[Fanfic] The Payback 5/7

[berseker]

Title: The Payback 5
Rating: PG-15?
Pairings:Brazil/Argentina
Warnings: Badtouching. And people tied to masts. And angst. The department of backstory takes over- sort of.
Summary:Martín Hernandez is captured by Luciano da Silva, a former... acquaintance with a score to settle.

Muchas gracias to zulenhafor betareading it for me and to sakuratsukikagefor everything ♥♥♥







Part 4: He repeated it until it became just sounds, the only real thing in the  world right now. That, and the heat. This position put more strain on his shoulders, but he didn't want to raise his face now, or ever again, ever, not with that thing on so he didn't, he tried to focus on the sunlight on the back of his neck. Not the light. Just the warmth, like a blanket and then like fire, like a flame dancing over his skin. He stood like there until it hurt, and then he tried to focus on the pain, let it take over his mind, and forget everything else.

The first time they ever talked, Luciano had just stormed out of the room, and Martín decided to follow him because he was interesting and different and laughed too loud all the time and his eyes were always so sweet. And even then it had been difficult, because he didn't know what would make him defensive and he knew Luciano hated when people mentioned the color of his skin and he shouldn't, he knew that, but he couldn't help it. It's just that - he had heard the stories, of course – and he wanted to tell Luciano that they could talk about it, and laugh and mock the people spreading the rumors, that Luciano could rant and he would listen. And point out all the flaws in his logic, but in a friendly way. But Luciano waited and Martín couldn't bring himself to say it, because, well.

What would he say?

He had heard the stories. And there was nothing... wrong with them, if he thought about it, but still. They all knew about slavery, and hey, it had been perfectly legal until last year and it was still going on in Brazil and Luciano himself probably had slaves back home. But it was still wrong and immoral and he still had the discussions echoing in his mind, the, the wrongness of it and where the hell else would Luciano get his dark skin from? And it wasn't like he could really ask him if his mother had been a slave and in that case was Luciano one too, or- how did that even work, and if that was the reason why he had ran away from the class, why he never talked when they discussed it. He couldn't. And if he did, if he figured out a way to ask, if he could get Luciano to confide in him, then... that would mean he would be on his side. He would be the one to get it- the person Luciano could trust, the one he could talk to.

And he could do it now, on this first day of so many beginnings. He could ask about his parents and it would be stupid, because Luciano had just proved he didn't want to talk about it, but he would answer it anyway, and that would be the start of his... special status.

He hadn’t. It wasn't worth it, not yet. Not when they would have to go to the class and everyone would look at Luciano and whisper and wonder, and remember stories, and what would they say about him? If he did that?

So he told him to stop taking it personally, he told him to get over it, and for a second Luciano's eyes burned and Martín knew he was thinking about how uncaring and rude and how much of a bastard he was, but that wasn't important. Not now. Not yet.

Someone touched his forehead, forcing him to raise his head.

“Just a little,” Luciano said, pressing the canteen to his lips. Martín kept his eyes closed. This was important. He couldn't open then. He drank, this time slowly, trying to focus on the taste of alcohol, and Luciano kissed his mouth when he finished, and then he went away. Had to. Or maybe he was still here somewhere, looking, but Martín wouldn't see anything because it was too dark.

He wasn't going to think about that.

Luciano was always looking at him. Martín knew he should be annoyed, because Luciano was trouble, even without the thing with his mother. His father worked in commerce – something about cotton or coffee or whatever, beneath him in every possible way. But Luciano had been so... cheerful, back then. When he wasn't running from classes. He was always smiling. And talking to people. And practicing the French verbs until he could pass as only really bad. Eager to please.

Not like this.

Martín had apologized, later. After that dinner. Sort of.

Well. He had implied he was sorry.

He could almost see it, and it felt a little like falling, but inside himself. Like following a dark tunnel. It was comforting to be sitting like this, to have the mast behind his back, because then he could be sure he wasn't upside down. He was standing at the door. He hadn't been invited in, but he didn't care. Luciano was packing, he didn't know why, but Luciano was packing and wasn't saying anything and he was furious. Martín could see that. Too angry to talk to him.

Look, you don't have to leave, he said. In a few weeks everyone will forget this and things will be back to normal.

Luciano turned.

He didn't talk much. Martín remembered that, because he had hoped he would. Luciano had looked so broken, so furious and so defeated. You didn't have to, he said. You didn't, we talked so much, and for so long, you could have said something, you didn't have to do it like that.

He hadn't seen him again.

Later someone said Lord Kirkland decided he wouldn't sponsor him anymore, and Martín felt stupid for forgetting that. And someone - one of the many friends Luciano had made - said it was Martín's fault, that he should pay for the rest of his education. All things considered.

So much for friendship, Martín thought, but he forced a smile and said that it was a good idea as long as his parents believed he had just bought himself a personal slave and they laughed, and thought he was mean and nasty and didn't mention it again, and he didn't, either.

But he was glad Luciano hadn't been there to hear that.

“So, are you awake?”

He raised his face. He felt Luciano's hand resting on his hair again, and tried to guess what he wanted, if he would leave or give him water again or kiss him. Luciano liked to kiss him. Martín knew it, because Luciano was always doing it. Kissing his face. And his lips.

He shouldn't. Not after all this time. Not after all that. And Martín shouldn't let him, after all this.

“What, you won't talk to me again?”

He didn't answer. He was here, the gray walls from the dormitory fading away with the wood cross on the wall and Luciano's books and the bed and the suitcase and the soft whisper from the other students and it was dark, he tried to blink, and it felt weird and his breath caught and he couldn't be here and then he could hear Luciano sighing:

“Come on, what's your problem? Are you afraid of the dark?”

He didn't wait for an answer. He just grabbed the bandanna and pulled it and Martín blinked slowly, to get used to it. The sky was a very dark shade of blue, almost silvery gray on the line of the horizon. There were stars, now.

It was beautiful. Really, really beautiful. And so relaxing, he hadn't noticed how much that knot behind his skull was bothering him, and how tight it was, and how easier it was to breathe without it, and how beautiful the sky was. Some distant part of him thought it was probably going to rain soon, it was that kind of heat, damp and thick, but it was so beautiful and perfect and right now he didn't care.

Then Luciano touched his face:

“Hey. You're not crying, are you?”

“Fuck you,” he whispered. He meant it. But Luciano just smiled, pleased, and then kissed him again and see? He was always doing that. So he liked it.

The sky was so gorgeous. Luciano was by his side, really close, sort of combing his hair now, pulling the strands from his forehead. Martín sighed:

“What happens now?”

“Nothing. My crew will have dinner. I'll go back to steering. You'll keep doing whatever you were doing. What did you expect?”

Something different, Martín thought. But he was too tired now. He turned to Luciano. Who was still caressing his hair.

“Will I get it?”

“Get what?”

“Dinner. Do I get to eat?”

Luciano grinned at him:

“That's not on my plans, no. I'm not that civilized. By the way, I hope you're grateful for the free drinks, because tomorrow you won't have so much.”

Martín looked away. He wasn't surprised. Or even that upset. Luciano wouldn't let him die. He could wait.

“My back hurts.”

“Really? I'm sorry about that.”

“Let me go.”

Luciano laughed. He held his chin, made Martín turn back to him.

“That's one thing I love about you, you're so stubborn. You never give up.”

He got up on his knees, and then straddled Martín's legs, sitting on his thighs. Martín didn't think much. He raised his face, a clear offer, and Luciano kissed his mouth again. It was slow and sweet, a kiss to be savored, like the kiss he had imagined back then. Luciano's hands on his shoulders, as if he didn't want to touch anything else, wanted to focus on his lips, his tongue inside Martín's mouth and Martín tried to forget where he was, sucking at his lower lip and biting softly and he thought he should take the chance, bite him for real, but before he could make up his mind Luciano pulled away.

So he just asked:

“What else?”

“Hm?”

“What else do you love about me?”

“Oh. That.” he laughed. It sounded like before, silly and bubbly, and Martín blinked a little faster, so he wouldn't forget where he was. So he wouldn't see a small café in Paris and a bright smile and-

“Well. There's the fact that you're beautiful.” Luciano pinched his cheek, “Of course, now you look like a lobster, but I like it.”

“Do you remember that day?”

“Which one? I remember many days.”

“We left early. Because you couldn't stand still. Someone told us to leave. Remember?”

Luciano's smile faltered, just for a second. Then it was back.

“That play? When you spent the whole evening hoping no one would see us? That one?”

Don't do that, Martín thought. Please. Don't be like that.

“You kissed me anyway.”

“So I did.”

“Why?”

Luciano sat back.

Martín thought he was going to leave. He would have held him, if he could, he'd have grabbed his arms and kissed him again, but he couldn't, and he wasn't going to beg.

Not begging. That sounded so empty. Like a lesson he had memorized, stripped of every meaning.

“Martín, do you know we're at war?”

“Just-”

“No, listen, you keep- bringing that up. But there's a war going on, you know? We fought. You lost, and now you're my prisoner. Right? What do you think, that I was targeting you? That I did it on purpose?”

“So this is normal. Nothing personal. Do you always kiss your prisoners?”

“You know, that's a good idea. Maybe I should. I could build a reputation with that. You can spread the rumor and-”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“... fine. I have work to do anyway.”

“No, not then, now, why are you doing this now? You know it's personal, we both do. I just want to know.”

“Well, sorry, but I have no idea,” now Luciano was upset. His eyes were serious and he pressed his lips and it looked like he was pouting. “I wasn't planning to join the war. I just reacted to the pirates-”

“-privateers.”

“And my father joined the army and I had to do something. I knew you were there, 'tho. And no, not because I asked,” he said, before Martín could say anything, “I talk to a lot of people, and for some reason they thought your name was relevant, and I was sure you'd get yourself killed. Or maybe we'd kill each other. I wondered what would happen if you tried to take my ship. What you'd do to me. I wondered if I'd kill you, and if I would know if I did.”

His voice was changing. Martín could hear the anger creeping in, the bitterness.

“Then I thought, he won't recognize me. He probably didn't think of me all this time, so who cares? But you wanted it. To kiss me, I mean. But then, I thought I could tell, and maybe I couldn't. I had time to think, and what I thought was, what if I can tell, what if I'm right, what if he really wanted me, but was just too coward to own up to it? And then what if we kill each other, wouldn't that be perfect? Wouldn't I love to kill him?”

He leaned over, his hand on Martín's hair. It was getting colder now, and for a crazy second Martín thought it was because of him, that Luciano's mood was affecting the sea and the wind. He tried to shake his head, but then Luciano held his hair a little tighter.

“And I thought, what are the chances? You were obviously going to die before I could even talk to you. I used to think you'd come back, because you wanted me, I thought you'd see it someday and come back, but now with all this you were going to die because you're too dumb to pick your battles and I wouldn't even get to know about it.” He pulled away. “And then you didn't. I feel cheated. So that's why I kissed you.”

“I just- look, it's not- I never said-”

Luciano was looking at him, and for a brief moment he was so anxious, the same naked eagerness in his eyes, waiting, like that afternoon when he glared at him and asked how he would feel with all the grilling questions and the nasty implications and his eyes were reddening and it had been so cold, back then, the European winter was starting to kick in and everything around them looked gray and his hair looked messy from the wind and no. The wind was now. He didn’t get it. It was summer. He had spent the whole day under the blazing sun. How could it be cold?

“So,” he said, weakly, “You missed me. That's- you said it. You thought about me.”

“... that's not what I said.”

“Yes it is. You were worried. You-”

“Shut up, Martín.”

He did. He didn't know what to say anyway, how to explain that, to Martín, he had always been Luciano-from-Paris and it was impossible to imagine him anywhere else. Even now, after a battle and a day being subjected to his whims, it was hard to picture him fighting. Or killing.

Or dying.

“I knew nothing bad would happen to you,” Martín whispered. “I knew you'd be safe.”

“How?”

The question sounded honest. And challenging. Martín tried to guess what they were talking about, what exactly Luciano wanted to know, but he was too tired, and his head hurt too much. He tried to straighten up his back, but he couldn't move with Luciano sitting on his legs like that.

“No, never mind,” Luciano said, “I know how. Just like you knew I'd be alright back then. After what you did. You were so sure that you didn't need to check, right? All those times, actually, you trusted me so much, right? Like now. You don't- look, this is stupid. Just say you don't care.”

“Care- what are you-”

Luciano touched his hair again. Running his fingers softly through the strands. It hurt, because his hair was dirty and damp with sweat and Luciano didn't stop, he forced his fingers through the tangles and he looked so focused, and Martín wondered if he had blacked out for a moment, if he had missed something. Maybe days had passed already, and that was why Luciano was silent, because he had nothing left to say, no unanswered questions, and it was possible, because now the sky behind him looked dark and Martín remembered the stars and now he couldn't see them. He remembered them. And the heat, and now it was getting colder, he could feel it, and there was something important he had to say. To Luciano. Who was combing his hair with his fingers, and thinking, and he had to say something.

He just didn't know what.

“You weren't my friend,” Luciano whispered, “You only talked to me when there was no one to see. And always far from the school. And you despised me. But you did talk to me, even when I didn't talk to you first, so I thought. What if.” He smiled. It was wrong and bitter and it didn't look like one of his smiles. “What if he likes me? And this is just because he's too afraid, or because of- something that it's not me being too- unlikable. I thought. Did you know I wanted you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course,” he said. He pinched his cheek lightly, almost tenderly, then went back to his hair, “I thought you did. I was obvious, wasn't I?”

“You were.”

Why was everything so dark? And cold?

“So I thought, he knows it, and he still talks to me, so maybe he doesn't mind? And then you invited me to the Opera and you let me kiss you-”

“You didn't ask,” Martín said.

Luciano twisted his hair on his fingers.

Then he slammed his head against the mast.

Martín wasn't expecting that. The pain exploded on the back of his head like fire spreading over and he was almost sure he was bleeding and then Luciano covered his mouth with his hand, and said:

“Don't scream. They'll come to watch.”

Martín nodded, eyes wide and a little frantic and Luciano was still holding his hair like that and what was going on?

“I'm tired, Martín, I'm really tired. Either you believe I forced you or you don't, and if you do, then what's the point of all this? Of talking to you? Or, for that matter, of trying to keep you safe when you don't deserve it, do you know this is the first good thing that I ever had, these people, this ship, do you know I'm putting my position on the line by not letting them kill you, do you know just how close I am to giving up? You are my fucking prisoner, I could let them have their fun and then throw you in the sea, or I could fuck you myself until we reach Montevideo or I could torture you for information, even if you probably don't know shit about anything important, and do you know how much I would enjoy that?”

“I'm- I don't-”

“No, shut up and listen and pay attention, you think I'm doing this because I know you, you think the only reason you're not being treated like a prince is because of what you did to me, and you know? You should be grateful, because if I didn't know you, you'd be dead. That's the only reason you're alive right now. Because I wasn't in the mood to kill you. So remember that. I didn't ask to kiss you, yes, but you let me do it and you wanted it, I know it, you know it, so- I get it, you didn't like it, you thought it was disgusting and wrong enough to fuck me over and stab me in the back and now-”

“No, listen, that's not how I-”

He backhanded him this time. It wasn't meant to humiliate him, it was meant to hurt, and then it was suddenly very easy to see him fighting, for real, to see him breaking someone's neck. The game had changed, Martín thought.

“Tell me you didn't care. Tell me that's why you never bothered to look for me, to-”

“I tried! The next day I went after you, I tried to talk but you wouldn't listen,” he knew he was babbling, but now it was panic talking, his head was pounding and his cheek stung and it was suddenly so cold and dark and he had to say it, before Luciano could hit him again, “And what was I supposed to say, look, sorry for that let's pretend it never happened, was that what you wanted to hear? We were friends and I liked- it wasn't possible, I had my- you know it wouldn't have worked, you didn't have any sense and it wasn't even about wanting to kiss you or not, you know, it was about survival! You don't know what could have happened-”

“You mean, like having to leave? Because now no one wants to be near you? And having people thinking you're a disgusting piece of shit and having your friends pretending they don't know you, as if you were planning to ask them anything anyway, because you never did but they still think you will and then saying things behind your back and- is that the kind of things you mean? That could have happened to you? If they had found out you wanted me to fuck you? Or do you mean things like dishonoring your family? Because I have no idea. This honor thing, is it important? Because I don't know, Martín, is it?”

“Please, just- please, Luciano.”

Don't do this to me. You said you wouldn't.

Luciano let go of his hair. He looked away, then sighed. It sounded forced and a lot like he was trying to breath out the anger, to get control, and that was a relief, unless he wanted to keep his head cold to think of a better punishment, but Martín didn't know and he couldn't guess and then Luciano got up.

“Well. That was enlightening. We should talk more.”

Everything hurt. His head and his face, from the blows and from the sun, and his eyes were burning, he couldn't feel his arms anymore and his back and maybe there was blood on his neck, he felt miserable and he wanted to cry and he wanted to be anywhere but here and Luciano was looking down at him, waiting for something, and then they heard the sound of distant thunder.

“It's going to rain,” Martín whispered.

“Looks like it.”

“You'll leave me here.”

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes.

He only opened when the first drop of water hit, and by then he was alone. Everything had a vague, dreamlike quality. The rain started very light, almost pleasant, after the heat from before. The noise was nice too, soft music played on the water and the wood of the ship. Martín raised his face, and closed his eyes again. He tried to imagine the blood being washed away, the water cooling the sting on his cheek.