The Man Who Asked Me to Break Him

The control room’s digital clock hit 00:00 with an electric chill and ushered in the dead of night. The last traces of the day were fading on the fifteenth floor of Torre Mediterránea, after three hours of live programming. Through the monitors filtered the antiseptic theme music of the midnight bulletin, while in here time seemed to have stopped altogether.

The newsroom was a skeleton of empty chairs and screens in energy-saving mode. Only the hum of the servers and the echo of some car heading down Avenida del Puerto broke the stillness. Cervera, with his whirlwind energy, would already have crossed the parking lot. In control, only Bruno and his technician remained, two night-watch survivors in a building that was already asleep.

Bruno Vidal was leaning on the edge of the console, shirtsleeves rolled up, exhaustion weighing down his eyelids. Iván Soler was finishing up the day’s audio files with a slowness utterly unlike him. Iván was efficiency itself, a man of cables and precision, but tonight his movements were slow, almost deliberate. His eyes, a warm brown, sought Bruno’s with a kind of honesty that disarmed him: the technician’s gaze was a safe harbor; his own, sharp and shadow-laden, seemed to be shipwrecking in that peace he did not feel capable of claiming.

—It’s all on the server now, Bruno —Iván said, breaking the silence. His voice sounded deeper than usual.

—Thanks, Iván. You’re a lifesaver. I don’t know what I would’ve done today without you.

Bruno turned to grab his backpack, but Iván didn’t move. He was barely a few centimeters away. The light from the level meters cast green and red shadows across their faces. He reached out, supposedly to grab a connector, but his fingers brushed Bruno’s over the cold surface of the table. It wasn’t an accident. It was an anchor he had been seeking for months.

Bruno felt the contact and, for the first time in a long while, didn’t pull away. In Iván’s eyes there were no secrets or confidentiality clauses; only a man who wanted to take care of him.

—Bruno… —Iván whispered, closing the remaining distance.

Bruno shut his eyes. The emptiness the other man had left in his chest was a black hole that hurt every time he saw a photo of him in the papers. He needed noise, someone to fill that space even if only for an instant, to stop hearing the echo of a phone that never rang.

When Iván leaned in and kissed him, Bruno let himself go with desperate surrender. It was a warm, real kiss, without the cutting edges of the other encounters or that clandestine urgency that had always left him with a bitter aftertaste. Iván kissed him as if he were someone valuable, not a danger to be hidden. He licked Bruno’s lower lip, bit it softly, and his tongue slid into Bruno’s mouth, searching for his with patient hunger. Bruno answered by reflex, letting himself be invaded, feeling the technician’s saliva mix with his own and warm the roof of his mouth.

But then Iván pressed his body against his and slipped a hand beneath the shirt for skin. His fingers, hot and sure, traced down Bruno’s neck toward the buttons. When the tips brushed bare skin, right above the sternum, the circuit shorted.

Bruno froze. It wasn’t a physical rejection, because Iván’s body was young, firm, smelled of clean soap, and he could clearly feel the hard bulge of the technician’s cock pressing against his hip through the trousers. It was a memory invading him. In that microsecond, the other man’s ghost rose out of the shadows of the booth, reclaiming his place with violent force. Bruno remembered the pressure of other hands, much rougher and more possessive, and the weight of a secret that kept him from surrendering to anything that wasn’t that familiar pain.

—Wait… Iván, wait —he murmured, pulling back gently but with a firmness that left no room for argument.

He rested his forehead against the technician’s shoulder and closed his eyes to hold back the tide of guilt rising in his throat. Iván stayed still, his hands suspended in the air.

—Did I do something wrong? —he asked, his voice full of vulnerability.

Bruno shook his head without lifting it from his shoulder. He felt like an impostor. He had tried to use Iván as a shield against his own loneliness, and this man did not deserve to be anyone’s shield.

—No… you haven’t done anything except be perfect —he said, straightening up, his eyes glistening—. But it’s better if we don’t go any further. I can’t. It’s not because of you. It’s just that I’m not alone in here.

He touched a finger to his temple.

—There’s interference that won’t let me hear you. And it wouldn’t be fair to kiss you while someone else is taking up all the bandwidth.

The clock hit 00:05 and acted like a detonator. Damn it, let this day end. Never let it be November tenth again. Exactly four years ago. An old baritone voice, with its cocky tone, echoed in his head: a private anniversary, hidden, for his memory alone and who knew whether for the man who invaded his mind too.

***

Suddenly, the hum of the servers transformed into the pressurized silence of a mansion in Rocafort. The smell of stale coffee was replaced by the scent of expensive wood, leather, and that citrus perfume that always seemed to rise from Darío Beltrán’s skin.

He remembered the tension in the captain’s jaw, the way he dominated the space as if the living room were his little kingdom, pushing him away with every monosyllabic answer, with every gesture of contempt toward the recorder. But above all, he remembered the moment the mask fell. It happened when the recording stopped and Darío stood beside the window, his back turned. City lights cut the silhouette of that giant who seemed to have the world at his feet, yet whose shoulders were sunk under an invisible weight. He didn’t turn around to throw him out. And Bruno, instead of leaving, took a step toward the abyss.

—Do it —Darío urged, his voice breaking—. Do what you came here to do, Vidal.

Then that blue gaze appeared, electric and wounded, one Bruno had never seen in a press conference. He didn’t see the team star; he saw a man silently screaming, needing someone else to be brave enough to break through his armor and remind him he was still flesh and blood.

Bruno crossed the three meters between them with trembling hands. When he reached him, Darío had already turned around. His shirt was hanging out of his trousers, half undone, and the hard outline of a huge cock bulged in his fly. He grabbed Bruno by the nape with one hand and smashed his mouth against his in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and rage. He bit his lips until they bled a little, and he drove his tongue deep into the back of Bruno’s mouth while his other hand searched for Bruno’s ass over the jeans.

—On your knees, Vidal —he growled in his ear, with that baritone voice that had been haunting him for months—. You’ve spent the entire fucking interview staring at my fly. Suck me off.

Bruno dropped to his knees on the expensive rug without hesitation. He unclipped the belt with clumsy fingers and shoved the trousers down to his thighs. The captain’s cock sprang free, hard, thick, heavy, the glans reddened and a thick drop of pre-cum hanging from the tip. It smelled of clean man and sweat. Bruno wrapped his hand around it, surprised by its size, and ran his tongue from the base of the balls to the head, licking that transparent drop that stuck to his palate with a slightly salty, bitter taste.

—Fuck… —Darío gasped, gripping the curtain—. Take the whole fucking thing, you shit journalist. Shut that mouth for once.

Bruno opened his lips and swallowed the cock whole, letting it brush the back of his throat until it made his eyes water. He began to suck with hunger, up and down, taking the glans into his mouth with suction when he reached the tip, burying his nose in the dark pubic hair when he went down to the base. He licked the swollen vein underneath with his tongue flat, and stroked the balls with his other hand, heavy and taut. Darío grabbed his hair with both hands and started fucking his mouth without mercy, pushing his hips against Bruno’s face, forcing him to take more and more.

—That’s it, fuck… that’s it… shit, Vidal, you suck cock like your life depends on it —the captain hissed, arching—. Nobody… nobody’s ever sucked me off like that.

Bruno moaned with a mouthful, and that vibration shot through Darío’s cock like a whipcrack. He felt it swell even more against his tongue, felt it pounding, felt the captain tug at his hair to pull it out of his mouth just before coming. He was hauled to his feet in one jerk, his shirt buttons ripped open, and he was thrown onto his back on the leather sofa.

Darío tore off his trousers and underwear in one sharp motion. Bruno’s own cock was also hard as a stone, leaking over his belly. Darío spread his legs with his knees, spat into his hand, and slicked his cock with that saliva and the pre-cum that wouldn’t stop oozing from him. Then he spat again and shoved two thick fingers into Bruno’s ass at once.

—Ah, fuck… —Bruno moaned, arching against the captain’s fingers, which were already searching inside for the spot that made him tremble.

—Look at me, Darío —Bruno shot back, voice broken—. There are no cameras. It’s just you and me. Let it all out.

—You’re going to ruin me —he gasped, his breath burning Bruno’s skin as he stretched his ass open with his fingers, twisting them, widening him—. If anyone sees how you’ve got me…

—Or maybe you’ll ruin me. Don’t stop, fuck. Put it in already.

Darío pulled his fingers out and placed the thick head of his cock against Bruno’s tight hole. He pushed in hard, mercilessly, sinking all the way in with one thrust that ripped a rough cry out of Bruno. He held still for a second, breathing against Bruno’s neck, and then started fucking him slowly, driving it all the way in every time, with those footballer hips that had the strength of a pile driver.

—I don’t know who I am without the wall, Bruno —he found him with violent urgency, his lips clumsily colliding with Bruno’s between thrusts—. Just… don’t leave me.

—I’ve got you, Darío. I’ve got you. Fuck me harder, fuck, harder.

The captain obeyed as if that set him loose. He grabbed Bruno’s legs behind the knees, threw them over his shoulders, and started driving into him with brutal thrusts that made the sofa creak. Every smash of his hips against Bruno’s ass sounded like a slap. Bruno’s cock bounced between their stomachs, leaking pre-cum all over his belly.

—You’re… fuck, Vidal… you turn me on —he whispered, and for a second Bruno felt a tear, or maybe just sweat, brushing his cheek—. Nobody touches me like this. Nobody lets me put it in this hard.

—That’s what you wanted, right? —Bruno bit his earlobe and felt the captain’s spasm, a shudder that ran through the cock buried in his ass—. Someone brave enough to break you.

—Yeah… —Darío clenched his teeth, his body arching under Bruno’s, or rather over him, driving in and out with an increasingly violent rhythm—. Break me already, goddamn it. Make me forget who I am.

Bruno dug his nails into his back while the captain fucked his ass with stadium-strength force, squeezing his thighs around his waist. Darío grabbed Bruno’s dripping cock and started jerking him off to the rhythm of his own thrusts, with a rough, steady palm. Bruno came first, firing thick ropes of semen between their bellies, clenching around the captain’s cock with spasms that squeezed it. Darío held on for three more thrusts, gave a hoarse, teeth-bared “fuck, Vidal, fuck,” and came inside him in a long burst that Bruno felt pounding hot in his deepest core.

They stayed stuck together, soaked in sweat and cum, Darío still inside, not wanting to pull his cock out, forehead buried in Bruno’s neck and breathing as if he’d just run an entire extra time. That cold, clear night, Bruno discovered that the “Wall” was, in fact, a man freezing to death. And he discovered that he, a young journalist who had only come seeking an interview, was willing to set himself on fire just to give that giant some warmth.

***

Bruno blinked and snapped back to the present. Iván’s hand was still there, warm and steady, but to him it was unbearable interference, white noise that couldn’t tune itself to the frequency of his heart.

—It’s him, isn’t it? —Iván asked softly—. The one in the interference. The one who makes you disconnect halfway through a sentence when you think no one’s watching.

The weight of the last four years crashed down on his shoulders at once. Bruno went looking for support against the glass wall of the booth and let his back slide down it until he was sitting on the floor, knees bent and head in his hands. Iván, without saying a word, copied him: he sat down across from him, crossing his legs, creating a space for confession in the darkest corner of the studio.

—You don’t owe me any explanation —he said, resting a hand on Bruno’s knee—. We can stay like this, in silence, if that helps.

Bruno looked up. His green eyes shone, misted over, beneath the red glow of the clock.

—I made a mistake —he said at last, in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere very deep inside—. And I can’t make another one now by getting involved with you, Iván. We’re coworkers. Tomorrow we have to go back in there.

—You wouldn’t be the first. Sometimes I think this floor is a magnet for emotional disasters —Iván gave a warm laugh that eased the tension—. Whoever that person is who left you like this, I hope they know how lucky they are. Having you waiting for them in silence between bulletins isn’t something you can put a price on. Ever since I met you, last September, I’ve known from your eyes that there’s someone. That man.

Bruno felt the world stop. The word hung in the booth, striking the dead microphones.

—That man… —he whispered, admitting it aloud for the first time to someone at the station who wasn’t Olga or Cervera—. I found him.

—And you say it was a mistake, because clearly he broke your heart.

Bruno didn’t answer. He stayed silent, a salt statue under the red light. Silence was his most eloquent reply.

—And don’t take this literally —Iván added—, but that bastard who broke you probably doesn’t deserve you. Bruno Vidal wouldn’t fall for anyone who wasn’t his equal, even if the guy’s a jerk.

Bruno felt a shiver. His equal. Iván didn’t know he was talking about the captain of the team, about an idol, but he’d hit the nail on the head: for Bruno, Darío wasn’t the marble bust from press conferences, but the man vibrating on his same frequency of loneliness and excellence.

—He was… or used to be… someone who challenged me —he confessed, looking down at his hands, still trembling—. Someone I hated and loved in equal measure, with the same intensity.

—You know what they say —Iván pointed out with a half-smile—: from love to hate is only one step. And those who fight, desire each other.

Bruno thought of the montage circulating on social media, that parody of the endless fight between the incisive journalist and the impenetrable wall in the mixed zone. The world saw a professional conflict; he felt an internal burn.

—We fought a lot. Now all that’s left is silence.

—Sometimes silence heals —said Iván, settling against the wall—. Even if only to make room for grief. And for letting go.

—Before that… that man, what could he have been to you? If there had been no walls.

A long silence settled in. Bruno closed his eyes and, for the first time all night, felt calm.

—He could have been my home. You know that feeling of arriving somewhere and knowing you don’t have to pretend? He was the only one who forced me to be better and, at the same time, the only one who let me be weak. Two opposite poles: him, order, and me, chaos; him, silence, and me, voice. Together we could have been unstoppable.

—A mirror that gave me back an image of myself that scared me and gave me peace in equal parts. But now he’s the man who broke me. And the worst part is that, even though he shattered me, I feel like his pieces still fit with mine. Even so… it’s time to let him go, before silence erases me too.

Iván nodded, gave his shoulder a final squeeze, and stood up.

—It’s a shame, Vidal. A love like that only comes once, but surviving is a victory too —he held out his hand to help him up—. I only hope that, if that man ever comes out of his bunker, there’s still something left of you that isn’t burnt to ash. You’re worth too much to be just someone’s secret.

He switched off the console with a definitive click and the booth fell absolutely silent. They left the newsroom behind, leaving the microphones that held the secret of his confession. As they crossed the threshold of Torre Mediterránea, the freezing air of Avenida del Puerto reminded him that it was, officially, already November tenth.

—Good night, Iván —Bruno said in a voice that, for the first time in a long while, sounded like his own.

—Good night, boss. Take care.

***

That same night, the apartment in Cabañal was sunk in a dimness broken only by the bluish light of the laptop on the dining table. Bruno had taken off his radio clothes as soon as he got home; with the dark circles under his eyes marked by a fatigue that went beyond the physical, he looked younger and, at the same time, much older.

He knew where that file was. He kept it in an encrypted folder, off the radio’s servers, like someone guarding a treasure or the proof of a crime. The cursor trembled before double-clicking a file titled BELTRAN_ROCAFORT_RAW_101114.mp3.

The living room filled with a digital hiss and, suddenly, the voice of a twenty-seven-year-old Darío flooded the room, rougher than the current one, charged with a tension Bruno now recognized as a cry for help.

—Let’s talk about this living room, Darío —he heard himself say, at twenty-four years old and freshly turned—. You have one of the best views in the city, but it looks like the windows are only there so the world can look in. How do you handle silence in such a big house when the stadium lights go out?

—Silence is the hardest thing. On the pitch, noise guides you: if they’re whistling, you’re bothering the rival; if they’re applauding, you’re on the right track. But here it doesn’t give you clues. Nobody tells you that the armband is a reminder that you can’t afford to be tired. Or sad. Or alone.

—Do you feel alone, captain?

—I feel watched, which isn’t the same as being accompanied. The real fear isn’t losing a match. It’s that one day the mirror will show me someone I don’t recognize, because I’ve spent my whole life being what the club needed me to be.

—Who is Darío Beltrán when he doesn’t have to save anyone?

—Someone who’s still looking for the answer. Someone terrified that if he ever lets another person in for real, he’ll discover the wall has cracks. And that if the right place gets touched, I can break like anyone else.

The recording then moved into the point where they both started losing control, the material that was cut from the rest of the interview and, once edited, gave Bruno his first major success.

—People see the captain. They see the car, the salary, the goals… —on the recording, his breathing grew rougher; Bruno remembered how that night he extended his hand and brushed the back of Darío’s, the one holding the pen—. Nobody stays to see what’s there when the lights go out. Nobody, until today, had ever dared tell me to my face that I’m an idiot and then, right afterward, give me their work out of pure pity.

—I just did what I thought was right.

—Yeah… the right thing. —A rough laugh—. But right now we’re not doing the right thing, are we? You’re in my house, in the middle of the night, recording an interview that suddenly means exactly nothing to me. Turn it off.

—The recorder?

—The recorder, journalism, and that little head of yours that won’t stop spinning. Turn it all off, Bruno.

A few seconds more and the file’s endless silence. Everything stopped. Bruno knew what came after that cut, because his own body remembered it better than his mind: he remembered Darío’s hands tearing off his shirt while the recorder fell mute on the table; he remembered the captain turning him against the glass window, the whole city at their feet, and dragging his trousers down to his knees before spitting on his ass and taking him without saying another word; he remembered the cold of the glass against his cheek and the captain’s thick cock opening him from behind while he panted, “I’m going to fuck you until you forget how to ask questions”; he remembered Darío’s calloused hand covering his mouth when he moaned too loudly, and his own semen streaking the window in thick white ropes that slid over the lights of Valencia; above all, he remembered the captain’s hot come filling his ass inside while he bit the nape of Bruno’s neck, whispering his surname like a sentence. He remembered falling asleep afterward with his head pressed to that huge chest, feeling how a man used to letting no one touch him trembled, at last, in his arms.

—It was you, Darío —Bruno whispered into the empty air of his living room—. You were the one asking me to break you.

He stared at the screen, where the player had stopped at the end of the file, freezing time. Iván was right: Bruno Vidal would not have fallen for anyone who wasn’t his equal. The problem was that that equal had left him in the dark.

The cursor hovered for several seconds over the trash icon. He felt an almost violent need to click and watch those megabytes of confession disappear forever, silencing the interference once and for all. But at the last second his hand stayed still. Deleting the file would mean deleting the only proof that that ice giant had ever broken in his hands. He couldn’t. With a sigh of defeat, he dragged the cursor away from danger and chose, simply, not to look at it anymore.

He closed the laptop slowly. The silence that followed was denser than before, but it was no longer interference. It was grief. He walked to the window overlooking the sleeping streets and pressed his forehead to the cold glass.

Only a few hours remained before dawn on November tenth. Four years of a love that felt like a state secret, and a lifetime ahead for that audio to finally stop being his only soundtrack.

Let him go, Bruno whispered to himself before lowering the blind.