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call-me-jerusalem · 2 years

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I'm mad for the lack of kiss too!! Why???? Manila Denver kiss and not Helermo...???

oh good god, I hope you all forgive me for all the asks I have sitting in my inbox, but let me just reply to this one really quick and

YEEEEEEEEEES FUCK YAAAAAS

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

like, wtf, piña? you could only do one queer kiss per season and decided that manila/denver made more sense than a freaking Helermo kiss? fuck off

I mean, I wasn't hoping for a super romantic kiss under the rain (though of course, I wouldn't have complained one bit), but what the fuck was that?

you see, I asked my roommate, who isn't into the fandom or fics at all, "do you think Palermo and Helsinki are together at the end, then?" and she said "yes, for me it's clear that they will be starting something" and okay, okay... but why not make them kiss????

Helsinki is there from the very beginning, the first gay character in the series and you go on and kill his cousin and his best friend, crush his leg, but don't allow him one single kiss??

what the hell is that????

I was only a bit disappointed when I finished the series, but over the last month, I became ANGRY(tm)

and I see people saying "ohhh Berlín and Palermo got everything, they clearly won" and I'm like WON WHAT????? when was it even a competition? Berlin is fucking dead, my dudes, we all already knew andrés and martín were freaking soulmates/loved one another deeply and so on. I mean, I'm glad for the fans getting more scenes with them and Palermo talking to the machine was probably the most emotional bit in the last part, but like, hear me out--

I never wanted for Helermo what Berlin/Palermo had/have. It's not the same. Their relationships are completely different. Different expectations and different outcomes.

I wanted for Helermo what the hets got. The passionate kiss after being kept apart, the beautiful marriage proposal, the certainty that they are entitled to be happy after all they went through, like all the things straight couples get in all their fucking storylines since the history of ever. I never wanted the bittersweet yet tragic "we could have it all" storyline for Helermo, the "our love is beautiful, but impossible" angle. I'm fucking sick of those.

anyway, as I said, I have more asks to reply and I will elaborate on some of those points further... someday, idk when, life is very chaotic at the moment

but well, y'all go read my new helermo fic in the meanwhile, I can promise there will be lots of kissing, at the very least

#helermo #palsinki #helsinki x palermo #palermo x helsinki #helsinki | mirko dragic #palermo | martin berrote #lcdp helsinki #lcdp palermo #people asking me things #anonymous

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hefellfordean · 3 years

Text

soooo now that the trailer has dropped... have some berlermo endgame with surprise bitches he’s alive berlin, grieving martín, uh.. dead helsi?

read it on ao3

“You fucking asshole!”

Martín can barely hear his own voice over the sound of guns firing. Bullets are ricocheting everywhere, bouncing off the floor and the walls and the ceiling and it’s fucking hell.

The fingers of one hand are curled in the fabric of Helsinki’s jumpsuit, slick with blood that’s soaked through and is staining his skin.

“Palermo you have to move now!” Denver yells over the cacophony of machine guns, darting across the room, spraying bullets at the police to give Martín some cover.

Helsinki’s chest is still, unmoving beneath his hands and Martín makes a decision. He puts down his gun and wraps both hands around the straps on Helsinki’s kevlar vest. The floor is slippery under the soles of his boots and he swallows the bile that rises in his throat when he looks at the trail of blood that they’re leaving behind, a bright red streak on the pale marble.

“You fucker, if you die I’m killing myself to kill you again in hell,” Martín mutters nonsensically as he finally drags Helsinki behind the relative safety of the counter and its bulletproof glass.

Stockholm comes crawling towards them, bits of plaster in her hair and blood all down the side of her neck from a cut under her chin.

“Is he?” she asks and Martín can’t look at her, just nods.

He doesn’t want to see the look in her eyes when she realises what he’s known since Helsinki shoved him out of the way and then dropped like a stone, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

One of her hand covers his, small and pale, but surprisingly strong as she loosens his grip and pulls first one hand then the other from where they’re still clutching at Helsinki’s chest.

“Palermo?” Stockholm asks, voice sounding as if it’s far away. “Palermo, we should go.”

“I can’t leave him. I can’t… he fucking pushed me out of the way.” The words feel strange on his tongue, misshapen and clumsy, falling heavily into the space between him and Stockholm. “He fucking saved me… When I told him I’d get him out of here. I promised, I – ”

He’s dragged into a hug, Stockholm’s skinny arms wrapped tightly around him, her face pressed to his shoulder blade. He can feel her crying, convulsing with her sobs, and he wants to comfort her. He wants to say something, anything to express his own grief, but he can’t speak, can’t look away from Helsinki.

Helsinki's eyes are wide open, staring up at fucking nothing and all because he decided Martín’s life was worth more than his own.

“You son of a bitch,” Martín whispers. “You made me a fucking liar you asshole, you bastard. Helsinki, you bastard you made me break my promise! Mirko…” His voice rises and cracks on Helsinki’s name and Stockholm’s arms tighten around his waist.

His fist slams into the floor and he doesn’t even feel the pain, barely noticing when Stockholm grabs his hand to stop him from doing it again. She sniffs, letting go of him and shuffling around next to him.

“Palermo, we can’t take him with us and we need to go.” Her voice wavers, but her expression is firm when he looks up at her.

He clenches his jaw and nods. “I know… I know but it’s not fair. Nairobi got a fucking funeral with the whole world watching – Helsi deserves that too.”

Stockholm grips his hand, squeezing it. “He does. We’ll do something… we’ll talk to the Professor. He can do something, to make sure everyone knows. To make sure everyone remembers him.”

“Promise?” he asks, embarrassed at how pathetic he sounds, but needing her reassurance nonetheless. “I swear it to you,” she says. “On Cinci, I swear. We have to leave him but he’ll be with us anyway.”

“Okay.”

He presses his hands to Helsinki’s chest, runs his fingers across his stomach, up to his throat, down both arms, cradles his face, memorising every square inch of him. He leans forwards and presses a kiss to his unmoving lips and it feels fragile and incredibly late. Then he lets Stockholm take his hand and drag him away. They leave Helsinki, or maybe just the body that used to be Helsinki behind and Martín hates himself for every step he takes away from him.

Somehow he makes it to the rendezvous point on the outskirts of the city. Every instinct is screaming at him to just hand himself in, to force the police into a firefight and die the way Andrés did – anything to stop feeling this way. Because when he lost Andrés he’d sworn to himself it would be the last time. The last time he ever feels this way and then he’d somehow gone and done it again. He let himself care only to have his chance at… something taken from him. He stays alive though, because it almost feels like giving up would be a betrayal, would render Helsinki’s sacrifice null and void.

Manila keeps casting worried looks at him. She and Stockholm haven’t left his side since they climbed out of the garbage truck, stinking of rotting food and chemical-laden plastic.

“How long until they’re supposed to be here?” Rio asks, chewing his lip nervously.

“Three minutes,” Tokyo says when it looks like no one else will answer him. The two of them are holding hands, but can’t look each other in the eye. “Three minutes and if they’re not here then we leave without them. The Professor and Marseille know that’s what will happen.”

Martín counts the seconds, staring down at the dirty wooden floor. There’s blood on the toe of his boot and he knows it isn’t his, but it should be and Stockholm reaches for his hand again like she knows what he’s thinking.

Gravel crunches under tyres outside and they all tense. He tries not to breathe, as if his shallow exhales are loud enough to be heard.

There’s the sound of footsteps and Martín watches Denver clutch at his pistol like it would do any good if the police really were outside.

A key scrapes in the lock, there’s a click as the tumblers slide back and the door swings open. Sergio walks in first. Dark purple bruises mar the skin of his face and there’s a deep cut on the bridge of his nose just above where his glasses usually sit. Marseille follows him in, looking as unruffled as he ever does, but his knuckles are bloodied and his mouth is twisted like he’s afraid of what might happen if he opens it. Martín knows the feeling, he worries that if he speaks he’ll start screaming and never stop.

There’s movement behind Marseille and Martín stops breathing. Because the next thing he knows, Andrés de Fonollosa is stepping through the door, looking considerably worse for wear with dark circles under his eyes and hollow cheeks and thinning hair, but evidently very much not dead.

Martín looks towards Sergio who is already staring back at him, as if he’s been waiting and at Martín’s incredulous look he simply nods. Nods and confirms that Martín isn’t seeing things, that his brain isn’t making this up, that Andrés really is standing there in front of him.

And Martín is still so fucking angry at Andrés, still sort of hates him for kissing him and leaving and dying. But he’s also just lost Helsinki and he spent so long missing Andrés, grieving for him and wishing he could have him back.

He moves before he’s conscious of what he’s doing. He’s across the room in moments and Andrés is still hovering in the doorway, but he takes one slightly uncertain step towards Martín and that's what breaks any resolve he thought he had. He goes barrelling into Andrés, arms wrapping around him, face pressing into his shoulder. Andrés returns the hug just as tightly, solid and warm against Martín though he's skinnier than he used to be.

Martín lets himself sag against Andrés because he’s just so fucking tired and before Andrés broke them and broke him, above everything else they were friends and that’s what he’s missed so desperately in the last five years.

He lets himself be held and he doesn’t give a fuck what the sons of bitches around him think right now, not anymore.

“It’s okay,” Andrés says though he can’t possibly know that and he rubs Martín’s back and maybe kisses the top of his head. But Martín is finally, finally crying, tears staining the front of Andrés’ shirt and he allows himself his moment of grief with the one person who won’t hold anything he’s done in the past months or even just the past few days against him.

Andrés doesn’t let go of him. Not while Sergio hands them all news clothes to change into, not while they all discuss their exit plans, and how they’ll get to the private airstrip. Not when the others start to welcome back the man they knew as Berlin, not when they’re in the plane leaving Spain far behind them. Martín falls asleep with his head on Andrés’ shoulder and Andrés’ hand in his. Andrés doesn’t push him away or pull their hands apart, because maybe he needs this just as much as Martín and together they make their way East and towards a new life.

#berlermo #berlin x palermo #la casa de papel #money heist #helermo #palsinki #lcdp palermo #lcdp berlin #lcdp helsinki #season 5 #part 5 #lcdp #not spn

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