It seems I lied about my Hetalia hiatus. *poker face* Hell, who was I kidding anyway? I could never do that. But I digress; so hey, if any of you guys who read this happen to live in New Orleans, I would love it if you could point out any inconsistencies I haven't already caught in this story. I want this to be accurate!
I don't own Hetalia or any of the characters therein.
Late 19th century America
Speaking my mind has never been something I've had an issue with. I've always been the first person to tell you if your clothes look like shit, or if I hate you. I've never faltered in my decisions, which is probably what makes me so good at my job. And then I met him…
He ruined everything, and yet he completed everything. He tore my heart to pieces, and yet he sewed it together. He was my darkness, my light, my salvation, my damnation. And I watched helpless as he turned my life upside-down and ran circles around my head.
0o0
Antonio Fernandez Carriedo didn't seem like the person who would be in my line of work. That is, he didn't seem like someone who could blow a guy away with a shotgun without so much as batting an eye.
He didn't seem like a mafioso.
The first time I'd met him was the night of a particularly important job: a hit. Not a minor hit, either; we were fucking with the big dogs here, and we had to be fucking careful. Our target was some important Irish police superintendent or some shit like that. But I knew it was important, and I felt lucky I was even considered to help on the job.
It was a cold October evening and the dark clouds swirled ominously overhead, promising buckets of rain. We had guys everywhere to keep track of this guy; if he so much as spit on the sidewalk we would know where and when. This was one of my first parts in any major mafia operation. I was only 17, and excitement thrilled through me as I hung around near Girod street as instructed, knowing the Irish bastard would be coming down this way. I would wait all evening if I had to, not wanting to screw up my -albeit small- part in the hit.
I'm not the superstitious type; that's my younger brother. But I was alone in the French Quarter, and it did have a particularly bloody history. It was supposedly haunted by the ghost of Jean Lafitte, a notorious French pirate. It wasn't pirate ghosts I was scared of though; he was French, so he couldn't have been all that bad. It was the recently dead Marie Laveau. She was a voodoo priestess, a thing very real in the city of New Orleans. I remembered when she was alive; it wasn't long after I came off the boat here before she died, but she wasn't someone you just forgot. No, my singular meeting with her had been disconcerting.
Alright, I was fucking terrified.
I had gotten lost, and found myself in the French Quarter. I kept trying to ask people where I might find the Second Municipality, but they all ignored me. Apparently we Italians are the shit stains of America. I accidentally bumped against her, and her arm shot out like a python. For a brittle looking woman she had a vice-like grip. She stared hard at me with her milky eyes, and I felt suddenly ashamed, as if she could see into my very soul at every terrible thing I'd ever done. She leaned close to me, her withered lips almost touching my ear. I shuddered. "Beware men who bathe in the Bay of Biscay," she whispered. Then she let go of my wrist, and she hobbled away as if nothing had happened. I had no fucking idea what she was talking about.
So that's where I was, in the haunted-ass French Quarter on a dark and ominous night, waiting for some dude to show up so I could kill him. Well…not me, directly. But I would help.
Sort of.
I shivered as a few pelts of rain hit my skin, and just then I heard whistling. It was soft, and almost eerie. My heart leapt to my throat and I slowly turned my head towards it. I forced myself to relax; it was him. The Irish bastard who had dared snub my onoratasocieta and affiliate himself with another. I stepped from the shadows and stared hard at him. I know he saw me, but big fucking deal. I whistled once, loudly, and started walking up the street; my part in the hit over.
I shivered again when I heard the gunfire behind me a few minutes later. No, I didn't feel bad for signaling my guys. I didn't have any remorse for aiding lamafia.It was a chill October evening, and fuck the combination of rain and wind was not helping at all. I hadn't brought a jacket, and my thin button-down shirt was not keeping me dry from the rain slowly increasing in frequency.
Pat pat pat
Pat pat pat pat
—
"Cazzo!" I cursed, starting to run down the street. I heard a few more shots distantly behind me. I didn't worry. Just as I had thought earlier, it wasn't so much raining as pouring a steady waterfall of water over my head. Thunder broke and lightning cracked, flicking dangerously across the sky and I screamed, falling to the ground in the middle of the street. Stupid!Getyourassup!I screamed at myself, but no use. I was frozen, petrified by the malevolent weather surrounding me. The violently whipping wind seemed to steal the breath from my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut and grit my teeth together. I'mgoingtodie,I'mgoingtofuckingdiehere…
Something grabbed me and I screamed again. It was a person—
Oh fuck! You're in the French Quarter, you idiota! It's a seedy place at night and you're alone! You'realone,alone, I thought dizzily, wrenching away from my assailant's grip. Alwaysalone…
"Get the fuck away from me!" I screeched.
"I'm trying to help you, niño!" A man whose face I couldn't see said urgently. He was yelling over the roar of the storm. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky and before I cringed I saw his face, for just a second. An afterimage of his fiery green eyes was burned into the back of my skull. "Mierda…" I somehow heard him mutter. I was on the ground and he lifted me up into his arms. I didn't struggle against him; I just decided to let this man take me wherever he planned to, not caring as to what his plans for me were. I think my compliance had something to do with those green eyes. "You're all alone, aren't you?"
Another whip of lightning cracked across the sky and I whimpered, burying my face into the man's chest.
You're all alone, all alone…
0o0
When I woke up, I took notice of my changed surroundings. No longer was the roar of the storm pounding in my ears. My eyes were still closed, and I was warm and dry. Not exactly warm…there was a slight chill in the room, wherever I was. There was a thin blanket covering me, and, I noticed, I wasn't wearing anything. I could no longer feign sleep; my eyes shot open and I sat up quickly, glancing around the small room frantically. I reached for the knife in my boot, then remembered that I was naked. My weapon was missing.
"Whoa whoa, amigo! I'm not going to hurt you." I looked sharply up at the voice that had spoken; it had to have been the man who picked me up off the street. His green eyes were the only things I recognized. I relaxed a little, but was still pretty tense. The man had his hands up as if in surrender, and he eyed me cautiously. "Are you going to relax?" He was tall and lanky, but he did have some sort of build to him. I didn't doubt he could knock me out with a roundhouse if he really wanted to. On a more vain level, he had sun-kissed tan skin and wavy chestnut hair tied back in a short ponytail, and as I've already noted, his green eyes. Holy fuck, they were amazing. After accessing that this man was no threat to me, I slowly nodded. "Alright. I'm just going to sit down right here, si?" He pointed over to a wooden chair in front of the decrepit stone fireplace dominating the room and slowly walked over to it, sitting down.
We sat like that in silence for awhile, eyeing each other apprehensively, waiting for the other to make the next move.
"My clothes," I said finally, narrowing my eyes at him. "Where are they?"
He seemed to zone back in from a place in his head when he heard my voice. "Oh? Your clothes." He gestured towards the mantle of the fireplace. Calling it a mantle was too grandeur, actually. It was more like a termite-ridden wooden board nailed into the wall to serve the purpose of a mantle. I stared at it with disdain when I noticed my shirt and pants hanging from it. My boots were by the door. "After I pulled you in from the storm we were both soaked. I changed my clothes." At that moment he flopped his bangs out of his eyes; his hair was still mostly wet, so I figured I hadn't been out for too long. "And well, I couldn't just leave you in wet clothes." He shrugged. "Especially not knowing your condition. Why were you out in the French Quarter at night anyway, niño? I haven't been here long and even I know that's not safe."
As he spoke I became more and more aware of his accent. A Spaniard. "I have a fucking name you know, bastard." Though I still didn't like the situation I'd gotten myself into, I felt more comfortable knowing I was with someone of European background. Natives of America never did treat me too kindly since I'm Italian. You'd think I'd committed a crime or some shit! Though I suppose…I had. Committed quite a few, actually. But I was still a human being, dammit!
The Spaniard's green eyes glowed amusedly. There was a ghost of a smile on his face. "Oh? How rude of me. Me nombre es Antonio. What is your name, mi tomate?"
My face flushed red. "D-Don't go giving me pet names, you bastard! My name is Lovino! Remember it!" I spat. This guy didn't make any fucking sense. The more I hurled insults at him the more he smiled!
"Ah, ok then Lovino. I'll let you get dressed then. Your clothes should be dry now." He smiled again and stood, walking over to the door. I expected him to leave, but instead he just turned around in front of the door. I stared at him.
"Aren't you going to leave?" I said bluntly.
"Lo siento. Don't take offense to this Lovi, but you seem like a pretty jumpy person, and I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt by having you attack me with the knife in your right boot." My heart stopped. "Or the small pistol inside your left boot." Who was this guy? Fuck, I was dead. I was so dead and my brother didn't even know where I was. He turned to me and smiled that infuriating smile again. Antonio. "So I'm going to stay right here, and then you're going to tell me why you were in the French Quarter last night, ok?"
Antonio's just a perv. XD no, just kidding! …maybe. So updates for this story will be really slow probably. Not because I don't love it, but because of other multi-chapters that I've started before this one. Unfortunately, they take higher prevalence. Wait though, wait!
Reviews? Do I deserve those from you?
