Sweeter than Heaven, Louder than Hell
By Faustus
Warnings (and, may I emphasize, you may want to pay attention) : Eventual slash (I cannot state with whom yet, they're still deciding it themselves), non-consent, explicit description, drug use, drug smuggling (carried externally, as well as internally), language, alcohol, violence, character death. . We pretty much have it all going here.
What you will currently see is more of a preface than anything : I'm introducing you to the idea and getting a feel for the AU. It's going to spiral downhill very quickly from here. This will not be a feel-good fic by the end of the day, I can assure you of that. Characters will die, and they will not go in pretty ways. The world of drug cartels is going to be explored, and that too will not be delivered in a glamorous way. There is a film out there, called Maria that you may recognize some methods of trafficking from as this piece grows. It is a pretty accurate representation.
What else I actually can say about this fic is : This is mostly a Matthew (Canada) centric piece. Other characters will appear, of course, and even narrate us along for development, however he is our main. He is, so to speak, our protagonist, if there is such a character. At some point, there will be slash relations, but even I am not quite sure with whom.
I may also state that this piece of fiction is not here to glorify the drug world, encourage traffic and transport, or anything else. I, myself, have no hands-on experience with drugs or trafficking, so all terms, methods, etc. referenced in this piece comes from research (mostly net, but some books). Some of my terms may be outdated due to this, and I apologize if so.
If I haven't lost you by this point yet, welcome aboard! This piece will not be this short consistently. Most of these will span numerous pages each : this is shorter due to the above statement about prefacing. At points, you might be grateful if I give bite-sized. Some bits might be hard to swallow.
DISCLAIMER : The characters of Axis Powers Hetalia are the creations, and thus belong to, Hideka Himaruya. I'm currently borrowing them for less-than-pure intentions.
He first sees him across a haze of smoke in a back-alley bar in Havana.
Tourists are far from an uncommon sight in the city - especially one's who have so boldly sewn their national flags upon their backpacks. It would take all of his fingers and toes to count up how many he saw in a single day, passing between the back alley of one tourist trap to another, head ducked low into the collar of his ostentatious Hawaiian-print shirt, baseball cap pulled the rest of the way to obscure the remaining bit of his face that showed. Most had the air of naivety about them that he looked for : they were easy sales, and suckers for "a taste of the local culture."
Whoever said drugs were a portion of Cuban culture had spout bullshit out of their asses, but Miguel's fat wallet thanked them everyday.
What was uncommon, however, was to see a tourist so far from any of the main stops, and it draws Miguel's curious eyes.
The bar they sit in is one of those types in Cuba : You need to know a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend-of-a-nephew-of-an-old-local to locate it. This is the norm in Cuba, where buildings have been built specifically for tourists, while locals still eat out of someone's downstairs living room-turned-restraunt (at a discounted price versus the tourists that might happen upon it when lost, as Miguel figures this boy must be). Save the lost-notion, this young man should not have been in this bar. It's enough to peak Miguel's thoughts as he draws another deep drag off his cigar and hunkers down lower in his barstool, his head cocked to the left. Subtly, smoothly, he brings his left hang up to cup his cheek - as one often does out of habit - and blocks the hole of his ear.
It forces his right ear to take in and process more sound, effectively making it easier to listen in on the little foreigner.
"Is Juanita in the back?"
Miguel inhales from his cigar and holds the smoke in his mouth for a moment, rolling it about before pushing it through his nose as he exhales. He taps the ashes off the end and waits, his eyes subtly watching the tender behind the counter.
The man eyes the blonde boy (Miguel assumes boy, anyway. He is quite pretty, but his chest lacks the definition of a woman, even a flat-chested one and he is almost disappointed in the realization. This foreigner couldn't be a man just yet either : Was he even legal in his home country to purchase alcohol? Miguel cannot tell-), a swift gaze from head to foot as he sizes him up. Miguel happens to be doing his own sizing, which consists of releasing his hold on his ear and leaning back on his stool in a pantomime of a complete yawn and stretch - It's over the top, emphasized, and it gives him the chance to look right at this boy.
Due to this angle, the first thing Miguel really notices about the creature is that he has quite a fine ass in those scandalously tight jeans.
Sinfully fine rump aside, it turns out he has quite the forgettable face. It doesn't stand out, and is partially obscured due to his round glasses. The frames are thin, at least, but Miguel still finds fault in this. His hair is fascinating, a beautiful strawberry blonde with what he could assume were natural curls that women would kill for. The boy, who sports his backpack with his flag - red and white with a large leaf : Canadian - with a proud, dazzling smile passes both his inspection and that of the tender who hums noncommittally and speaks.
"Maybe. What do you need?"
The boy wrinkles his nose and sits on one of the stools (a bit gingerly, if the Cuban does say so himself). Miguel, in the meantime, returns to his previous pose to eavesdrop, "I owe her ten, you see. I've also got a special delivery."
Miguel almost fumbles with his cigar here, and resists the urge to stare the boy down. So that was how he knew the location of the bar. It's simple, if you've been there before. Miguel chuckles bitterly and shakes his head, tapping off a bit of ash as he does so.
The first nice piece he's seen in three weeks, and it's a goddamn drug mule.
Matthew Williams is not the suspecting type, nor is he particularly remember-able, and that makes him pretty ideal for the job. Despite knowing the qualifications that render him "perfect" to mule, it doesn't comfort him any when he receives the calls.
It had begun two years ago, when he entered his Freshman year of University. Matthew had been excited to be accepted in the first place, but he had not been prepared for the hefty bill known as "student debt" to fall upon his head. With no assistance from his family, or anyone else for that matter, it had been his own duty to take into his hands. Odd jobs didn't make for much (he was never well-tipped as a barista, hot water scalded his sensitive skin in kitchens, he bumbled and fumbled on the restaurant floor, and he couldn't bring himself to rip covers from books) and desperation - with a hint of alcohol and possibly a dime bag - had lured him into the drug cartel world.
As with all things, it continued simply at first : the dealer had him carry extra on his person and run deliveries. He made a shockingly good delivery boy, and he received a small cut of the price himself. Sometimes, when customers were feeling particularly good, he even got a little sample of the product himself.
The work wasn't exactly honest, but the money was helping with his student payments.
How shuttling orders to their destination via his boss evolved into smuggling drugs between Cuba and Canada, Matthew still doesn't know. The pay has tripled, though.
What he does know, however, is that at this moment his backpack feels like a cement block has settled at the bottom of it. Guilt, he calls it : Others have called it blood money. Matt knows the lining of his backpack has been un-stitched and re-padded with something significantly different than the poly-fill it was manufactured with, and what didn't fit in the hidden crevices of the backpack went into his own hidden crevices. He tries not to think about how uncomfortable the condom was in its current location.
He also knows that he can't wait to get it out, even if he'll have more inside before he leaves Havana. Even a few minutes of relief is better than none at all.
The tender he is speaking to behind the counter of a bar in Havana - one he has made numerous returns to in the past year alone - shakes his head at Matthew and picks up a glass on the bar. Matthew settles his gaze on it and notices how the thick syrup of the additive in the mixer (it's pink - he can only assume it must have been a fruit drink) has settled and congealed in the bottom. It has sat there for quite some time.
"All deliveries for Juanita go out back," the tender informs him, sinking the glass into the soapy water of a sink behind the counter. "Never liked getting packages upfront."
Matthew knows this, and he also knows the answer is customary. It's part of the tradition.
"Thank you. I'll see myself back there. No need to leave the front, eh?"
The tender hums a bit and nods, lifting the glass for inspection. Matthew's eyes quickly return to the glass, studying how much liquid remains. Three fourths of the glass contains water, and he watches the remnants of the additive swirl around in its small vortex. He cannot help but think, for a moment, that it reflects how his stomach feels entirely.
He would be carrying goods back tonight.
Matt forces a smile back onto his face, a smile a little too broad that forces the corners of his eyes to crinkle in what would appear to be mirth - He has practiced this smile in front of mirrors too long, and has perfected it down to an art. "I might have a drink before I leave. . . We'll see how Juanita feels."
This is all he says before sliding off the barstool, gritting his teeth to keep from wincing as the rubber-wrapped good inside his cavity shifts uncomfortably, reminding him how terribly he wants to get it out. The knot tied in the end is jabbing particularly uncomfortably at sensitive tissue.
For a moment, he glances back across the bar and frowns at the sight of a man sitting at the counter. Somehow, he hadn't noticed him when he had entered : it would be hard to not notice. He was a thicker-sort of man, with dreads tied higher on his head than others Matthew had seen. Large fingers cradled a cigar close to his mouth, occasionally rising to draw another puff before lowering. An untouched drink sits before him, seemingly forgotten, and his eyes are closed as he props his head on his hand. A discarded ballcap is in the stool by him with a pair of sunglasses on its place atop his head.
Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to worry about.
Matthew shakes his head and dismisses the man from his thoughts as he opens the door to the bar and disappears down the alley towards the back entrance for the bar.