[Fanfic] The Payback 6/7
Apr. 20th, 2011 12:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bersekerTitle: The Payback 6
Rating: PG-15?
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Warnings: Badtouching. And people tied to masts. And angst. The department of backstory is still in charge. Completely disregard of grammar rules. Well, not completely. But you know.
Summary:Martín Hernandez is captured by Luciano da Silva, a former... acquaintance with a score to settle.
Muchas gracias to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
zulenha for betareading it for me and to sakuratsukikage for everything ♥♥♥
Part 5: Martín raised his face, eyes still closed. It was nice, to have water he wasn't forced to drink. His lips were chapped and dry and he knew this wouldn't help, but it felt good. He tried to imagine the blood being washed away, the water cooling the sting on his cheek.
Maybe Luciano would do something, if it became a real storm. Not let him go, but... take him inside his cabin, something. After all, he had spent the day giving him water even if Martín didn't want to drink it, and maybe the blindfold had been because he was worried. And he had stopped his crew from touching him. Even if he hadn't refrained from doing so himself. From kissing him. Martín tried to remember how many times Luciano had done it.
Just once, he thought. But that wasn't true, he knew it. That had been the right answer until yesterday, but not anymore. One kiss.
If that.
He had been furious and embarrassed. Luciano, on the other hand, had cheered up as soon as they left the Opera, as if he didn't even know that tomorrow everyone would be talking about it, about how they couldn't behave in public. And, more importantly, how Martín shouldn't associate with the likes of him because people would stop inviting him if he insisted in dragging that idiot along, which he didn't, thank you, it had been just this time and never again, and he was trying to calm down enough to tell him and be coherent, because right now he just wanted to shake him. Luciano was trying to hide a smile. At his expenses. As always. So the ride back to school was silent and awkward and full of unspoken threats and as soon as they got inside the dormitory Martín started to rant and Luciano gave him one of his kicked puppy looks.
Come on, he said, you can't be that angry. And Martín told him he was going back to his room and Luciano should go back to his, and never talk to him again.
That was how it started.
No. No it wasn't, this had started a long time ago, it had started the first time Martín touched his arm and Luciano thought it meant he could touch him whenever he wanted.
This was how it started to end.
Luciano held his waist. And then he hugged him, and rested his head on Martín's shoulder and Martín asked if he was crazy, because they were fighting, for fuck's sake, and tried to get him off. Luciano held tighter, arms around his waist, pressing his cheek to his shoulder.
So Martín sort of maybe patted his back. Just so he would get a hint and let go. And then Luciano looked up and beamed at him and Martín got a little distracted by his lips. Again. He should get over this, eventually, because it was starting to get on his nerves, how beautiful and different Luciano's face was, with the huge black eyes and the thick eyelashes almost like a girl's and Martín was touching his hair, then, without ever quite deciding to do so. It felt so wrong, so strange and wrong, wrong, that was all he could think, he shouldn't, he couldn't, but Luciano's hair was soft and so fun to touch, full of curls and little ringlets and Martín wondered if he ever combed it, and then Luciano started to play with his too, one arm still holding his waist, keeping him close, and the other on the back of his neck, and now it was like he couldn't get away even if he wanted to because then he would have to let go. And make Luciano let go of him. And he couldn't do that. Not when Luciano was looking at him like that, because even if Martín was used to being admired no one had ever looked at him this way.
So he let Luciano hold him. And pull his head down. And press his lips against his, barely touching, and that felt like fire suddenly running up and down his spine and nothing like he had imagined, it shouldn't have been like this, it shouldn't have been this sweet, and when Luciano pulled away Martín opened his eyes, and he hadn't even noticed he had them closed.
I'm sorry, Luciano said. He was smiling, his eyes alight with happiness. Sorry about the play. Are you still mad at me?
So he could have said yes. He could have pushed him away, he could have explained, as politely as he could, that this couldn't happen ever again, and certainly not here at school and he could have said he didn't like it, didn't like the way Luciano could make him forget everything with one touch, he could have walked away, and he could have done anything that wasn't just standing there blushing like an idiot hoping he would kiss him again.
Someone kicked his leg. He opened his eyes, startled, and it was raining and he couldn't figure out what they wanted, but then the man had sort of jumped over his legs and was going away and he got it. He bent his knees against his chest and it was unfair, he wasn't in their way on purpose. But fine. And the kick hadn't been too hard, but it hurt a little and he wanted to rub the sting away but he couldn't, so he tried to stop thinking about it, and it wasn't even all that hard. Things seemed so light, now. Every idea floating around him, like a painting in the air.
Luciano-from-Paris has kissed him once, had left his room with a shy, soft smile on his lips. He couldn't know Martín had spent the night regretting it and wishing it hadn't happened, and Luciano had kissed him a few times yesterday and his face and his mouth and he had hit him too but maybe he knew what he was doing, like now. It was raining, and he had left him here. But he'd come if it got too bad, maybe? And then, he would make him starve but he wouldn't let him die, and he'd made him drink water, he worried about his eyes so maybe there was still something.
Maybe he could ask him. Just go and say I'm sorry I ruined your life, are you still mad at me?
The ship seemed strange now, otherworldly. He wished he could rub his eyes, and stretch his arms, just a little, touch the back of his head to see the damage because now it hurt when he tried to rest against the mast. He could see the shadows of the men moving around him, like ghosts walking in the rain. His hair was plastered to his face, and he wanted to take off the wet stockings and it was such a dumb thing to worry about. It was cold, and he gritted his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. Maybe they could give him his coat back, now he wanted it. Just until the rain stopped.
It hadn't even been that bad, he thought. Had thought, back then. He rested his head on his knees, but then his shoulders hurt too much and he had to look up. This was bad. He had done this earlier today, so why couldn't he do it again? He tried to rest against the mast, very carefully, so it wouldn't hurt. He wished Luciano hadn't done that. Hit him like that.
It hadn't been that bad. Only it had.
The rain stopped. Eventually. He was hungry, but he could ignore it. He could take this. The stars were back and he could see the Southern Cross, and he tried to remember how it looked from the window back home. Tried to place where his bed would be. It looks like this, Luciano had said, pointing at the sky and tracing it, and Martín smiled because he knew that, but it had never occurred to him to be homesick over stars.
The sky went darker, and then it changed to lighter shades of blue. Martín stretched his legs again, but no one minded this time. He couldn't decide if he had fallen asleep or not, because the night had ended fast, so he must have, but he'd been watching the stars all the time and listening to the waves, so maybe he had been awake all along. And he was tired. He couldn't fully open his eyes anymore – no, he could, if he wanted to, but he didn't, because he was tired.
The sky went gray. He hated that color. Then the sun was rising, and there was pink, orange and red, and then indigo and then light blue, and Martín wondered if he would be blindfolded again.
He could hear the noise from the crew. It was strange, like hearing it from inside a glass. They were talking and laughing and some patted his head when they passed and God not this again.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the sun was higher in the sky, and it was even hotter than yesterday. And lighter. He tried to guess how long he'd been asleep. Could have been a few hours. Or more. There was nothing to prove he hadn't slept for days, or weeks, and he wished Luciano would come talk to him. Luciano was real. Not like this ghost ship with people who only existed when they were right in front of him.
That distracted him. Maybe that's why they had tied him like that, so he couldn't look around, so he wouldn't notice nothing here was real. And it got dark when Luciano was angry, light when he was happy, and the sun was only there because he was like that, made of heat and warmth and fire and light.
His eyes hurt. Maybe he could sleep again. Until they reached whatever place Luciano was planning to leave him at. Or forever. He wished he could slide down, and lay down a little, but that would break his arms. Maybe Luciano would let him out again, or tie him in a different way. If he asked.
He wasn't going to ask. Ever.
“Hey, you need water.”
He opened his eyes. Just a little, so the light wouldn't hurt. His eyelids were so heavy. He had never noticed how much work it took to open them. Why hadn't he ever noticed that?
“'m not thirsty,” he said.
Luciano sighed. Martín tried again:
“I'm not- just- not thirsty.”
There. He closed his eyes again.
Then Luciano brought the bottle to his lips anyway, and he couldn't hold back a groan.
“I'm sorry, but it's too hot, so. You should be thirsty. Come on, drink it.”
It wasn't like he could refuse it. So he tried to swallow, but after a few seconds he was too tired to keep trying.
“Martín-”
Later, he said. I'll drink it later. But then no sound came out.
“... are you alright?”
My head hurts, he thought. He was almost sure he had said it. Moved his lips, anyway. But Luciano seemed to get it, because then he knelt by his side and made him tilt his head, one hand on his forehead, the other pressing his head down. Martín didn't resist. He wanted to know if there was blood.
“No,” Luciano said, when he finally let him raise his head. See, he had asked. He wasn't going crazy. “But you'll have a nice bump later. Will you believe me if I say I'm sorry?”
“You said it yesterday.”
It was almost a whisper, but clear enough for Luciano to get. Good. Now he could go back to thinking about nothing.
“You meant that?”
… oh come on.
“That I forced you?” Luciano insisted, “To kiss me?”
“I didn't even say that...”
“Yeah. I'm sorry, I'm being stupid. Are you sure you're not thirsty?”
“Yes.” Then he added, “Thank you.”
He heard Luciano getting up.
He hadn't kissed him, this time. Or touched his hair or his face or anything but that quick checking and this was wrong, and strange, and maybe he was really angry. So maybe it would rain again.
He had never said that. Not last night for sure, that was Luciano being an idiot. But before, that wasn't exactly what he meant because he didn't go around claiming people had kissed him by force, because Luciano wasn't exactly intimidating or anything, because he hadn't tied people to masts yet and hadn't punched them and threatened to break their necks so he didn't know, and Martín didn't mean it like that, he was just trying to say he didn't want it to happen again.
For that, he had to say he hadn't wanted it in the first place.
Lord Kirkland was as blue blood as anyone could ever dream to be, and he was sponsoring Luciano's education God only knew why. But that granted Luciano access to places that would have been forbidden otherwise, sometimes even more than the other students, and it was right the next day. The dinner. Monsieur Bonnefoy smiled at them and told them Arthur enjoyed a good conversation and, failing that, sending people home in tears, so they should be prepared to discuss more politics than they had ever cared about, and by then Martín had managed to convince himself that last night had been a dream, and he was trying not to look too much at Luciano, because it made him go red and then everyone would notice it.
Luciano wasn't getting it. As usual. He was surprised and a little hurt when Martín cut him off to say they should get ready, and the whole day was full of little incidents like that because Luciano was clingy and needy and couldn't take a hint. Martín tried to imagine introducing him to his family. How his parents would react. He was the son of a merchant and a- well. Obviously not one of them.
And he had kissed him.
And then, from the moment they entered the dining room to the moment they left hours later, everything had been a blur, a cloud of sentences and looks and gestures and silver and crystal and soft music, and Lord Kirkland's eyes and silence and whispers, and it was like everything had happened at the same time.
Which couldn't be true.
Arthur Kirkland greeted his guests, and shook their hands, at some point. Martín never knew what to say when he was near him, so he didn't try, because he’d babble and look stupid. Luciano, who didn't mind looking stupid, did, and Martín couldn't hear their conversation, just see that it was happening.
Luciano was smiling. Arthur Kirkland wasn't.
At some point, the dinner started, and they were close, because Luciano was sitting by Arthur's side, probably so people wouldn't take him for one of the servants. Martín was there because he was, because it was his place to be here, to be invited to houses like this, to belong.
At some point, Arthur looked at them, stern and almost fatherly, to Martín, anyway, who always thought fathers should act like that, and asked what was all the talk he had been hearing about the Opera last night, and then the silence engulfed them like something solid, even if it was probably everyone minding their own business and pretending nothing was happening. Martín could feel the blush going up his neck, warming up his cheeks.
Luciano smiled and asked what he had heard, and then Arthur scolded them for not behaving properly and maybe it went too far, or maybe it didn't. But it sounded so threatening, like he was this close to kicking them out, like something that could ruin their reputation, and Luciano was smiling and treating it like a big adventure, like something people did all the time, and all Martín could think of was how that wasn't his fault. And what Arthur would say if he knew about the rest. The hug. And the kiss.
At some point Arthur stopped, and told them he expected better behavior from now on. Luciano nodded meekly and then, when Arthur looked away, he winked at Martín, and this just made him blush harder.
At some point Martín smiled. And his smile made Luciano frown, and at some point Martín opened his mouth. And said, still smiling as if he didn't care, as if the burn of shame and anger in his cheeks was something from the lights, that yes, Arthur was right, it had been so embarrassing, and he hoped it would be forgotten by the time he went there again, and then, he said, smiling at Luciano, maybe he wouldn't invite him next time, because he clearly didn't like it.
So it wasn't much. It wasn't serious, nothing that couldn't be forgiven – eventually. Luciano looked at him, sort of not exactly smiling, but almost, hesitant, trying to guess what he was trying to do. So Martín smiled back, wide and sharp, and then Arthur cleared his throat and changed the subject with a pointed look at both of them, and Luciano stared at his plate, and then Martín asked if he needed help to figure out which fork he should use.
No, Luciano said, but thank you, and Martín could see the doubt in his eyes, so he told him he was getting the wrong one, and then Luciano stopped and let go and Martín laughed, and said, sorry, my mistake, and Martín looked at Arthur and said, you should see him at school, it's painful to watch. We really love him.
Arthur was frowning. But it didn't matter, because he wasn't part of this anymore, Luciano was. And everyone needed to know that Martín wasn't like him. That he hadn't been raised by a former slave or whatever she was. That he knew the right fork. That he was different.
I'm sure you do, Luciano said. It didn't sound challenging. Or like he was talking about Martín at all. So he probably meant their classmates, because his voice still sounded unsure, as if he couldn't decide if Martín was making a joke he couldn't get or what was going on. Martín just said, next time someone will take you, because I did my part already. And then the servants were filling their plates, and he playfully pointed out that Luciano had spilled something on the tablecloth and maybe he should try to forget the forks and just eat with his hands and then Luciano looked up at him and asked why he was doing this.
His voice was just a little shaky, and now people were listening and then it was too late to stop, because no one reacted like that, no man would, and if Luciano had told him to shut up or to take it outside or had ignored him and turned to talk to someone else, it would have ended right there. But he looked like a wounded puppy and anyone could see there was something going on and Martín had to get himself out of this, because people would wonder, were wondering already. Even Arthur was watching, still scowling, but watching.
Martín forced a smile that felt more like he was twisting his lip and said, my God, Luciano, maybe I should have sent you a break-up letter? You don't think your parents will want to talk to mine, do you?
This is not why I invited you, Arthur said, very softly. It wasn't important. Martín looked down to the silverware, and started to eat like nothing had happened, and Luciano whispered, I'm sorry, I didn't know you cared so much about Opera. It sounded hollow, and Martín said, you wouldn't know, it's not your type of entertainment, and then Luciano said, not yours either, you left with me, and he was whispering, and looking at his plate and asking for it, and everyone was listening, so Martín smiled, and said, it's not like I had any choice, after what you did? And Luciano said, you weren't complaining last night, and Martín knew his face was burning and he could hear the shock of everyone who listened and he said, complain about what, taking you back to school? It was the only thing I could do, since you can't hire a coach yourself, and Luciano said, fine, then, you're richer than me, everyone got that? Can we move on? And Arthur asked him to keep his voice low and then Martín said don't worry, I don't mind, but, Luciano, really.
And he didn't talk like that, they both knew it. Cutting the sentences like that. He tended to go on and on or be snappish and curt when he was angry, but this sounded more aristocratic, somehow, maybe because Arthur himself did pauses when he talked and he was as classy as one could be, so Martín said it loud and clearly, Luciano, really. Don't be like that. You know I find your crush on me absolutely endearing, but you didn't expect me to return it, I'm sure?
Luciano looked at him, stunned, and then he laughed. Because Martín had never talked like that, because it sounded memorized, it sounded cheap and forced and both knew it, and his shoulders shook as he hid his face in his hands and tried to regain his composure, and he looked at Arthur and said I'm sorry, I need to go now, I can't- I'm so sorry, I should-
And then he got up and the table was silent, and now Martín was feeling sick, and the next day Bonnefoy wasn't saying much of anything, he just sighed and told them Arthur couldn't take another scandal, and then he thought about it and said, well, he can. But he won't.
So Luciano was packing. So Luciano looked at him and said you didn't have to do it. You could have told me. You could have waited. I was happy, you invited me to watch that shit and we came back together and I was so happy, I thought I had finally impressed you enough, I was so, so happy, why did you do this to me? You didn't have to.
And Martín waited, and listened, because he hadn't known Luciano would have to leave, hadn't seen it coming, but he couldn't say that, couldn't explain that he just wanted to push him away, not completely fuck him over.
So he said, why did you kiss me?
Luciano stared. He was hurt and defeated and on the verge of breaking down, and now he had nothing to lose anymore. They both thought of that at the same time.
So Martín left.
The rumors subsided, at some point. After a while. The whole thing became a joke, everyone said Luciano didn't belong there anyway. Martín finished his education, and then came back to South America, to fight for the United Provinces.
He never thought about that, ever. Except for snippets of conversation, a few words he couldn't place, the gray sky of Paris. The sound of laughter, the touch. And one kiss that was barely that.
tbc
Rating: PG-15?
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Warnings: Badtouching. And people tied to masts. And angst. The department of backstory is still in charge. Completely disregard of grammar rules. Well, not completely. But you know.
Summary:Martín Hernandez is captured by Luciano da Silva, a former... acquaintance with a score to settle.
Muchas gracias to
zulenha for betareading it for me and to sakuratsukikage for everything ♥♥♥Part 5: Martín raised his face, eyes still closed. It was nice, to have water he wasn't forced to drink. His lips were chapped and dry and he knew this wouldn't help, but it felt good. He tried to imagine the blood being washed away, the water cooling the sting on his cheek.
Maybe Luciano would do something, if it became a real storm. Not let him go, but... take him inside his cabin, something. After all, he had spent the day giving him water even if Martín didn't want to drink it, and maybe the blindfold had been because he was worried. And he had stopped his crew from touching him. Even if he hadn't refrained from doing so himself. From kissing him. Martín tried to remember how many times Luciano had done it.
Just once, he thought. But that wasn't true, he knew it. That had been the right answer until yesterday, but not anymore. One kiss.
If that.
He had been furious and embarrassed. Luciano, on the other hand, had cheered up as soon as they left the Opera, as if he didn't even know that tomorrow everyone would be talking about it, about how they couldn't behave in public. And, more importantly, how Martín shouldn't associate with the likes of him because people would stop inviting him if he insisted in dragging that idiot along, which he didn't, thank you, it had been just this time and never again, and he was trying to calm down enough to tell him and be coherent, because right now he just wanted to shake him. Luciano was trying to hide a smile. At his expenses. As always. So the ride back to school was silent and awkward and full of unspoken threats and as soon as they got inside the dormitory Martín started to rant and Luciano gave him one of his kicked puppy looks.
Come on, he said, you can't be that angry. And Martín told him he was going back to his room and Luciano should go back to his, and never talk to him again.
That was how it started.
No. No it wasn't, this had started a long time ago, it had started the first time Martín touched his arm and Luciano thought it meant he could touch him whenever he wanted.
This was how it started to end.
Luciano held his waist. And then he hugged him, and rested his head on Martín's shoulder and Martín asked if he was crazy, because they were fighting, for fuck's sake, and tried to get him off. Luciano held tighter, arms around his waist, pressing his cheek to his shoulder.
So Martín sort of maybe patted his back. Just so he would get a hint and let go. And then Luciano looked up and beamed at him and Martín got a little distracted by his lips. Again. He should get over this, eventually, because it was starting to get on his nerves, how beautiful and different Luciano's face was, with the huge black eyes and the thick eyelashes almost like a girl's and Martín was touching his hair, then, without ever quite deciding to do so. It felt so wrong, so strange and wrong, wrong, that was all he could think, he shouldn't, he couldn't, but Luciano's hair was soft and so fun to touch, full of curls and little ringlets and Martín wondered if he ever combed it, and then Luciano started to play with his too, one arm still holding his waist, keeping him close, and the other on the back of his neck, and now it was like he couldn't get away even if he wanted to because then he would have to let go. And make Luciano let go of him. And he couldn't do that. Not when Luciano was looking at him like that, because even if Martín was used to being admired no one had ever looked at him this way.
So he let Luciano hold him. And pull his head down. And press his lips against his, barely touching, and that felt like fire suddenly running up and down his spine and nothing like he had imagined, it shouldn't have been like this, it shouldn't have been this sweet, and when Luciano pulled away Martín opened his eyes, and he hadn't even noticed he had them closed.
I'm sorry, Luciano said. He was smiling, his eyes alight with happiness. Sorry about the play. Are you still mad at me?
So he could have said yes. He could have pushed him away, he could have explained, as politely as he could, that this couldn't happen ever again, and certainly not here at school and he could have said he didn't like it, didn't like the way Luciano could make him forget everything with one touch, he could have walked away, and he could have done anything that wasn't just standing there blushing like an idiot hoping he would kiss him again.
Someone kicked his leg. He opened his eyes, startled, and it was raining and he couldn't figure out what they wanted, but then the man had sort of jumped over his legs and was going away and he got it. He bent his knees against his chest and it was unfair, he wasn't in their way on purpose. But fine. And the kick hadn't been too hard, but it hurt a little and he wanted to rub the sting away but he couldn't, so he tried to stop thinking about it, and it wasn't even all that hard. Things seemed so light, now. Every idea floating around him, like a painting in the air.
Luciano-from-Paris has kissed him once, had left his room with a shy, soft smile on his lips. He couldn't know Martín had spent the night regretting it and wishing it hadn't happened, and Luciano had kissed him a few times yesterday and his face and his mouth and he had hit him too but maybe he knew what he was doing, like now. It was raining, and he had left him here. But he'd come if it got too bad, maybe? And then, he would make him starve but he wouldn't let him die, and he'd made him drink water, he worried about his eyes so maybe there was still something.
Maybe he could ask him. Just go and say I'm sorry I ruined your life, are you still mad at me?
The ship seemed strange now, otherworldly. He wished he could rub his eyes, and stretch his arms, just a little, touch the back of his head to see the damage because now it hurt when he tried to rest against the mast. He could see the shadows of the men moving around him, like ghosts walking in the rain. His hair was plastered to his face, and he wanted to take off the wet stockings and it was such a dumb thing to worry about. It was cold, and he gritted his teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. Maybe they could give him his coat back, now he wanted it. Just until the rain stopped.
It hadn't even been that bad, he thought. Had thought, back then. He rested his head on his knees, but then his shoulders hurt too much and he had to look up. This was bad. He had done this earlier today, so why couldn't he do it again? He tried to rest against the mast, very carefully, so it wouldn't hurt. He wished Luciano hadn't done that. Hit him like that.
It hadn't been that bad. Only it had.
The rain stopped. Eventually. He was hungry, but he could ignore it. He could take this. The stars were back and he could see the Southern Cross, and he tried to remember how it looked from the window back home. Tried to place where his bed would be. It looks like this, Luciano had said, pointing at the sky and tracing it, and Martín smiled because he knew that, but it had never occurred to him to be homesick over stars.
The sky went darker, and then it changed to lighter shades of blue. Martín stretched his legs again, but no one minded this time. He couldn't decide if he had fallen asleep or not, because the night had ended fast, so he must have, but he'd been watching the stars all the time and listening to the waves, so maybe he had been awake all along. And he was tired. He couldn't fully open his eyes anymore – no, he could, if he wanted to, but he didn't, because he was tired.
The sky went gray. He hated that color. Then the sun was rising, and there was pink, orange and red, and then indigo and then light blue, and Martín wondered if he would be blindfolded again.
He could hear the noise from the crew. It was strange, like hearing it from inside a glass. They were talking and laughing and some patted his head when they passed and God not this again.
He closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, the sun was higher in the sky, and it was even hotter than yesterday. And lighter. He tried to guess how long he'd been asleep. Could have been a few hours. Or more. There was nothing to prove he hadn't slept for days, or weeks, and he wished Luciano would come talk to him. Luciano was real. Not like this ghost ship with people who only existed when they were right in front of him.
That distracted him. Maybe that's why they had tied him like that, so he couldn't look around, so he wouldn't notice nothing here was real. And it got dark when Luciano was angry, light when he was happy, and the sun was only there because he was like that, made of heat and warmth and fire and light.
His eyes hurt. Maybe he could sleep again. Until they reached whatever place Luciano was planning to leave him at. Or forever. He wished he could slide down, and lay down a little, but that would break his arms. Maybe Luciano would let him out again, or tie him in a different way. If he asked.
He wasn't going to ask. Ever.
“Hey, you need water.”
He opened his eyes. Just a little, so the light wouldn't hurt. His eyelids were so heavy. He had never noticed how much work it took to open them. Why hadn't he ever noticed that?
“'m not thirsty,” he said.
Luciano sighed. Martín tried again:
“I'm not- just- not thirsty.”
There. He closed his eyes again.
Then Luciano brought the bottle to his lips anyway, and he couldn't hold back a groan.
“I'm sorry, but it's too hot, so. You should be thirsty. Come on, drink it.”
It wasn't like he could refuse it. So he tried to swallow, but after a few seconds he was too tired to keep trying.
“Martín-”
Later, he said. I'll drink it later. But then no sound came out.
“... are you alright?”
My head hurts, he thought. He was almost sure he had said it. Moved his lips, anyway. But Luciano seemed to get it, because then he knelt by his side and made him tilt his head, one hand on his forehead, the other pressing his head down. Martín didn't resist. He wanted to know if there was blood.
“No,” Luciano said, when he finally let him raise his head. See, he had asked. He wasn't going crazy. “But you'll have a nice bump later. Will you believe me if I say I'm sorry?”
“You said it yesterday.”
It was almost a whisper, but clear enough for Luciano to get. Good. Now he could go back to thinking about nothing.
“You meant that?”
… oh come on.
“That I forced you?” Luciano insisted, “To kiss me?”
“I didn't even say that...”
“Yeah. I'm sorry, I'm being stupid. Are you sure you're not thirsty?”
“Yes.” Then he added, “Thank you.”
He heard Luciano getting up.
He hadn't kissed him, this time. Or touched his hair or his face or anything but that quick checking and this was wrong, and strange, and maybe he was really angry. So maybe it would rain again.
He had never said that. Not last night for sure, that was Luciano being an idiot. But before, that wasn't exactly what he meant because he didn't go around claiming people had kissed him by force, because Luciano wasn't exactly intimidating or anything, because he hadn't tied people to masts yet and hadn't punched them and threatened to break their necks so he didn't know, and Martín didn't mean it like that, he was just trying to say he didn't want it to happen again.
For that, he had to say he hadn't wanted it in the first place.
Lord Kirkland was as blue blood as anyone could ever dream to be, and he was sponsoring Luciano's education God only knew why. But that granted Luciano access to places that would have been forbidden otherwise, sometimes even more than the other students, and it was right the next day. The dinner. Monsieur Bonnefoy smiled at them and told them Arthur enjoyed a good conversation and, failing that, sending people home in tears, so they should be prepared to discuss more politics than they had ever cared about, and by then Martín had managed to convince himself that last night had been a dream, and he was trying not to look too much at Luciano, because it made him go red and then everyone would notice it.
Luciano wasn't getting it. As usual. He was surprised and a little hurt when Martín cut him off to say they should get ready, and the whole day was full of little incidents like that because Luciano was clingy and needy and couldn't take a hint. Martín tried to imagine introducing him to his family. How his parents would react. He was the son of a merchant and a- well. Obviously not one of them.
And he had kissed him.
And then, from the moment they entered the dining room to the moment they left hours later, everything had been a blur, a cloud of sentences and looks and gestures and silver and crystal and soft music, and Lord Kirkland's eyes and silence and whispers, and it was like everything had happened at the same time.
Which couldn't be true.
Arthur Kirkland greeted his guests, and shook their hands, at some point. Martín never knew what to say when he was near him, so he didn't try, because he’d babble and look stupid. Luciano, who didn't mind looking stupid, did, and Martín couldn't hear their conversation, just see that it was happening.
Luciano was smiling. Arthur Kirkland wasn't.
At some point, the dinner started, and they were close, because Luciano was sitting by Arthur's side, probably so people wouldn't take him for one of the servants. Martín was there because he was, because it was his place to be here, to be invited to houses like this, to belong.
At some point, Arthur looked at them, stern and almost fatherly, to Martín, anyway, who always thought fathers should act like that, and asked what was all the talk he had been hearing about the Opera last night, and then the silence engulfed them like something solid, even if it was probably everyone minding their own business and pretending nothing was happening. Martín could feel the blush going up his neck, warming up his cheeks.
Luciano smiled and asked what he had heard, and then Arthur scolded them for not behaving properly and maybe it went too far, or maybe it didn't. But it sounded so threatening, like he was this close to kicking them out, like something that could ruin their reputation, and Luciano was smiling and treating it like a big adventure, like something people did all the time, and all Martín could think of was how that wasn't his fault. And what Arthur would say if he knew about the rest. The hug. And the kiss.
At some point Arthur stopped, and told them he expected better behavior from now on. Luciano nodded meekly and then, when Arthur looked away, he winked at Martín, and this just made him blush harder.
At some point Martín smiled. And his smile made Luciano frown, and at some point Martín opened his mouth. And said, still smiling as if he didn't care, as if the burn of shame and anger in his cheeks was something from the lights, that yes, Arthur was right, it had been so embarrassing, and he hoped it would be forgotten by the time he went there again, and then, he said, smiling at Luciano, maybe he wouldn't invite him next time, because he clearly didn't like it.
So it wasn't much. It wasn't serious, nothing that couldn't be forgiven – eventually. Luciano looked at him, sort of not exactly smiling, but almost, hesitant, trying to guess what he was trying to do. So Martín smiled back, wide and sharp, and then Arthur cleared his throat and changed the subject with a pointed look at both of them, and Luciano stared at his plate, and then Martín asked if he needed help to figure out which fork he should use.
No, Luciano said, but thank you, and Martín could see the doubt in his eyes, so he told him he was getting the wrong one, and then Luciano stopped and let go and Martín laughed, and said, sorry, my mistake, and Martín looked at Arthur and said, you should see him at school, it's painful to watch. We really love him.
Arthur was frowning. But it didn't matter, because he wasn't part of this anymore, Luciano was. And everyone needed to know that Martín wasn't like him. That he hadn't been raised by a former slave or whatever she was. That he knew the right fork. That he was different.
I'm sure you do, Luciano said. It didn't sound challenging. Or like he was talking about Martín at all. So he probably meant their classmates, because his voice still sounded unsure, as if he couldn't decide if Martín was making a joke he couldn't get or what was going on. Martín just said, next time someone will take you, because I did my part already. And then the servants were filling their plates, and he playfully pointed out that Luciano had spilled something on the tablecloth and maybe he should try to forget the forks and just eat with his hands and then Luciano looked up at him and asked why he was doing this.
His voice was just a little shaky, and now people were listening and then it was too late to stop, because no one reacted like that, no man would, and if Luciano had told him to shut up or to take it outside or had ignored him and turned to talk to someone else, it would have ended right there. But he looked like a wounded puppy and anyone could see there was something going on and Martín had to get himself out of this, because people would wonder, were wondering already. Even Arthur was watching, still scowling, but watching.
Martín forced a smile that felt more like he was twisting his lip and said, my God, Luciano, maybe I should have sent you a break-up letter? You don't think your parents will want to talk to mine, do you?
This is not why I invited you, Arthur said, very softly. It wasn't important. Martín looked down to the silverware, and started to eat like nothing had happened, and Luciano whispered, I'm sorry, I didn't know you cared so much about Opera. It sounded hollow, and Martín said, you wouldn't know, it's not your type of entertainment, and then Luciano said, not yours either, you left with me, and he was whispering, and looking at his plate and asking for it, and everyone was listening, so Martín smiled, and said, it's not like I had any choice, after what you did? And Luciano said, you weren't complaining last night, and Martín knew his face was burning and he could hear the shock of everyone who listened and he said, complain about what, taking you back to school? It was the only thing I could do, since you can't hire a coach yourself, and Luciano said, fine, then, you're richer than me, everyone got that? Can we move on? And Arthur asked him to keep his voice low and then Martín said don't worry, I don't mind, but, Luciano, really.
And he didn't talk like that, they both knew it. Cutting the sentences like that. He tended to go on and on or be snappish and curt when he was angry, but this sounded more aristocratic, somehow, maybe because Arthur himself did pauses when he talked and he was as classy as one could be, so Martín said it loud and clearly, Luciano, really. Don't be like that. You know I find your crush on me absolutely endearing, but you didn't expect me to return it, I'm sure?
Luciano looked at him, stunned, and then he laughed. Because Martín had never talked like that, because it sounded memorized, it sounded cheap and forced and both knew it, and his shoulders shook as he hid his face in his hands and tried to regain his composure, and he looked at Arthur and said I'm sorry, I need to go now, I can't- I'm so sorry, I should-
And then he got up and the table was silent, and now Martín was feeling sick, and the next day Bonnefoy wasn't saying much of anything, he just sighed and told them Arthur couldn't take another scandal, and then he thought about it and said, well, he can. But he won't.
So Luciano was packing. So Luciano looked at him and said you didn't have to do it. You could have told me. You could have waited. I was happy, you invited me to watch that shit and we came back together and I was so happy, I thought I had finally impressed you enough, I was so, so happy, why did you do this to me? You didn't have to.
And Martín waited, and listened, because he hadn't known Luciano would have to leave, hadn't seen it coming, but he couldn't say that, couldn't explain that he just wanted to push him away, not completely fuck him over.
So he said, why did you kiss me?
Luciano stared. He was hurt and defeated and on the verge of breaking down, and now he had nothing to lose anymore. They both thought of that at the same time.
So Martín left.
The rumors subsided, at some point. After a while. The whole thing became a joke, everyone said Luciano didn't belong there anyway. Martín finished his education, and then came back to South America, to fight for the United Provinces.
He never thought about that, ever. Except for snippets of conversation, a few words he couldn't place, the gray sky of Paris. The sound of laughter, the touch. And one kiss that was barely that.
tbc
