[Fanfic] The Payback 1/7
Feb. 17th, 2011 01:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bersekerTitle:
Rating: Hmm. PG-15?
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Warnings: ... well... there's nothing graphic. It's angsty. If you're not bothered by the fanart, you probably can take the fic.
Author notes: So, remember the fanart Zu did for me? I decided to write about it. And then I couldn't stop so now the thing is huge and I think it will have ten chapters. But at least I had fun writing it, and unless people start defriending me and throwing themselves over bridges and stuff, I plan to post them, like, twice a week or something. I'd like to thank![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sakuratsukikage for all the brainstorming and inspiration and for helping so much with the plot and for being basically VERY AWESOME.
Summary: Martín Hernandez is captured by Luciano da Silva, a former... acquaintance with a score to settle.
1826
They twisted his arms behind his back.
Not too hard. They didn't seem to be trying to break any bone, just make sure he wouldn't move. And they didn't make him run, either, didn't drag him down the deck, didn’t do anything that would actually hurt him.
Martín Hernandez wasn't fooled. He knew they had something in store, and maybe making him wonder, making him wait, was part of their plan.
He kept his head held high. That was the easy part, straight back, haughty eyes, everything he had been practicing since he was a child, so much that now it came naturally. It wasn't much, not as these people held him, not when he could sense the silent threat.
They pushed him against the mast. They held his arms around it. They tied his wrists, and that was the only part that hurt, and even then it was nothing he couldn't take, not nearly tight enough to cut off the circulation. They didn't talk much, just a few Portuguese words here and there, and when they finished they took one step back and looked at him. One of them tugged at the ropes, checking the knots.
They left him alone.
And that was it.
Martín took a deep breath, as silently as he could, then rested his head against the wood and tried to think.
He was shaking. He was sure they wouldn't have noticed – couldn't have, could they? He was sure they hadn't. The battle was still raging in his mind. The gunshots and cannon fire and the screaming and the smoke that seemed to have a sound of his own. All the sudden choices, the decisions, and at least he had that. Whatever happened now, he knew he had made the right thing, had lived up to his own name. And it had worked, he had bought them time, they had gotten away, so. He had all the right to be proud of himself.
And pride wasn't much, but it would be everything here, so he tried to draw strength from it.
He sighed again. It was just a bit too loud, but no one was paying attention, no one was even looking at him. Normal life carried on, people running from side to side checking the damage, and that was something he could be proud of too, at least he had made an impact. And they were planning something, he knew that, he could tell, but they would make him wait.
His arms were starting to hurt.
It was getting warmer, too. It wasn't even noon yet, but the sun was high up and he could tell that it would be a problem later, if they kept him here, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. That was the trick, so he wouldn't panic. Yes.
Deep breaths.
He wished he could move. He closed his fingers, but it didn't help much, and it took some effort, too. His hands felt a bit cold, now. So the ropes were tighter than he had though.
Nice.
But they hadn’t tied the rope around him, so maybe he could slide down and sit on the floor. Not that he would, not in front of them. He could take this standing.
Deep, deep breaths.
Martín hated to be restrained. He didn't know if anyone actually liked it, of course, probably not, and not like this, but he truly, truly hated it. And they would finish tending to the ship, eventually, and would remember his existence and then what?
One of them came to him. It was a tall man with a face that looked like old leather, and he didn't look too friendly. Of course. Martín tried to look blank, not afraid but not challenging either, just- nothing. He could take it. He could.
The man said something in Portuguese. Martín was biting his lip now, and he forced himself to stop. He’d been trying to train himself out of it for the better part of his life, and this was one of the worst possible moments to find out it hadn't worked. Why was this man so close? He didn't have to. Maybe now-
The only word Martín got out of it was captain, and then the man went away, back to his business, and Martín didn't let out his breath because that would be too obvious, but now he was getting angry. That man had done that on purpose, to make him nervous, hadn't he? Had to. And why give him news or advice or whatever the fuck that was in a language he couldn't understand? What was wrong with these people?
And what about the Captain? Martín could wait. He almost told them that, he could wait the whole day, no need to hurry, he wasn't going anywhere and they could-
Then he saw him.
The dread was like- like an empty space at the bottom of the stomach, he didn't know, like coming back home to find out the war had started, like watching the blockade from Buenos Aires and looking at everything he loved not knowing if the Imperial Navy would be breaking in by nightfall and like every bad news he had ever received, so he stared and at some distant part of his mind he knew he had to face him standing, he had to look like he always had, strong, and proud and-
Luciano.
Luciano da Silva, here, calm and focused and many other things Martín could suddenly tell without even trying, from the tilt of his head and the tension in his shoulders, worried and frustrated, pointing at the sails and asking questions and giving orders and he had never looked so sure of himself before, so commanding, and for a second there they were back in Paris and Martín was fighting a smile and Luciano was mangling every French word that came out of his mouth, and he looked so charming and he was obviously trying so hard and now-
Luciano turned to him.
Martín stared. The grip of the ropes brought him back and reality came crashing down and oh God why this why him why-
Luciano smiled. His eyes were guarded:
“I'm sure you can wait another minute,” he said, and added something in Portuguese that made his crew laugh. Martín swallowed hard and tried not to show it.
“Take your time,” he said.
I'm not going anywhere, he thought, but his voice faltered and he couldn't say it. Luciano was almost the same, only older, but- so very much the same, the dark tanned skin, the black hair now hidden by one of the plainest tricornes Martín had ever seen, the strength, the cheerful energy he always had, and why in the world did it have to be him? He should have seen it coming. Somehow. It was just his luck. It was-
Right, it didn't matter. They knew each other, that was all, it didn’t have to matter, it didn’t have to be personal. And it was nice of Luciano to take his time to come over, even if he meant it as a way to make him sweat, because that gave Martín the time to get a hold of himself. Somehow. Luciano seemed to be completed distracted, talking with the tall man from before, and now Martín wished he had bothered to learn Portuguese to understand what they were saying. Luciano had tried to teach him once, oh the irony, and now he wished-
He wished he could forget that. He thought he had.
He tried to follow Luciano with his eyes, but the bastard was walking around, and then he was right against the sun and Martín had to look away. That was unsettling. Not knowing where he was. And what he would do. And what in the name of all hell he was doing here and-
“Now, I don't have much time,” Luciano said.
Martín raised his head sharply, trying to look at him, but Luciano was right behind him, and Martín felt his hands on his arms, the light tug on the ropes. More Portuguese, and then more laughter, and he thought he was complimenting them on the knots, but he couldn't be sure. He remembered that, this... changing the subject in the middle of a sentence, talking to someone else, talking to ten people at the same time. He was always doing that, back then. Martín rested his head against the mast.
He sighed loudly.
“You didn't change.”
“Really” Luciano said. He held his arms, and Martín hoped his gasp had gone unnoticed, and braced himself, but Luciano didn't pull or squeezed or anything, he just touched his forearms, fingers lightly pressing his muscles, and then let his hands slide down until he could touch his wrists. And added, “Does it hurt?”
He was crazy. That, or he was trying to drive him crazy.
“No, I'm fine,” Martín said.
“Are you?”
“Yes, Luciano, I'm fine, now can you-”
“Heeey, you remember my name. That's so nice of you.”
Martín stopped.
He wasn't sure what to make of that. Luciano finally – finally!- stood in front of him, smiling as if Martín remembering him was a sweet surprise and Martín tried to guess what game he thought he was playing, because-
“So,” Luciano said, “A pirate, huh? Who knew.”
Martín didn't answer. He wanted to, because honestly, look who's talking, and he wasn't, he was fighting for his nation just as much as Luciano, maybe even more, but Luciano had that special way of saying things that made Martín’s skin crawl and he was doing it on purpose, and Martín wasn't going to fall for this, wasn't going to-
“May I ask why? You were always too coward to fight for yourself, so why are you-”
“Coward? Are you calling me a-”
“A coward, yes, but it doesn't matter, I don't really care. I just asked to be polite. You really think I didn't change?”
It was strange and so familiar, the way his voice could change and one word would sound honest and eager, and the other would sound harsh and the way his smile was both fixed and natural at the same time and had it always been like that?
“You didn't,” Martín said. He tried to sound relaxed. “But I admit I'm surprised. I never expected you to follow an honest career, but this?”
Luciano laughed. Martín knew it was real, he remembered that. Luciano could force a smile but he couldn't force laughter. He laughed at the wrong times, and sometimes it had that glint of steel underneath the mirth, but it was never fake. Martín watched as he said something in Portuguese to his crew, who was vaguely interested in the exchange going on, and they laughed too. He didn't care about them, or what they thought of him, or anything this bunch of barely trained monkeys did, but he could still feel his cheeks burning.
Luciano was shaking his head, still smiling:
“I see you didn't change, either.”
He patted his cheek, and smiled wider when Martín tried to avoid his touch.
“Now, like I said, I have work to do. Someone was attacking us, you know, so we have some things to fix so we can get the hell out of here. We'll talk more later. Catch up. You know.”
“You- you'll leave me here? Like this?”
“That's the plan, yes. This way you won't get in our way, and we can all look at something pretty as we work. You'd like that, don't you?”
He wasn't even looking at him anymore, and Martín was suddenly aware of the heat, the little rivulets of sweat running down his back, and he couldn't take off his coat or the cravat and it wasn't even noon yet, and-
“You can't do that.”
“Really? Who will stop me?”
“You-”
He could take this. He could handle it. He'd just have to- focus, and he would- he wasn't going to-
“You're such a bastard, Luciano.”
“Am I?”
Martín tried to breathe. Deep. Don't panic. He hated being restrained. He didn't-
Don't go there. He breathed again.
“You can't do that to me. You can't- that's not-”
He stopped. Luciano waited, amused.
“I'll make you pay for this, Luciano, you can't-”
“Really? Should I just kill you?”
Martín could recognize that one too, the subtle harshness underlying every word, he had seen this, back when Luciano could rage all he wanted that it would still be as harmless as a kitten, back then, but right now he couldn't bring himself to care:
“You can leave me somewhere, I'll find a way to- any shore will do, I can-”
“Come on. And here I thought it would take at least ten minutes to get you whining.”
“I know why you're doing this, I- do they know? Do they know what's this all about? Because we both do and-”
“Martín, shut up.”
At least he dropped the smile. Martín pulled at the ropes, and they held and he had nothing else but pride to hold on to, to get him through this and Luciano was looking at him like that, little drops of sweat glistening on his skin and Martín wanted to move, he didn't even need a shade, just move, Luciano couldn't do this and-
“What if I don’t? Want to kill me before I can say anything? Do they know you don't give a fuck about the war and this is all about how I didn't fuck you like you -”
The slap took him completely by surprise.
It threw his head against the mast and the hot white burning pain exploded on his right cheek and down his neck and it made lights flash before his eyes. Luciano grabbed his chin and forced his head back and then he said:
“Don't say that again or I'll break your neck. As for fucking, Martín, tell you what, if you mind the heat so much, I'll cut off your clothes and leave you naked here and then we'll see how much they care about it? What do you say?”
“You wouldn't,” he whispered. Luciano held him just a little tighter, and Martín tried to fight back a moan. He wouldn't. He just wouldn't.
Then Luciano relented:
“Just don't test me,” and let go.
He said something to his men, and Martín had never wished so hard he could understand Portuguese, but he wouldn't, he was sure of it, this was still Luciano, he’d never, he-
He didn't know where to look now, if he should see where Luciano was going or keep his eyes on the crew or what and it was like being in the middle of a battle without any weapon and he couldn't believe this. One of them came to him – not the one from before, this one was younger, maybe and had a playfully dark smile and he stared at him like he would look at a piece of meat – and patted his cheek. Martín didn't say anything – his throat was completely dry and he would scream, he knew it, but he couldn't, he still had his pride, so he turned his head away and then braced himself for another slap.
The man laughed, a loud, merry boisterous mocking sound, that was – almost- just as bad. Then he went back to their business and Martín became invisible again.
But not completely. They looked at him every now and then and sometimes they touched him. Light touches to make him squirm, patting and petting and pinching. Martín tried to glare and tell them off but his voice trembled and they just laughed and mimicked his accent, and he was sure some of them could understand him because, well, they should, but if they did they were hiding it well.
They weren't- Luciano wasn't going to let them. They were just toying with him. It was obvious. They found him entertaining. They would get tired of it, eventually, he hoped. No, he knew it. So he tried to be silent and stoic, to make his face as blank as he could, and ignore all the hands feeling him up and think of something else.
After a few seconds the only thing he could think of was the sun.
...tbc
Rating: Hmm. PG-15?
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Warnings: ... well... there's nothing graphic. It's angsty. If you're not bothered by the fanart, you probably can take the fic.
Author notes: So, remember the fanart Zu did for me? I decided to write about it. And then I couldn't stop so now the thing is huge and I think it will have ten chapters. But at least I had fun writing it, and unless people start defriending me and throwing themselves over bridges and stuff, I plan to post them, like, twice a week or something. I'd like to thank
sakuratsukikage for all the brainstorming and inspiration and for helping so much with the plot and for being basically VERY AWESOME.Summary: Martín Hernandez is captured by Luciano da Silva, a former... acquaintance with a score to settle.
1826
They twisted his arms behind his back.
Not too hard. They didn't seem to be trying to break any bone, just make sure he wouldn't move. And they didn't make him run, either, didn't drag him down the deck, didn’t do anything that would actually hurt him.
Martín Hernandez wasn't fooled. He knew they had something in store, and maybe making him wonder, making him wait, was part of their plan.
He kept his head held high. That was the easy part, straight back, haughty eyes, everything he had been practicing since he was a child, so much that now it came naturally. It wasn't much, not as these people held him, not when he could sense the silent threat.
They pushed him against the mast. They held his arms around it. They tied his wrists, and that was the only part that hurt, and even then it was nothing he couldn't take, not nearly tight enough to cut off the circulation. They didn't talk much, just a few Portuguese words here and there, and when they finished they took one step back and looked at him. One of them tugged at the ropes, checking the knots.
They left him alone.
And that was it.
Martín took a deep breath, as silently as he could, then rested his head against the wood and tried to think.
He was shaking. He was sure they wouldn't have noticed – couldn't have, could they? He was sure they hadn't. The battle was still raging in his mind. The gunshots and cannon fire and the screaming and the smoke that seemed to have a sound of his own. All the sudden choices, the decisions, and at least he had that. Whatever happened now, he knew he had made the right thing, had lived up to his own name. And it had worked, he had bought them time, they had gotten away, so. He had all the right to be proud of himself.
And pride wasn't much, but it would be everything here, so he tried to draw strength from it.
He sighed again. It was just a bit too loud, but no one was paying attention, no one was even looking at him. Normal life carried on, people running from side to side checking the damage, and that was something he could be proud of too, at least he had made an impact. And they were planning something, he knew that, he could tell, but they would make him wait.
His arms were starting to hurt.
It was getting warmer, too. It wasn't even noon yet, but the sun was high up and he could tell that it would be a problem later, if they kept him here, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. That was the trick, so he wouldn't panic. Yes.
Deep breaths.
He wished he could move. He closed his fingers, but it didn't help much, and it took some effort, too. His hands felt a bit cold, now. So the ropes were tighter than he had though.
Nice.
But they hadn’t tied the rope around him, so maybe he could slide down and sit on the floor. Not that he would, not in front of them. He could take this standing.
Deep, deep breaths.
Martín hated to be restrained. He didn't know if anyone actually liked it, of course, probably not, and not like this, but he truly, truly hated it. And they would finish tending to the ship, eventually, and would remember his existence and then what?
One of them came to him. It was a tall man with a face that looked like old leather, and he didn't look too friendly. Of course. Martín tried to look blank, not afraid but not challenging either, just- nothing. He could take it. He could.
The man said something in Portuguese. Martín was biting his lip now, and he forced himself to stop. He’d been trying to train himself out of it for the better part of his life, and this was one of the worst possible moments to find out it hadn't worked. Why was this man so close? He didn't have to. Maybe now-
The only word Martín got out of it was captain, and then the man went away, back to his business, and Martín didn't let out his breath because that would be too obvious, but now he was getting angry. That man had done that on purpose, to make him nervous, hadn't he? Had to. And why give him news or advice or whatever the fuck that was in a language he couldn't understand? What was wrong with these people?
And what about the Captain? Martín could wait. He almost told them that, he could wait the whole day, no need to hurry, he wasn't going anywhere and they could-
Then he saw him.
The dread was like- like an empty space at the bottom of the stomach, he didn't know, like coming back home to find out the war had started, like watching the blockade from Buenos Aires and looking at everything he loved not knowing if the Imperial Navy would be breaking in by nightfall and like every bad news he had ever received, so he stared and at some distant part of his mind he knew he had to face him standing, he had to look like he always had, strong, and proud and-
Luciano.
Luciano da Silva, here, calm and focused and many other things Martín could suddenly tell without even trying, from the tilt of his head and the tension in his shoulders, worried and frustrated, pointing at the sails and asking questions and giving orders and he had never looked so sure of himself before, so commanding, and for a second there they were back in Paris and Martín was fighting a smile and Luciano was mangling every French word that came out of his mouth, and he looked so charming and he was obviously trying so hard and now-
Luciano turned to him.
Martín stared. The grip of the ropes brought him back and reality came crashing down and oh God why this why him why-
Luciano smiled. His eyes were guarded:
“I'm sure you can wait another minute,” he said, and added something in Portuguese that made his crew laugh. Martín swallowed hard and tried not to show it.
“Take your time,” he said.
I'm not going anywhere, he thought, but his voice faltered and he couldn't say it. Luciano was almost the same, only older, but- so very much the same, the dark tanned skin, the black hair now hidden by one of the plainest tricornes Martín had ever seen, the strength, the cheerful energy he always had, and why in the world did it have to be him? He should have seen it coming. Somehow. It was just his luck. It was-
Right, it didn't matter. They knew each other, that was all, it didn’t have to matter, it didn’t have to be personal. And it was nice of Luciano to take his time to come over, even if he meant it as a way to make him sweat, because that gave Martín the time to get a hold of himself. Somehow. Luciano seemed to be completed distracted, talking with the tall man from before, and now Martín wished he had bothered to learn Portuguese to understand what they were saying. Luciano had tried to teach him once, oh the irony, and now he wished-
He wished he could forget that. He thought he had.
He tried to follow Luciano with his eyes, but the bastard was walking around, and then he was right against the sun and Martín had to look away. That was unsettling. Not knowing where he was. And what he would do. And what in the name of all hell he was doing here and-
“Now, I don't have much time,” Luciano said.
Martín raised his head sharply, trying to look at him, but Luciano was right behind him, and Martín felt his hands on his arms, the light tug on the ropes. More Portuguese, and then more laughter, and he thought he was complimenting them on the knots, but he couldn't be sure. He remembered that, this... changing the subject in the middle of a sentence, talking to someone else, talking to ten people at the same time. He was always doing that, back then. Martín rested his head against the mast.
He sighed loudly.
“You didn't change.”
“Really” Luciano said. He held his arms, and Martín hoped his gasp had gone unnoticed, and braced himself, but Luciano didn't pull or squeezed or anything, he just touched his forearms, fingers lightly pressing his muscles, and then let his hands slide down until he could touch his wrists. And added, “Does it hurt?”
He was crazy. That, or he was trying to drive him crazy.
“No, I'm fine,” Martín said.
“Are you?”
“Yes, Luciano, I'm fine, now can you-”
“Heeey, you remember my name. That's so nice of you.”
Martín stopped.
He wasn't sure what to make of that. Luciano finally – finally!- stood in front of him, smiling as if Martín remembering him was a sweet surprise and Martín tried to guess what game he thought he was playing, because-
“So,” Luciano said, “A pirate, huh? Who knew.”
Martín didn't answer. He wanted to, because honestly, look who's talking, and he wasn't, he was fighting for his nation just as much as Luciano, maybe even more, but Luciano had that special way of saying things that made Martín’s skin crawl and he was doing it on purpose, and Martín wasn't going to fall for this, wasn't going to-
“May I ask why? You were always too coward to fight for yourself, so why are you-”
“Coward? Are you calling me a-”
“A coward, yes, but it doesn't matter, I don't really care. I just asked to be polite. You really think I didn't change?”
It was strange and so familiar, the way his voice could change and one word would sound honest and eager, and the other would sound harsh and the way his smile was both fixed and natural at the same time and had it always been like that?
“You didn't,” Martín said. He tried to sound relaxed. “But I admit I'm surprised. I never expected you to follow an honest career, but this?”
Luciano laughed. Martín knew it was real, he remembered that. Luciano could force a smile but he couldn't force laughter. He laughed at the wrong times, and sometimes it had that glint of steel underneath the mirth, but it was never fake. Martín watched as he said something in Portuguese to his crew, who was vaguely interested in the exchange going on, and they laughed too. He didn't care about them, or what they thought of him, or anything this bunch of barely trained monkeys did, but he could still feel his cheeks burning.
Luciano was shaking his head, still smiling:
“I see you didn't change, either.”
He patted his cheek, and smiled wider when Martín tried to avoid his touch.
“Now, like I said, I have work to do. Someone was attacking us, you know, so we have some things to fix so we can get the hell out of here. We'll talk more later. Catch up. You know.”
“You- you'll leave me here? Like this?”
“That's the plan, yes. This way you won't get in our way, and we can all look at something pretty as we work. You'd like that, don't you?”
He wasn't even looking at him anymore, and Martín was suddenly aware of the heat, the little rivulets of sweat running down his back, and he couldn't take off his coat or the cravat and it wasn't even noon yet, and-
“You can't do that.”
“Really? Who will stop me?”
“You-”
He could take this. He could handle it. He'd just have to- focus, and he would- he wasn't going to-
“You're such a bastard, Luciano.”
“Am I?”
Martín tried to breathe. Deep. Don't panic. He hated being restrained. He didn't-
Don't go there. He breathed again.
“You can't do that to me. You can't- that's not-”
He stopped. Luciano waited, amused.
“I'll make you pay for this, Luciano, you can't-”
“Really? Should I just kill you?”
Martín could recognize that one too, the subtle harshness underlying every word, he had seen this, back when Luciano could rage all he wanted that it would still be as harmless as a kitten, back then, but right now he couldn't bring himself to care:
“You can leave me somewhere, I'll find a way to- any shore will do, I can-”
“Come on. And here I thought it would take at least ten minutes to get you whining.”
“I know why you're doing this, I- do they know? Do they know what's this all about? Because we both do and-”
“Martín, shut up.”
At least he dropped the smile. Martín pulled at the ropes, and they held and he had nothing else but pride to hold on to, to get him through this and Luciano was looking at him like that, little drops of sweat glistening on his skin and Martín wanted to move, he didn't even need a shade, just move, Luciano couldn't do this and-
“What if I don’t? Want to kill me before I can say anything? Do they know you don't give a fuck about the war and this is all about how I didn't fuck you like you -”
The slap took him completely by surprise.
It threw his head against the mast and the hot white burning pain exploded on his right cheek and down his neck and it made lights flash before his eyes. Luciano grabbed his chin and forced his head back and then he said:
“Don't say that again or I'll break your neck. As for fucking, Martín, tell you what, if you mind the heat so much, I'll cut off your clothes and leave you naked here and then we'll see how much they care about it? What do you say?”
“You wouldn't,” he whispered. Luciano held him just a little tighter, and Martín tried to fight back a moan. He wouldn't. He just wouldn't.
Then Luciano relented:
“Just don't test me,” and let go.
He said something to his men, and Martín had never wished so hard he could understand Portuguese, but he wouldn't, he was sure of it, this was still Luciano, he’d never, he-
He didn't know where to look now, if he should see where Luciano was going or keep his eyes on the crew or what and it was like being in the middle of a battle without any weapon and he couldn't believe this. One of them came to him – not the one from before, this one was younger, maybe and had a playfully dark smile and he stared at him like he would look at a piece of meat – and patted his cheek. Martín didn't say anything – his throat was completely dry and he would scream, he knew it, but he couldn't, he still had his pride, so he turned his head away and then braced himself for another slap.
The man laughed, a loud, merry boisterous mocking sound, that was – almost- just as bad. Then he went back to their business and Martín became invisible again.
But not completely. They looked at him every now and then and sometimes they touched him. Light touches to make him squirm, patting and petting and pinching. Martín tried to glare and tell them off but his voice trembled and they just laughed and mimicked his accent, and he was sure some of them could understand him because, well, they should, but if they did they were hiding it well.
They weren't- Luciano wasn't going to let them. They were just toying with him. It was obvious. They found him entertaining. They would get tired of it, eventually, he hoped. No, he knew it. So he tried to be silent and stoic, to make his face as blank as he could, and ignore all the hands feeling him up and think of something else.
After a few seconds the only thing he could think of was the sun.
...tbc
