![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] The Promise 3/?
Title: The Promise
Authors: berseker and sakuratsukikage, not in this order.
Rating: PG-15
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Summary: Martín tries to keep his word. Luciano is more than a little surprised. Sequel to the PirateAU.
With thanks to zulenha for the betareading <3
Part 2: Martín didn't follow him. Luciano wasn't even sure he would leave the party, he would probably stay and enjoy it a bit more, and anyway. Following people wasn't his style.
Luciano went back to his house. Of course. It was too late to do anything but go back home or get drunk, and Luciano wasn’t at the getting drunk stage. Yet. Or maybe he was, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. He needed to... to think this through, anyway.
That sounded a lot easier than it was. He wasn’t sure if he could even start thinking about it. It was like everything he’d believed and told himself had suddenly evaporated, like the world had turned inside out, or upside down, and everything that had been true was a lie now, and everything that had been a dream was real. Thinking that Martín had actually come looking for him, like he’d said he would, almost made him dizzy. Forget almost, he was dizzy, so dizzy he couldn’t think at all. It didn’t make sense.
This was the whole problem when people started making things complicated. After a while you couldn’t figure out what you thought or how you felt, and it hurt, and didn’t even know if that was a bad thing anymore, despite the pain. Luciano didn’t appreciate feeling like that. That was the thing about Martín. He made Luciano want to be stupid. He always had, ever since Luciano had first met him. He just hadn’t realized how stupid he was being, the first time. He’d had no idea. Walked into it like an idiot. And he didn’t want to do that again.
Martín had done this to him ever since the beginning, ever since they’d first met, and he hadn’t acted like Luciano had expected him to, and everyone must have thought he’d been such an idiot over him, back then. He wondered if Martín had thought he was being an idiot, because it wasn’t like his feelings had exactly been hidden, had they? Martín had known. He’d said he had, that he’d known, that he’d known all along, after all, on the ship. And it had been his fault, anyway, in the first place. He was the one who’d come to talk to Luciano, after all. He was the one who’d started it. If he just wanted Luciano to leave him alone he should have never talked to him in the first place.
Granted, he hadn't been exactly nice, that day – or, well, ever. But Martín was strange. Strange sense of humor, strange way to make friends, strange everything. Luciano had wondered, back then, after a while, if people liked Martín. He was interesting, of course, and beautiful and smart and charming and sure of himself and he seemed to attract people, somehow, but he wasn't exactly likable. Nice. And Luciano was. Or had been, or had thought he was. Before he found out being nice was a waste of time and that he could tie people to masts without feeling too bad about it.
For a while, anyway.
But he had wondered. Sometimes he thought people liked him. A little. He could made them laugh, and if they talked to him, they didn't run away screaming or anything and, so, some of them were doing it because of Lord Kirkland, but still. He had friends. People talked to him, just - not in public, but -
He sighed. Maybe leaving Paris had been a good thing. He had never really fit in. But Martín was partly responsible for keeping him there, because when they had started talking, then-
Well.
He had left the room, that day. It had been an awful idea, but he wasn't really thinking, he was just so angry and confused and he couldn't think of anything to say, and that didn't happen, he could usually find something to... distract people or something, so Monsieur Bonnefoy would think he actually knew what he was supposed to know and then leave him alone, and everyone did that, when they hadn't read the right books or didn't want to talk about the right things or whatever, and he was a little awed at how Martín could come up with new theories and ideas and bluff his way out of anything, and how he could derail any conversation to make it about something completely different and he wasn't even the best at it. Some of his classmates were amazing.
That class had been fun. The people there. He used to like it. Sometimes. But that day they were discussing slavery, and Great Britain's effort to stop the trade and things like that and everyone thought he should say something. He could tell. First they were looking at him, and making pauses as if waiting for him to join the conversation and he tried to think of something to say, because they obviously wanted to listen, but he couldn't think of anything. And then the pauses got longer and someone asked if he wanted to add something, but he just smiled and shook his head, and listened as they went on describing how they were treated, the slaves, and then it was hard to keep smiling, because he wanted to ask if any of them had seen it, or if they had just read about it or what, and how could they talk like that, but they were complaining, and being very emphatic about it, and that was supposed to be right, so why would he complain about it?
He just wished they would stop looking at him. And he wanted to talk about something else, something fun and distant and academic, not something that made him think about her and her smile, and how she used to raise her head from the pans and pots and wink at him, and thinking about that hurt, too. Mama had been happy. Not always, not all the time, and there was always something in her eyes, but she smiled a lot, and she had a really loud laughter, people used to laugh too, when she did, because it sounded funny. He didn't want to talk about it, not here. He didn't want to hear them talking about all the awful things that had happened to her, things they couldn't know, and she was - she was just so beautiful, and she had a weird way to kiss him, too, pressing her lips against his cheek really hard. She used to tell him he squirmed a lot, when he was a baby and she kissed him. That always made him feel guilty, but then she would laugh, and make him laugh too and he didn't want to tell them that.
But they kept asking. And saying he was too quiet, he should say something, and then went on talking about whips and lashes and people being forced to work until they die and violation and they wanted to talk about her, and he couldn't, she was his mother, he couldn't even think about it. He would end up talking about the kisses, and how she could cook, she was famous for it. But not that. And not here.
So when someone said it, looked at him and said, we heard your mother was a victim of this - he didn't wait to hear of this what, he got up and left.
He regretted it before he could reach the door, and now he could hear the whispering, people talking about how they shouldn't say these things to him because he couldn't handle it, and coming from where he had come he probably had never even heard about these ideas before and it would be too much, so they should be patient and all that. It made him cringe. He should go back and say something. Apologize. And smile, and talk about how his father had - probably -
He couldn't.
So even though he knew he should go back in, should do something so they wouldn't - they wouldn't keep talking about how he couldn't handle it, and how everything they'd said must be true, or whatever it was they were thinking, he didn't. He went down the hall, where it branched off to lead to the library, and sat on the windowsill and tried to breathe evenly and not think about home, and especially not about her. Which of course made him think about all of it even more than before. So he was thinking, and not really paying much attention, which was why he'd jumped when a voice came from right beside him, and he almost fell from the window before the other boy - Martín, of course - caught his arm. And he laughed, and smiled that kind of smirking smile that made Luciano want to punch him, and said, "I think suicide's taking it a little far."
And Luciano wanted to punch him, so he yanked his arm away, in case he needed it for... well, punching him, and said, "You shouldn't sneak up on people, anyway."
Martín had sort of acted like he hadn't said anything, or had maybe thanked him, because he just smirked again and crossed his arms and said, "You shouldn't let them get to you like that. It'll only convince them there's something there to go after." He said in an oddly matter -of -fact way, like it didn't have anything to do with Luciano's skin or mother or past at all, like maybe Luciano had been getting teased over a girl or something.
But Luciano knew that, he just couldn't seem to do it right, so he scowled. "Why don't you mind your own business?" he demanded.
Martín shrugged. "Talking to you seemed more interesting than staying in class," he said. "Besides, someone had to go after you."
Luciano could feel the skin of his face heating up. "No one needed to," he said. He looked down at the floor, imagining going back to the classroom, and everyone whispering about how sensitive he was and... everything to each other, and he felt sick, and looked away.
"They're just idiots," Martín said. "You shouldn't take the things they say so personally."
"Don't tell me what I should take personally!" Luciano snapped before he could stop himself. "You - you don't know what's personal for me, do you?"
"I'm just trying to help," Martín snapped back. "Oversensitive, aren't you?"
"You should try having people staring at you like that, like of course you should - you should know everything they're talking about just because - well, because -"
"Because you have darker skin?" Martín said. Just said it, like it wasn't anything much, really. Like having red hair. But his eyes were even, and a bit curious, and - Luciano didn't know how to react to that.
"And see how you like it," he finished, and looked away.
"I don't see how I'm supposed to do that," Martín said with a little laugh. "My skin won't change color just because I ask it to. And neither will yours, anyway, so you shouldn't let them get to you."
"Easy for you to say," Luciano snapped.
"I guess it is," Martín replied, and shrugged. "But still, if you do things like that they'll never leave you alone. It's like pouring blood into shark-infested waters."
"They should just mind their own business, too!" Luciano burst out. "What is it with people here? They want to - to dissect me, or something, and no one keeps anything to themselves but they don't even gossip like normal people, and -"
"It's just because you're different, that's all. And they have small minds, anyway."
"And you don't?" Luciano demanded.
And Martín smiled, not smirking this time, and said, "Of course I don't. Look, do you want to go out to a café or something? I wouldn’t mind getting some coffee."
And, well, coffee reminded Luciano of home, and all the rest of it, and everything else he didn’t want to think about, but he said yes anyway. Obviously Martín had already been making him stupid, because otherwise he never would have done something like skip classes to go out to a café with another student who was obviously full of himself, but he had anyway, because when you were around Martín that's what happened. Because he was dangerous. And that was what had started the whole thing.
And now it was happening all over again. Martín was here, and Luciano was going crazy. Just like he had every time he was around him. And getting trapped in the way Martín thought about things and could never leave well enough alone or be satisfied with things and had to make everything more complicated and make himself miserable. And here he was, dizzy and confused and hurting. As usual. It was all Martín's fault. Why had he... done that? This. This... coming to find him. Why couldn't he have changed his mind like he was supposed to? Then Luciano could have eventually gotten over him and it would be over.
Because what was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to trust Martín? That he... was really in love with him now, or whatever he expected, or thought, or - because how could he do that, after what had happened? It would be so stupid. Martín would just dump him again, get rid of him whenever he didn't want him anymore, and it would be all Luciano's fault anyway for being so stupid as to believe him in the first place, after everything that had already happened.
But he'd been so sure he wouldn't come. So what was he thinking? He said... he said he'd thought about this for... for two years, he'd said. He'd thought about Luciano, like... well, like he was in love with him. And that, it just didn't make sense. Why couldn't he have just let things happen the first time, if he wanted them to be in love and everything? Luciano had been so happy that... that had happened. That he was finally getting somewhere... Martín could have just kissed him back and they could have... could have seen each other, or something. And it would have been good.
Luciano got home, finally, and let himself in as quietly as he could, so he could go up to his own room in peace. He could hear the servants in the kitchen, and usually he would have said goodnight to everyone, and maybe shared the gossip with them a bit, or asked them how they were doing - but tonight he didn't think he'd be able to focus on anything. His mind was still running around in dizzying circles, and all he could think about was how it had felt to have Martín kiss him, how he'd looked in the shadow of the balcony. He went to his bed and lay down on it without taking his boots off and stared at the ceiling.
Martín had said he was going to make Luciano see that he loved him. He had it all wrong, Luciano thought. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that was wrong. The problem wasn't that he didn't know anything. The problem was that he already knew too much about what would happen.
The thought hurt too much to think about, and he was tired. Too tired to keep chasing his own confused ideas around, anyway. More tired than he had been since... a long time. It took too much energy to deal with Martín's insanity, that was all.
Luciano got up and took off his boots. But in the end it took him a long time to fall asleep, and he wasn't completely sure he had, because he kept thinking about the same thing all night long. And after a while he was also worrying about how he would work tomorrow, if he didn't sleep, but he had done before, so he would probably be okay. He tried to think about that. But he couldn't, Martín kept coming back. Some words, a shadow of a smile, the way his eyes burned when he was angry. The way his cheeks reddened when Luciano talked to him in front of people who shouldn't know they knew each other. The way he smiled, so amused and condescending, and said you should see him eating, it's so entertaining. The way his face went white and Luciano thought he would pass out, and how warm his face was when Luciano told him nothing had happened, no one would touch him, that he was safe. Luciano didn't want to let him go, maybe never would, he would keep him tied there under the sun forever, but he still meant every single word.
And when morning came, he wasn't sure if he had been thinking about it or if he had been dreaming, and he was relieved to get out of bed. Martín was ruining everything. Now he couldn't even sleep anymore.
The day was beautiful.
It was almost annoying. A storm would be more appropriate, really. Or one of those random cold days that sometimes happened in the middle of summer. Something to match his mood.
But then again, he had never liked storms. Or cold days. After coming back from Paris – and from the war, later – he had spent a good few months thinking every single day here was gorgeous, even sad cold gray ones, but this one was perfect, for real, the sky was light blue and he could see it would get very hot later, but now it was just warm and he could see the dew over the grass and the orange trees outside and he could smell coffee from the kitchen and everything was so right and perfect, that he started to change his mind. Maybe the beauty of everything would help him, make him forget the fact that he hadn't rested at all. Probably. Assuming he hadn't been dreaming everything.
Work. He needed to focus on work. Or he would start thinking about it again, and then he would waste this day too. So he left as soon as he finished his breakfast, and went to the office.
Right. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about. He liked this. All of it, talking to people, overlooking accounts and checking stocks and everything. And traveling and selling and all, and he knew he shouldn't, because it wasn't... well, he shouldn't. That was probably part of the problem, how much he enjoyed doing things he wasn't supposed to like. But he did, and he was good at it. Some parts of it, anyway. That was why he was here in the first place, how he -
Better not go there, he thought. He still needed to build up the nerve to go back to the plantation. And now he had a good reason to leave this city, what with Martín just randomly being here. Christ, he thought, I can't catch a break. Let's think about good things. He didn't hate that place – no, really, he just... well, he didn't hate it, honestly, he just had to keep reminding himself he didn't. Sometimes he even found himself missing it, really. He probably had spent so long telling himself he didn't want to go that he had sort of... made himself be more resistant than he had to. Yeah. But in reality he could just go and - ugh.
He needed to focus. If he kept thinking like that he would end up remembering things he didn't want to remember, so. Focus.
It worked. Time seemed to move faster between numbers and figures, and he kept being interrupted by people who wanted to talk to him, and he liked that part even more than the actual work – well, a lot more than actual work, but he wasn't supposed to say this. It was nice. He was almost forgetting about that kiss, and how it felt and what Martín had said and how he had held his arm and - all that.
So of course it couldn't last. He was going out to get something to eat, and for once in the day he wasn't thinking about much of anything, not about work, not about Martín, just about how nice the day was. So he turned a corner in the street to go toward the restaurant, and he couldn't believe his eyes at first, but there Martín was. At first Luciano thought he was probably hallucinating, so he pinched the inside of his wrist, but he didn't disappear. And he still looked good, well, great, even, as beautiful as ever, even though he was dressed in more every-day clothes today. And he smiled at Luciano and said, in a self-satisfied voice, "Hello."
"What are you doing?" Luciano demanded. "Are you following me?"
Martín looked pleased, as if he hadn't expected Luciano to catch on so quickly. "Yes," he said. "I am."
"What the hell?" Luciano said. "Who even - what do you think you're doing? This won't -"
"Well, I wasn't about to let you get away from me," Martín said. "Who knows what could happen?"
"Get away?" Luciano repeated. "This is my life, okay? I'm not going to... go off to India or anything."
"I just found you again," Martín said. "Besides, I don't think you've gotten it yet." He came forward and took Luciano's arm again, looking into his face, and his eyes were very green and intense and he looked serious, and somehow very earnest. "I'm not going anywhere," he said.
The whole thing made Luciano feel oddly helpless, and he didn't like it. This was his life; Martín didn't have any business breaking into it and turning everything upside down, and he was annoyed, because he'd only just managed to stop thinking about him, and now who knew how long it would take to forget about this new little piece of insanity. And Martín was holding his arm on the street, what - what was that about? And staring into his eyes like... like... well, not how men usually looked at other men on the street, anyway. "Well, you probably should," he said.
Martín looked at him like that had been a cruel, unfair thing to say. "I told you," he said. "Besides, I'm following you."
"Well, you can't do that!" Luciano said, and he thought his voice had been a little bit too loud, but really, how was he supposed to... to go about his normal life with Martín following him around, anyway, distracting him and confusing him - and really, it just couldn't happen. He didn't think he'd be able to handle it, and he shouldn't be expected to anyway, thanks very much.
"I am," Martín said. "Really, it wasn't too hard; I just asked some of the people at the party who knew you where you spend most of the day and -"
Luciano felt his skin growing very warm. He spent most of the day working, after all, and being normal, and all the things that he wasn't supposed to enjoy but did, and that Martín hadn't approved of, once. And why should he feel self-conscious about this, anyway? This was his life, this was what he did and the way things were, and Martín had no right to come in and make him feel ashamed of it, because he had nothing to be ashamed of. "Well, that should show you, then," he said, and he hated how defensive his voice sounded.
"What?" Martín said, and his voice really did sound completely blank.
"Look, let's not talk about this in the street," Luciano said.
"What, do you not want to be seen with me?" Martín asked. His face had a weird expression, one that Luciano still couldn't seem to read, and that bothered him more than he thought it should.
"It's not that," he heard himself saying, and this was all so confusing, it was Martín who didn't want to be seen with him, wasn't it? What was wrong with him? Did he think it was funny to wrench Luciano around like this, or what?
"Then I guess we can go somewhere," Martín said. "If you really want to." He looked at Luciano for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed his cheeks, first one, then the other, letting his mouth slip down to the corner of Luciano's lips before he pulled away. Luciano could feel the warmth of his breath, the soft brush of his lips. He couldn't think. He couldn't do much but stare at him, feeling suddenly very warm, but Martín just smiled at him. "Well, are we going or not?" he said. His eyes had that look in them again, the look they'd had when he said, so insanely calmly, 'You still love me.'
What was he even thinking?
"Yes!" Luciano yelped, and his voice came out strangled and a little breathy, and it wasn't fair, now it was betraying him, too? "Yes, let's... let's um, let's go." He felt like everyone should be staring at them, at how... at how they were acting, but it seemed like no one had even noticed, they were just... going about their business, as normal. It didn't make any sense. Surely they should notice how insane Martín was. It didn't make sense that he was the only one.
"You know," Martín said, and he was right there at his side, "you don't have to act like the world is ending or anything."
He wasn't even worried. Right. So maybe everyone had thought he was a crazy foreigner. His accent sounded kind of like... something, French or Italian or some other nationality who could randomly kiss people in the street or whatever, so - or maybe no one had seen it and - just what the hell.
"I'm not," Luciano said. "I'm acting like we're going to go get something to eat. And then I'll go back to my work, because that's what I do, you know. Work. And you'll go back to wasting your time, I guess."
Martín sighed. "You're making this a lot harder than it has to be," he said.
"Am I?" Luciano demanded. "I'm the one making it hard?"
"Well, yes. You could have just fallen into my arms. I think most people would."
"What are you saying?" Luciano hissed. "People can hear you!"
"Only if they speak Spanish," Martín said smugly. "Besides, what do I care?"
"I kind of thought you did," Luciano said. "Or were my manners just that hilarious to you? That you couldn't help yourself?" He didn't want to sound hurt. He didn't. But there it was, and he couldn't take it back now, just pretend it hadn't been so obvious. "But maybe it doesn't matter here, right? It's just Brazil. Not important or anything. Not like Paris."
"God, what is wrong with you?" Martín growled the words, almost, suddenly. "It's not like that, all right? Why would it be, you idiot? But you'll never let it go, will you? Never. But you know - you got your revenge, that's what you said, and you tied me to a damn mast, okay? And you don't see me bringing it up again and again and again. And it wasn't exactly a vacation, all right?"
Luciano looked over at Martín, and his face was very flushed, suddenly, and he looked... he looked angry, upset, impatient. But Luciano thought he was more upset about what Luciano had said than anything else, and that just didn't make sense, did it? Because a normal person would have been more upset that Luciano had tied him to a mast. A lot more upset. He was pretty sure.
"So why aren't you? Why don't you bring it up?"
… then again, he wasn't completely sure he wanted to know. He could think of a few reasons and none of them made him feel better. Either he hadn't minded all that much, which was stupid, or he had minded it too much, and that - Luciano wasn't sure if he wanted that.
He had to think about it.
Martín was glaring at him. They were walking now, and they had done this so many times before, strolling around and bickering because they couldn't agree on where to go and what to eat or what they should look at.
"Because, well, because, I said it, I thought we were even, and you - I thought you agreed with me!"
"Of course you did," Luciano said. "You always do, I don't even have to say anything. So I guess now that we're far from anyone who matters you can just come and kiss me like that -"
"First, it was a friendly kiss, right? No one even noticed, so get over it, and you're an idiot if you think you'll get away with that, we had this settled, you just - changed your mind, and that's -"
"That's your prerogative?"
"- unfair, how am I supposed to guess what you're thinking? You got your revenge. Why can't you accept that and move on?"
He had been naked, Luciano thought. Naked and weak and his eyebrows and eyelashes looked golden against the red skin and his eyes were almost feverish and Luciano had never said they were even, but he remembered the question. Martín asking if he would be tied up again. And then that strange soft pleading – I can't you promised me please I can't – and he didn't want to remember that. But that was a lie. He had thought about it over and over so he wouldn't forget.
"I spent most of my time looking after you," he said. And then, so Martín wouldn't think he was relenting, he added, "I thought you'd be tougher."
Martín took a few seconds to answer. To get over the anger, probably.
"That's funny," he said, and yes, Luciano could feel the anger burning, "Everyone thought I was pretty good. Facing the battle. Keeping my crew safe like that. Facing you, and coming back. I got medals for it."
This made Luciano smile. How scary was he, anyway? Maybe he should go talk to those people, they were cleaLYr more in awe of him than anyone here. It could be interesting.
Martín saw the smile, and got it wrong:
"If you think it was nothing, then that's your own fault," he said. Now he sounded almost hurt, "You did what you wanted to do. You left me there as long as you wanted. So, if you think you should have been - harsher, then it's your own fault. You wasted the chance."
"You passed out."
"So what? I was your prisoner. As you made a point of telling me all the time. It's not my fault if you're soft, if you were my prisoner, I could have killed you."
"I know that."
"Do you? Then you're an idiot, because I don't know. Come on, Luciano, I'm just making a point here, you love me, that's why you didn't. Why do you have to make it so hard?"
He didn't answer. That had been a low blow and now he kinda wanted to punch Martín for it, because - what, did he think it was nice to hear it? What kind of dumb point was that?
Now they were at the café, and now he was upset again. He should be used to this. Feeling like this around him.
At least now they couldn't say anything, because everyone would hear and some would understand, even if Martín didn't seem to think so.
Martín seemed to get that. He found a table for them and sat, and looked around.
Luciano cursed himself. He didn't want to, he really didn't, he despised himself for it, but he was wondering what Martín thought. The place was nice. Right? It looked clean, and the windows were beautiful. And... well, that was mostly it. Nice, but not as nice as it could be. Just like everything else.
He sighed and ordered the food, then sat in front of Martín.
tbc...
Authors: berseker and sakuratsukikage, not in this order.
Rating: PG-15
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Summary: Martín tries to keep his word. Luciano is more than a little surprised. Sequel to the PirateAU.
With thanks to zulenha for the betareading <3
Part 2: Martín didn't follow him. Luciano wasn't even sure he would leave the party, he would probably stay and enjoy it a bit more, and anyway. Following people wasn't his style.
Luciano went back to his house. Of course. It was too late to do anything but go back home or get drunk, and Luciano wasn’t at the getting drunk stage. Yet. Or maybe he was, but he wasn’t about to admit to it. He needed to... to think this through, anyway.
That sounded a lot easier than it was. He wasn’t sure if he could even start thinking about it. It was like everything he’d believed and told himself had suddenly evaporated, like the world had turned inside out, or upside down, and everything that had been true was a lie now, and everything that had been a dream was real. Thinking that Martín had actually come looking for him, like he’d said he would, almost made him dizzy. Forget almost, he was dizzy, so dizzy he couldn’t think at all. It didn’t make sense.
This was the whole problem when people started making things complicated. After a while you couldn’t figure out what you thought or how you felt, and it hurt, and didn’t even know if that was a bad thing anymore, despite the pain. Luciano didn’t appreciate feeling like that. That was the thing about Martín. He made Luciano want to be stupid. He always had, ever since Luciano had first met him. He just hadn’t realized how stupid he was being, the first time. He’d had no idea. Walked into it like an idiot. And he didn’t want to do that again.
Martín had done this to him ever since the beginning, ever since they’d first met, and he hadn’t acted like Luciano had expected him to, and everyone must have thought he’d been such an idiot over him, back then. He wondered if Martín had thought he was being an idiot, because it wasn’t like his feelings had exactly been hidden, had they? Martín had known. He’d said he had, that he’d known, that he’d known all along, after all, on the ship. And it had been his fault, anyway, in the first place. He was the one who’d come to talk to Luciano, after all. He was the one who’d started it. If he just wanted Luciano to leave him alone he should have never talked to him in the first place.
Granted, he hadn't been exactly nice, that day – or, well, ever. But Martín was strange. Strange sense of humor, strange way to make friends, strange everything. Luciano had wondered, back then, after a while, if people liked Martín. He was interesting, of course, and beautiful and smart and charming and sure of himself and he seemed to attract people, somehow, but he wasn't exactly likable. Nice. And Luciano was. Or had been, or had thought he was. Before he found out being nice was a waste of time and that he could tie people to masts without feeling too bad about it.
For a while, anyway.
But he had wondered. Sometimes he thought people liked him. A little. He could made them laugh, and if they talked to him, they didn't run away screaming or anything and, so, some of them were doing it because of Lord Kirkland, but still. He had friends. People talked to him, just - not in public, but -
He sighed. Maybe leaving Paris had been a good thing. He had never really fit in. But Martín was partly responsible for keeping him there, because when they had started talking, then-
Well.
He had left the room, that day. It had been an awful idea, but he wasn't really thinking, he was just so angry and confused and he couldn't think of anything to say, and that didn't happen, he could usually find something to... distract people or something, so Monsieur Bonnefoy would think he actually knew what he was supposed to know and then leave him alone, and everyone did that, when they hadn't read the right books or didn't want to talk about the right things or whatever, and he was a little awed at how Martín could come up with new theories and ideas and bluff his way out of anything, and how he could derail any conversation to make it about something completely different and he wasn't even the best at it. Some of his classmates were amazing.
That class had been fun. The people there. He used to like it. Sometimes. But that day they were discussing slavery, and Great Britain's effort to stop the trade and things like that and everyone thought he should say something. He could tell. First they were looking at him, and making pauses as if waiting for him to join the conversation and he tried to think of something to say, because they obviously wanted to listen, but he couldn't think of anything. And then the pauses got longer and someone asked if he wanted to add something, but he just smiled and shook his head, and listened as they went on describing how they were treated, the slaves, and then it was hard to keep smiling, because he wanted to ask if any of them had seen it, or if they had just read about it or what, and how could they talk like that, but they were complaining, and being very emphatic about it, and that was supposed to be right, so why would he complain about it?
He just wished they would stop looking at him. And he wanted to talk about something else, something fun and distant and academic, not something that made him think about her and her smile, and how she used to raise her head from the pans and pots and wink at him, and thinking about that hurt, too. Mama had been happy. Not always, not all the time, and there was always something in her eyes, but she smiled a lot, and she had a really loud laughter, people used to laugh too, when she did, because it sounded funny. He didn't want to talk about it, not here. He didn't want to hear them talking about all the awful things that had happened to her, things they couldn't know, and she was - she was just so beautiful, and she had a weird way to kiss him, too, pressing her lips against his cheek really hard. She used to tell him he squirmed a lot, when he was a baby and she kissed him. That always made him feel guilty, but then she would laugh, and make him laugh too and he didn't want to tell them that.
But they kept asking. And saying he was too quiet, he should say something, and then went on talking about whips and lashes and people being forced to work until they die and violation and they wanted to talk about her, and he couldn't, she was his mother, he couldn't even think about it. He would end up talking about the kisses, and how she could cook, she was famous for it. But not that. And not here.
So when someone said it, looked at him and said, we heard your mother was a victim of this - he didn't wait to hear of this what, he got up and left.
He regretted it before he could reach the door, and now he could hear the whispering, people talking about how they shouldn't say these things to him because he couldn't handle it, and coming from where he had come he probably had never even heard about these ideas before and it would be too much, so they should be patient and all that. It made him cringe. He should go back and say something. Apologize. And smile, and talk about how his father had - probably -
He couldn't.
So even though he knew he should go back in, should do something so they wouldn't - they wouldn't keep talking about how he couldn't handle it, and how everything they'd said must be true, or whatever it was they were thinking, he didn't. He went down the hall, where it branched off to lead to the library, and sat on the windowsill and tried to breathe evenly and not think about home, and especially not about her. Which of course made him think about all of it even more than before. So he was thinking, and not really paying much attention, which was why he'd jumped when a voice came from right beside him, and he almost fell from the window before the other boy - Martín, of course - caught his arm. And he laughed, and smiled that kind of smirking smile that made Luciano want to punch him, and said, "I think suicide's taking it a little far."
And Luciano wanted to punch him, so he yanked his arm away, in case he needed it for... well, punching him, and said, "You shouldn't sneak up on people, anyway."
Martín had sort of acted like he hadn't said anything, or had maybe thanked him, because he just smirked again and crossed his arms and said, "You shouldn't let them get to you like that. It'll only convince them there's something there to go after." He said in an oddly matter -of -fact way, like it didn't have anything to do with Luciano's skin or mother or past at all, like maybe Luciano had been getting teased over a girl or something.
But Luciano knew that, he just couldn't seem to do it right, so he scowled. "Why don't you mind your own business?" he demanded.
Martín shrugged. "Talking to you seemed more interesting than staying in class," he said. "Besides, someone had to go after you."
Luciano could feel the skin of his face heating up. "No one needed to," he said. He looked down at the floor, imagining going back to the classroom, and everyone whispering about how sensitive he was and... everything to each other, and he felt sick, and looked away.
"They're just idiots," Martín said. "You shouldn't take the things they say so personally."
"Don't tell me what I should take personally!" Luciano snapped before he could stop himself. "You - you don't know what's personal for me, do you?"
"I'm just trying to help," Martín snapped back. "Oversensitive, aren't you?"
"You should try having people staring at you like that, like of course you should - you should know everything they're talking about just because - well, because -"
"Because you have darker skin?" Martín said. Just said it, like it wasn't anything much, really. Like having red hair. But his eyes were even, and a bit curious, and - Luciano didn't know how to react to that.
"And see how you like it," he finished, and looked away.
"I don't see how I'm supposed to do that," Martín said with a little laugh. "My skin won't change color just because I ask it to. And neither will yours, anyway, so you shouldn't let them get to you."
"Easy for you to say," Luciano snapped.
"I guess it is," Martín replied, and shrugged. "But still, if you do things like that they'll never leave you alone. It's like pouring blood into shark-infested waters."
"They should just mind their own business, too!" Luciano burst out. "What is it with people here? They want to - to dissect me, or something, and no one keeps anything to themselves but they don't even gossip like normal people, and -"
"It's just because you're different, that's all. And they have small minds, anyway."
"And you don't?" Luciano demanded.
And Martín smiled, not smirking this time, and said, "Of course I don't. Look, do you want to go out to a café or something? I wouldn’t mind getting some coffee."
And, well, coffee reminded Luciano of home, and all the rest of it, and everything else he didn’t want to think about, but he said yes anyway. Obviously Martín had already been making him stupid, because otherwise he never would have done something like skip classes to go out to a café with another student who was obviously full of himself, but he had anyway, because when you were around Martín that's what happened. Because he was dangerous. And that was what had started the whole thing.
And now it was happening all over again. Martín was here, and Luciano was going crazy. Just like he had every time he was around him. And getting trapped in the way Martín thought about things and could never leave well enough alone or be satisfied with things and had to make everything more complicated and make himself miserable. And here he was, dizzy and confused and hurting. As usual. It was all Martín's fault. Why had he... done that? This. This... coming to find him. Why couldn't he have changed his mind like he was supposed to? Then Luciano could have eventually gotten over him and it would be over.
Because what was he supposed to do now? Was he supposed to trust Martín? That he... was really in love with him now, or whatever he expected, or thought, or - because how could he do that, after what had happened? It would be so stupid. Martín would just dump him again, get rid of him whenever he didn't want him anymore, and it would be all Luciano's fault anyway for being so stupid as to believe him in the first place, after everything that had already happened.
But he'd been so sure he wouldn't come. So what was he thinking? He said... he said he'd thought about this for... for two years, he'd said. He'd thought about Luciano, like... well, like he was in love with him. And that, it just didn't make sense. Why couldn't he have just let things happen the first time, if he wanted them to be in love and everything? Luciano had been so happy that... that had happened. That he was finally getting somewhere... Martín could have just kissed him back and they could have... could have seen each other, or something. And it would have been good.
Luciano got home, finally, and let himself in as quietly as he could, so he could go up to his own room in peace. He could hear the servants in the kitchen, and usually he would have said goodnight to everyone, and maybe shared the gossip with them a bit, or asked them how they were doing - but tonight he didn't think he'd be able to focus on anything. His mind was still running around in dizzying circles, and all he could think about was how it had felt to have Martín kiss him, how he'd looked in the shadow of the balcony. He went to his bed and lay down on it without taking his boots off and stared at the ceiling.
Martín had said he was going to make Luciano see that he loved him. He had it all wrong, Luciano thought. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that was wrong. The problem wasn't that he didn't know anything. The problem was that he already knew too much about what would happen.
The thought hurt too much to think about, and he was tired. Too tired to keep chasing his own confused ideas around, anyway. More tired than he had been since... a long time. It took too much energy to deal with Martín's insanity, that was all.
Luciano got up and took off his boots. But in the end it took him a long time to fall asleep, and he wasn't completely sure he had, because he kept thinking about the same thing all night long. And after a while he was also worrying about how he would work tomorrow, if he didn't sleep, but he had done before, so he would probably be okay. He tried to think about that. But he couldn't, Martín kept coming back. Some words, a shadow of a smile, the way his eyes burned when he was angry. The way his cheeks reddened when Luciano talked to him in front of people who shouldn't know they knew each other. The way he smiled, so amused and condescending, and said you should see him eating, it's so entertaining. The way his face went white and Luciano thought he would pass out, and how warm his face was when Luciano told him nothing had happened, no one would touch him, that he was safe. Luciano didn't want to let him go, maybe never would, he would keep him tied there under the sun forever, but he still meant every single word.
And when morning came, he wasn't sure if he had been thinking about it or if he had been dreaming, and he was relieved to get out of bed. Martín was ruining everything. Now he couldn't even sleep anymore.
The day was beautiful.
It was almost annoying. A storm would be more appropriate, really. Or one of those random cold days that sometimes happened in the middle of summer. Something to match his mood.
But then again, he had never liked storms. Or cold days. After coming back from Paris – and from the war, later – he had spent a good few months thinking every single day here was gorgeous, even sad cold gray ones, but this one was perfect, for real, the sky was light blue and he could see it would get very hot later, but now it was just warm and he could see the dew over the grass and the orange trees outside and he could smell coffee from the kitchen and everything was so right and perfect, that he started to change his mind. Maybe the beauty of everything would help him, make him forget the fact that he hadn't rested at all. Probably. Assuming he hadn't been dreaming everything.
Work. He needed to focus on work. Or he would start thinking about it again, and then he would waste this day too. So he left as soon as he finished his breakfast, and went to the office.
Right. That was what he was supposed to be thinking about. He liked this. All of it, talking to people, overlooking accounts and checking stocks and everything. And traveling and selling and all, and he knew he shouldn't, because it wasn't... well, he shouldn't. That was probably part of the problem, how much he enjoyed doing things he wasn't supposed to like. But he did, and he was good at it. Some parts of it, anyway. That was why he was here in the first place, how he -
Better not go there, he thought. He still needed to build up the nerve to go back to the plantation. And now he had a good reason to leave this city, what with Martín just randomly being here. Christ, he thought, I can't catch a break. Let's think about good things. He didn't hate that place – no, really, he just... well, he didn't hate it, honestly, he just had to keep reminding himself he didn't. Sometimes he even found himself missing it, really. He probably had spent so long telling himself he didn't want to go that he had sort of... made himself be more resistant than he had to. Yeah. But in reality he could just go and - ugh.
He needed to focus. If he kept thinking like that he would end up remembering things he didn't want to remember, so. Focus.
It worked. Time seemed to move faster between numbers and figures, and he kept being interrupted by people who wanted to talk to him, and he liked that part even more than the actual work – well, a lot more than actual work, but he wasn't supposed to say this. It was nice. He was almost forgetting about that kiss, and how it felt and what Martín had said and how he had held his arm and - all that.
So of course it couldn't last. He was going out to get something to eat, and for once in the day he wasn't thinking about much of anything, not about work, not about Martín, just about how nice the day was. So he turned a corner in the street to go toward the restaurant, and he couldn't believe his eyes at first, but there Martín was. At first Luciano thought he was probably hallucinating, so he pinched the inside of his wrist, but he didn't disappear. And he still looked good, well, great, even, as beautiful as ever, even though he was dressed in more every-day clothes today. And he smiled at Luciano and said, in a self-satisfied voice, "Hello."
"What are you doing?" Luciano demanded. "Are you following me?"
Martín looked pleased, as if he hadn't expected Luciano to catch on so quickly. "Yes," he said. "I am."
"What the hell?" Luciano said. "Who even - what do you think you're doing? This won't -"
"Well, I wasn't about to let you get away from me," Martín said. "Who knows what could happen?"
"Get away?" Luciano repeated. "This is my life, okay? I'm not going to... go off to India or anything."
"I just found you again," Martín said. "Besides, I don't think you've gotten it yet." He came forward and took Luciano's arm again, looking into his face, and his eyes were very green and intense and he looked serious, and somehow very earnest. "I'm not going anywhere," he said.
The whole thing made Luciano feel oddly helpless, and he didn't like it. This was his life; Martín didn't have any business breaking into it and turning everything upside down, and he was annoyed, because he'd only just managed to stop thinking about him, and now who knew how long it would take to forget about this new little piece of insanity. And Martín was holding his arm on the street, what - what was that about? And staring into his eyes like... like... well, not how men usually looked at other men on the street, anyway. "Well, you probably should," he said.
Martín looked at him like that had been a cruel, unfair thing to say. "I told you," he said. "Besides, I'm following you."
"Well, you can't do that!" Luciano said, and he thought his voice had been a little bit too loud, but really, how was he supposed to... to go about his normal life with Martín following him around, anyway, distracting him and confusing him - and really, it just couldn't happen. He didn't think he'd be able to handle it, and he shouldn't be expected to anyway, thanks very much.
"I am," Martín said. "Really, it wasn't too hard; I just asked some of the people at the party who knew you where you spend most of the day and -"
Luciano felt his skin growing very warm. He spent most of the day working, after all, and being normal, and all the things that he wasn't supposed to enjoy but did, and that Martín hadn't approved of, once. And why should he feel self-conscious about this, anyway? This was his life, this was what he did and the way things were, and Martín had no right to come in and make him feel ashamed of it, because he had nothing to be ashamed of. "Well, that should show you, then," he said, and he hated how defensive his voice sounded.
"What?" Martín said, and his voice really did sound completely blank.
"Look, let's not talk about this in the street," Luciano said.
"What, do you not want to be seen with me?" Martín asked. His face had a weird expression, one that Luciano still couldn't seem to read, and that bothered him more than he thought it should.
"It's not that," he heard himself saying, and this was all so confusing, it was Martín who didn't want to be seen with him, wasn't it? What was wrong with him? Did he think it was funny to wrench Luciano around like this, or what?
"Then I guess we can go somewhere," Martín said. "If you really want to." He looked at Luciano for a moment, then leaned forward and kissed his cheeks, first one, then the other, letting his mouth slip down to the corner of Luciano's lips before he pulled away. Luciano could feel the warmth of his breath, the soft brush of his lips. He couldn't think. He couldn't do much but stare at him, feeling suddenly very warm, but Martín just smiled at him. "Well, are we going or not?" he said. His eyes had that look in them again, the look they'd had when he said, so insanely calmly, 'You still love me.'
What was he even thinking?
"Yes!" Luciano yelped, and his voice came out strangled and a little breathy, and it wasn't fair, now it was betraying him, too? "Yes, let's... let's um, let's go." He felt like everyone should be staring at them, at how... at how they were acting, but it seemed like no one had even noticed, they were just... going about their business, as normal. It didn't make any sense. Surely they should notice how insane Martín was. It didn't make sense that he was the only one.
"You know," Martín said, and he was right there at his side, "you don't have to act like the world is ending or anything."
He wasn't even worried. Right. So maybe everyone had thought he was a crazy foreigner. His accent sounded kind of like... something, French or Italian or some other nationality who could randomly kiss people in the street or whatever, so - or maybe no one had seen it and - just what the hell.
"I'm not," Luciano said. "I'm acting like we're going to go get something to eat. And then I'll go back to my work, because that's what I do, you know. Work. And you'll go back to wasting your time, I guess."
Martín sighed. "You're making this a lot harder than it has to be," he said.
"Am I?" Luciano demanded. "I'm the one making it hard?"
"Well, yes. You could have just fallen into my arms. I think most people would."
"What are you saying?" Luciano hissed. "People can hear you!"
"Only if they speak Spanish," Martín said smugly. "Besides, what do I care?"
"I kind of thought you did," Luciano said. "Or were my manners just that hilarious to you? That you couldn't help yourself?" He didn't want to sound hurt. He didn't. But there it was, and he couldn't take it back now, just pretend it hadn't been so obvious. "But maybe it doesn't matter here, right? It's just Brazil. Not important or anything. Not like Paris."
"God, what is wrong with you?" Martín growled the words, almost, suddenly. "It's not like that, all right? Why would it be, you idiot? But you'll never let it go, will you? Never. But you know - you got your revenge, that's what you said, and you tied me to a damn mast, okay? And you don't see me bringing it up again and again and again. And it wasn't exactly a vacation, all right?"
Luciano looked over at Martín, and his face was very flushed, suddenly, and he looked... he looked angry, upset, impatient. But Luciano thought he was more upset about what Luciano had said than anything else, and that just didn't make sense, did it? Because a normal person would have been more upset that Luciano had tied him to a mast. A lot more upset. He was pretty sure.
"So why aren't you? Why don't you bring it up?"
… then again, he wasn't completely sure he wanted to know. He could think of a few reasons and none of them made him feel better. Either he hadn't minded all that much, which was stupid, or he had minded it too much, and that - Luciano wasn't sure if he wanted that.
He had to think about it.
Martín was glaring at him. They were walking now, and they had done this so many times before, strolling around and bickering because they couldn't agree on where to go and what to eat or what they should look at.
"Because, well, because, I said it, I thought we were even, and you - I thought you agreed with me!"
"Of course you did," Luciano said. "You always do, I don't even have to say anything. So I guess now that we're far from anyone who matters you can just come and kiss me like that -"
"First, it was a friendly kiss, right? No one even noticed, so get over it, and you're an idiot if you think you'll get away with that, we had this settled, you just - changed your mind, and that's -"
"That's your prerogative?"
"- unfair, how am I supposed to guess what you're thinking? You got your revenge. Why can't you accept that and move on?"
He had been naked, Luciano thought. Naked and weak and his eyebrows and eyelashes looked golden against the red skin and his eyes were almost feverish and Luciano had never said they were even, but he remembered the question. Martín asking if he would be tied up again. And then that strange soft pleading – I can't you promised me please I can't – and he didn't want to remember that. But that was a lie. He had thought about it over and over so he wouldn't forget.
"I spent most of my time looking after you," he said. And then, so Martín wouldn't think he was relenting, he added, "I thought you'd be tougher."
Martín took a few seconds to answer. To get over the anger, probably.
"That's funny," he said, and yes, Luciano could feel the anger burning, "Everyone thought I was pretty good. Facing the battle. Keeping my crew safe like that. Facing you, and coming back. I got medals for it."
This made Luciano smile. How scary was he, anyway? Maybe he should go talk to those people, they were cleaLYr more in awe of him than anyone here. It could be interesting.
Martín saw the smile, and got it wrong:
"If you think it was nothing, then that's your own fault," he said. Now he sounded almost hurt, "You did what you wanted to do. You left me there as long as you wanted. So, if you think you should have been - harsher, then it's your own fault. You wasted the chance."
"You passed out."
"So what? I was your prisoner. As you made a point of telling me all the time. It's not my fault if you're soft, if you were my prisoner, I could have killed you."
"I know that."
"Do you? Then you're an idiot, because I don't know. Come on, Luciano, I'm just making a point here, you love me, that's why you didn't. Why do you have to make it so hard?"
He didn't answer. That had been a low blow and now he kinda wanted to punch Martín for it, because - what, did he think it was nice to hear it? What kind of dumb point was that?
Now they were at the café, and now he was upset again. He should be used to this. Feeling like this around him.
At least now they couldn't say anything, because everyone would hear and some would understand, even if Martín didn't seem to think so.
Martín seemed to get that. He found a table for them and sat, and looked around.
Luciano cursed himself. He didn't want to, he really didn't, he despised himself for it, but he was wondering what Martín thought. The place was nice. Right? It looked clean, and the windows were beautiful. And... well, that was mostly it. Nice, but not as nice as it could be. Just like everything else.
He sighed and ordered the food, then sat in front of Martín.
tbc...