left to make room for him. Martín was on his right. Juan ended up wedged between the two.

"Who's winning?" Juan asked, his voice still a little raspy.

"One to one," Martín answered.

Juan nodded, fixing his gaze on the screen. It was strange, he thought, how he could be talking about soccer minutes after having been punished until he broke. But that was how his life worked now. Moments of intense pain alternated with moments of disconcerting normality, and he had learned to navigate between the two without losing his mind.

Or maybe he had already lost it a long time ago and simply hadn't noticed.

Pedro rested his hand on Juan's thigh. It wasn't a sexual gesture. It was more possessive, territorial. His palm rested on the bare skin as if he had every right to be there. Because he did.

Juan didn't react. He kept watching the match.

Pedro's hand began to move, going up and down Juan's thigh in a slow, distracted motion. Pedro wasn't even looking at him; his eyes followed the game on the screen, and his hand caressed Juan with the same absent attention with which someone would pet a dog lying at their feet.

Martín observed the gesture out of the corner of his eye. There was something hypnotic in the naturalness of the scene. Pedro touching Juan as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Juan accepting it without comment, withou...