Me Llamo Tokio (My Name Is Tokyo) - A Money Heist Prequel

Chapter 28 - The Pendant

The last reddish glimmering rays of sunshine are making their way through the green leaves around us. Above, the same rays were reflecting in the glass ceiling, making you feel like the sun is about to melt, pouring a cascade of warmth and liquid light over us.
It's been hours since we've been staying in the conservatory, drinking champagne and talking about our lives.
During this time, I learned so many things about Juan's childhood, things that he hasn't shared with me before. Like the fact that he was forced to learn three languages and attended a private school which was teaching only in English. Not to mention his father and the constant authority he wanted to impose over him, while his mother was always more understanding, trying to create a balance between her husband and their rebellious son, who from a young age, planned to run away from home, in a desperate attempt to escape the strict rules.
Apparently, the rich weren't leaving such a perfect life like I was imagining.
Juan's childhood was brutally marked by his father's violent behavior. He wanted him to be the best in everything and always asking for more, no matter how many performances his son was having. Sooner or later, Juan would've ended up beaten by his father in the moments when his mom wasn't around.
These sad stories were breaking my heart, realizing how much he suffered due to the ignorance of his father and, also how his world made no sense anymore when his mother, the only support he had, passed away. I haven't heard anything about her death yet, but I felt like it wasn't the appropriate moment to ask about it.
Just being here with him, talking about these things, means so much to me, as Juan showed me that he's open about sensitive subjects too, and that he wants me to step in his intimacy a bit more.
"What's with the paintings from your room?" I ask thinking that it'll change the subject a bit from his childhood traumas.
"Oh." he says melancholically. "I used to paint."
"They're beautiful." I compliment him.
"You really think that?" he's a bit unsure and embarrassed in the same time.
"Yes, I do." I reply taking a sip from my glass.
I'm pretty sure I've lost track of how much I've been drinking. This is the second glass, but the real question is the second glass of how many bottles. I should really do something about drinking if I don't want to wake up every morning with a terrible nausea and throw up all over the place.
"Those paintings are the last ones that remained from my entire collection." I could feel the sadness in his voice. "My mother taught me how to paint and she's the one who hid those from him too. He said painting isn't for real men and art is just trash."
"I'm so sorry." I say. "My mom thought the same about music."
"I wish you wouldn't know the feeling, but unfortunately, you do." he says sadly. "That stupid feeling when you love something so deeply and one of your parents, who are supposed to be the ones who support you, comes and ruins it for good."
"We're both free now." I'm trying to comfort him. "You can paint and I can sing. We'll be the artsy robbers."
He laughs, then he looks at me, like his gaze is trying to penetrate my layers of skin and read directly into my soul.
"Would you like to..." he stops, like he doesn't know how to formulate the phrase. "To see my atelier. It was actually my mother's, but I rebuilt it almost from scratch after my father went crazy one night when he found me painting there and set it on fire, destroying most of it."
"Yes, I really wanna see it." I say excited that he's about to share with me another intimate thing. "And I'm sorry for everything that you went through with your dad. No one deserves to be treated like that."
"It's okay." he says with a sad smile. "You're right, we're free now. The artsy criminals."
I laugh, pleased by the fact that he liked my joke. But, who knows, maybe it wasn't a joke. What was bad about doing robberies and making art? Most people will say the robberies. But, the only thing that I believe is bad is to not make love in the breaks between them.
Juan holds my hand as I follow him through the intricate hallways. The house is much bigger than I imagined and continues to amaze me when he opens a secret door hidden in the wallpaper.
"Here it is." Juan says as we enter.
The room is small, giving you the feeling that you're somehow protected in here. Also, the large doors are going somewhere in the garden. Tiny rays of sunset are still daring enough to sneak in through the blinds, creating reddish lines of light on the floor.
There are also shelves filled with colors, tons of canvases, both empty or painted, and a huge easel in the middle of the room.
I go straight to the paintings, eager to see more of Juan's art.
"Those are mostly my mother's." Juan laughs. "Only these are mine."
My hands move to the small pile that he indicates me and I'm not disappointed at all. Juan wasn't painting only abstract, but realistic stuff too. From some fields that I recognize to be the ones around Tatiana's villa, to a street in Lisbon that we walked on, all his paintings were vivid memories of a reality that even I lived and watched at some point.
"They're wonderful." I say melancholically when I see the last painting, a small street from Barcelona. "Here was my favorite coffee place."
"Oh, mine too." he's really surprised.
It's so interesting how many things in common we had, even from a period when we didn't even know each other.
"I was going there from time to time to get roasted coffee." I say.
"Me too." he says with a smile.
"I thought you only robbed stores, not actually buy stuff from them." I joke.
"Who told you I was paying?" he laughs. "No, I'm joking. But, sometimes you really feel the need to act like a normal person."
"I see." I say putting the paintings back. "Anyway, you should paint more, you're really good."
"Thanks." Juan replies with a smile. "But, till now, I never had a muse."
"Really?" I say raising an eyebrow. "A guy like you was sleeping alone all the time?"
"I said muse, Silene, not sex." he laughs.
"Mhmm." I say getting closer to him. "And how does this muse thing work?"
No answer is coming because his lips cover mine in a delicate kiss.
"Are you gonna teach me how it works?" I ask looking into his eyes who are now filled with an inexplicable joy.
"Unfortunately, I can't teach you, only show you." he says grinning.
"If this implies me standing naked in front of you while you paint, I don't think you'll resist." I laugh.
"Silene, don't underestimate me." he teases me.
His hands go slowly under my T-shirt, caressing my back and stopping at the bra.
"Why so fast?" I ask amused. "You don't think you'll be able to resist too much?"
"I told you." he says kissing my neck. "Don't underestimate me."
"I don't believe until I see." I laugh.
"Alright." he replies with a smile.
His fingers are quickly undoing my bra and, in the moment when he pulls off my shirt, he easily takes the bra with it too.
I laugh. There's no way I'm going to let myself undressed by him so fast. So, I jump and start kissing him intensely.
Juan's hands wrap around my waist and he lifts me up on the table from a quick move, like I was as light as a feather. 
I lean down with my back on the canvases and smile. I never imagined that I'll end up making out in an art studio. I always thought this is a thing you find only in movies. But, as I look around me, all I see are brushes and paint and I simply can't wait for the moment when we're going to destroy this place in the most loving way possible.
He comes and kisses me softly on the lips, then he goes down my neck, his fingers tracing an invisible line on my body, like he wants to separate me in two perfect halves.
A short laugh escapes my lips when he finds the zipper of my short skirt. Good luck with it, I think knowing how that thing was always getting stuck. But, surprisingly, he succeeded to unzip my skirt from the first try, which leaves me wondering if this thing is about sexual experience or simply more force.
He pulls off my skirt, quickly followed by my panties too and I hear how a short sigh escapes from between his lips.
"I thought you said you can resist." I laugh.
But I don't get to add anything else, because his lips are moving fast over mine.
"Don't let yourself be fooled." he says between kisses. "I resisted you for so long, even if I wanted to fuck the hell out of you from the first night we met."
This line really caught me off guard, as I never expected Juan to be that honest with me, nor that what he said can be possible.
"Why?" I ask a bit confused.
"I don't really know." and I believe him because neither I knew what made me feel so attracted to him. "You were just someone that I was feeling unexpectedly attracted to."
"I felt the same." I admit.
He smiles and I look into his eyes only to remember everything that we went through ever since we met.
Juan's hands are now gently caressing my hips in the same rhythm with his lips that are over mine.
"Are you gonna show me how's the muse thing?" I laugh in the kiss.
"Yes, I will." he replies mysteriously. "But, first, I'll have to kiss you one more time, so I'll memorize better the shape of your lips."
I don't even know what to reply to this, he's simply perfect, so I just close my eyes and let myself feel the intensity of his kiss.
He stops right on time, because my legs were about to start shaking and, I guess he felt that too. Juan might be able to control himself, but I realized that I'm the one who can't.
I open my eyes only to emerge myself in the shining green of his.
He's all smiles and excitement as he lifts me up in his arms again and lets me down on a piece of black velvet on the floor. Then he goes to take an empty canvas and puts it on the easel.
"Draw me like one of your French girls." I laugh and I'm pretty sure this is one of the many later effects that will occur after so much champagne.
"Titanic." he whispers, recognizing my quote, but then, he turns around and looks at me. "Just so you know, there were no French girls."
"Spanish?" I'm intrigued now.
"Not even." he replies while choosing some paints from the shelf.
"Are you trying to tell me that you never painted a naked woman before?" I ask.
"Yes." his gaze goes down in a short moment of embarrassment.
"I like this." and I'm being honest, I liked to be the first woman he was letting in his art studio that seemed so dear to him. "Thank you."
"Why?" he's a bit surprised.
"Because you let me in and now you're making art and I'm here with you. This means a lot to me." I admit.
"Silene, I want to show you everything." the love in his eyes is visible. "Not only to make art and talk about my past with you. I want you to look at me and see till the darkest and deepest place of my soul and know what's in there too."
I'm speechless. What he said is something so deep that I haven't even had the courage to dream that someone in this world will want this with me. Yet, our love was so intense that it made Juan want to undress his soul in front of me.
"Thank you." I whisper.
He smiles and takes a seat behind the easel. Even if he's not here to hug me or kiss me, I feel his love covering me, embracing every inch of my naked body and making me feel happier than ever.
"How do you want me to stay?" I ask after a while, realizing that I should probably have a sort of posture.
"However you want." he replies happily. "I know your body well enough to paint you even with my eyes closed."
His phrase was so honest, yet so deep. So, I stay as I think it's best, trying to find myself a comfortable position.
"You know, it might not be as good as you're expecting." he says at some point.
"Juan, shut up. I know it's gonna be perfect." I try to assure him, but also I really believed in his talent.
"I haven't painted people in a while and never did a nude." he adds.
"So what?" I say. "I really like that I'm the first one."
He smiles and judging by the lust in his eyes, I think that he's now painting my intimate parts.
I never felt so special in my entire life. There's a thing to be loved and adored by a man, or to be proposed with a stolen diamond that created an entire scandal and you to refuse, but being the subject of his art is something else, and for me, it values more than the proposal itself. The thing he is doing now, tracing lines of my body with paint on the canvas, means the ultimate level of love. To declare your feelings is amazing, but to impregnate it with color on the canvas means that it'll remain there for good. As the paint will get dry, so will our love be stronger and deeper.
I don't know how much time passes, if it was an hour or more until he lets the brushes down and whispers:
"I'm done."
I look at him and smile. I can't control the excitement that I'm feeling thinking that I'll see the painting soon.
He stands up and the light coming from the chandelier is being reflected in his eyes in such a way that you could've sworn they're two perfect emeralds.
"I want to see." I say impatiently.
"Are you sure?" the nervousness in his voice almost makes me laugh.
"Yes, I'm sure." I say looking at his hands that are now about to turn the easel. "Please, show me."
And he does.
I can't say anything because I'm being struck by the perfection in front of me. I don't think there are enough words to describe that mesmerizing painting, but a thing I know for sure, I'll never be able to erase it from my memory.
It's me, standing naked on the black piece of velvet, only the background is totally different from this room. He painted me next to the lake from that meadow in Portugal, on that night when we went there and made love in the water. But, the most amazing thing about this painting is a small detail that can be seen only if you look closely at my reflection in the lake — his hands are wrapped around my body that has a slightly different position from the one that should be reflected, depicting us in an intense moment of love.
"I love it." I say realizing only now that I'm crying. "It's perfect."
"Silene..." his voice is shaking a bit too and he wants to approach me, but, suddenly he stops.
"Come here." I say through tears.
"I have to wash." he says pointing to his hands that are stained with all the colors possible.
"No, come here like this." I'm still unable to stop myself from crying. "Come here and act like your hands are clean, because I don't care."
He smiles and, in the next moment, he's on the floor kissing me deeper. His fingers caressing my back and my hair, leaving stains of color all over my body.
"You're a dream come true." I whisper in his ear while I'm unbuttoning his shirt.
"Are you describing yourself now?" he says over my lips.
"No." I laugh. "I'm talking about you."
"I don't think so." he teases me.
"Then believe at least when I'll tell you that you're the most amazing person that ever existed on this planet." my tears are still running out of my eyes uncontrollably.
"Hard to believe." he replies trying to wipe my cheeks with his palms. "Then why are you crying?"
I feel how I have paint on my face too.
"Because I've never been happier in my entire life." I admit. "That painting is absolutely perfect, just like you."
He looks away for a few seconds and, when his eyes come back, I see they're a bit watery too.
"Thank you." he whispers.
Then, he buries his face in my neck, kissing it gently while he goes down to my chest.
His hand is now freely touching my intimate parts that he painted with so much difficulty while fighting the lust in his soul.
Lucky for him, I'm naked, while I haven't even taken off his shirt.
I can barely stay quiet in the moment when his lips are gently caressing my nipples and I swear I could feel two wet drops falling on my chest too. But, I don't want to look at him. If he let out a few tears, this is his moment, and I won't destroy it.
"Juan?" I ask after a few agonizing minutes while I tried to stay as silent as possible.
"Yes." he replies and I feel from his voice that he's better now and I can look at him.
"Te amo."* I say.
"Te amo."* he replies immediately, like he had been waiting to say this for a long time.
"I want you to love me like there's no tomorrow." I declare.
And so he did, obeying my wish and his greed that he tried so hard to keep under control till now when I gave him the freedom to unleash everything he was holding inside.
I'm not even sure if this can be called love anymore. There's no name for such a perfectly timed body and soul movement. Every gesture of his, every inch of his body was one with me.
I was full of paint and we were just two bodies making the most intense form of love and art while we were dancing on the floor in the mysterious tunes known only by our hearts, using the sacred movements that only us seem to understand.
At some point, all I could feel was his heartbeat in my own chest.