AUTHOR NOTE: A long time ago, Zulenha (you can find her on tumblr and livejournal) made me a fanart of Brazil and Argentina in a pirate AU. I decided to write about it and, after some srs brainstorming with Sakuratsukikage (also on tumblr and LJ), this is what I came up with.
Disclaimer: This is an AU, set in 1926. The characters belong to Latin Hetalia (also on LJ…), and what I did here doesn't represent in any way, shape or form, the actual countries of Brazil and Argentina, or the state of their diplomatic relationships. Unless the world got a lot weirder since the last time I checked ^_^
They twisted his arms behind his back.
Not too hard. They didn't seem to be trying to break it – just make sure he wouldn't move. And they didn't make him run, either, didn't drag him down the deck, didn't do anything that would actually hurt him.
Martin Hernandez wasn't fooled. He knew they had something in store, and maybe making him wonder was part of their plan. Something like that. But he kept his head held high. That was the easy part, straight back, haughty eyes, everything he had been practicing since he was a child, so much that now it came naturally. It wasn't much, not as these people held his arms without malice but without giving him any leeway either, and he could sense the silent threat, the expectation, mixing up with that apparent calm.
They pushed him against the mast. They held his arms around it. They tied his wrists, and that was the only part that hurt, and even then it was nothing he couldn't take, not nearly tight enough to cut off the circulation. They didn't talk much, just a few Portuguese words here and there, and when they finished they took one step back and looked at him. One of them tugged at the ropes, checking the knots.
And then they left him alone. And that was it.
Martín took a deep breath, as silently as he could, then rested his head against the mast, breathing, trying to think. Or to stop thinking.
He noticed, for the first time, that he was shaking. Just a little. He was sure they wouldn't have noticed – couldn't have, could they? He was sure they hadn't. The sounds of the battle were still ringing on his ears. The gunshots and cannon fire and the screaming and the smoke that seemed to have a sound of his own, filling his head, making his blood run faster, and all the sudden choices, the decisions, and at least he had that. Whatever happened now, as least he knew he had made the right choice, he had done what he always said he would do faced with a battle he would lose. And it had worked, he had bought them time, they had gotten away, so. He had all the rights to be proud of himself.
And pride wasn't much, but it would be everything here, so he let that thought sink in, tried to draw strength from it.
He sighed again. It was just a bit too loud, but no one was paying attention, no one was even looking at him. All around him normal life carried on, people running from side to side checking the damage, and that was something he could be proud of too, at least he had made an impact. And they were planning something, he knew that, he could tell, but they would make him wait.
His arms were starting to hurt.
It was getting warmer, too. It wasn't even noon yet, but the sun was high up and he could tell that it would be a problem later, if they kept him here, but there was no point in dwelling on it now. That was the trick, so he wouldn't panic. Yes.
Deep breaths.
He wished he could move. He closed his fingers, but it didn't help much, and it took some effort, too. His hands felt a bit cold, now. So the ropes were tighter than he had though.
Nice. And as for moving, the only thing he could do was slide down a little, and he didn't want that. Not in front of them. He could take this standing.
Deep, deep breaths.
It just happened that Martín hated to be restrained. He didn't know if anyone actually liked it, of course, probably not, and not like this, but he truly, truly hated it. And they would finish tending to the ship, eventually, and then they would remember this was his fault and then what?
Don't think about it, he told himself. What would happen would happen, so no point in worrying about it.
One of them came to him. It was a tall, older man with a face that looked like old leather, and he didn't look too friendly. Of course. Martín tried to look blank, not afraid but not challenging either, just- nothing. He could take it. He could.
The man said something in Portuguese. Martín was biting his lip now, and he forced himself to stop. He had been trying to train himself out of it for the better part of his life now, and this was one of the worst possible moments to find out it hadn't worked. Why was this man so close? He didn't have to. Maybe now-
The only word Martín got out of it was captain, and then the man went away, back to his business, and Martín didn't let out his breath because that would be too obvious, but now he was getting angry. That man had done that on purpose, to make him nervous, hadn't he? Had to. And why give him news or advice or whatever the fuck that was in a language he couldn't understand? What was wrong with these people?
And what about the Captain? Martín could wait. He almost told them that, he could wait the whole day, no need to hurry, he wasn't going anywhere and they could-
Then he saw him.
Then his thoughts stopped.
And the feeling of dread was like- like an empty space at the bottom of the stomach, he didn't know, like coming back home to find out the war had started, like watching the blockade from Buenos Aires and looking at everything he knew and loved not knowing if the Imperial Navy would be breaking in by nightfall and like every bad new he had ever received and so he just stared, and at some distant part of his mind he knew he had to face him standing, he had to look like he always had, strong, and proud and-
Luciano. Luciano da Silva, actually, if he hadn't bought the title everyone said he would, and he couldn't have or he wouldn't be here, he would be at the Navy, he wouldn't be a pirate, he wouldn't-
Luciano looked calm. And focused. And many other things Martín could suddenly tell without even trying, he looked worried and frustrated, pointing at the sails and asking questions and giving orders and everyone was looking at him and listening and he had never looked so, so sure of himself before, so commanding, and for a second there they were back in Paris and Martín was fighting a smile and Luciano was mangling every French word that came out of his mouth, and no one cared because he looked so charming and he was obviously trying so hard and now-
Luciano looked up at him.
Martín stared. The grip of the ropes brought him back and reality came crashing down and oh God why this why him why-
Luciano smiled. It was still the same smile, but his eyes were guarded:
"I'm sure you can wait another minute," he said, loud, and everyone laughed, and the laughter stung and Martín swallowed hard and tried not to show it.
"Take your time," he said.
I'm not going anywhere, he thought, but his voice faltered and he couldn't say it. Why in the world did it have to be him?
Then again, he should have seen it coming. Somehow. It was just his luck. It was-
Right, it didn't matter. So, they knew each other, that was all. And it was nice of Luciano to take his sweet time to come over, even if he probably meant it as a way to make him sweat, because that gave Martín the time to get a hold of himself. Somehow. Luciano seemed to be completed distracted now, talking with the tall man from before, and now Martín wished he had bothered to learn Portuguese to understand what they were saying. Luciano had tried to teach him, once, and oh the irony, and now he wished-
He wished he could forget that. He thought he had.
He tried to follow Luciano with his eyes, but the bastard was walking around, and then he was straight against the sun, and Martín had to look away. That was unsettling. Not knowing where he was. And what he would do. And what in the name of all hells he was doing here, and-
"Now, I don't have much time," Luciano said.
Martín raised his head sharply, trying to look at him, but Luciano was right behind him, and Martín felt his hands on his arms, the light tug on the ropes. More Portuguese, and then more laughter, and he thought he was complimenting them on the knots, but he couldn't be sure. He remembered that, this... changing the subject in the middle of a sentence, talking to someone else, talking to ten people at the same time. He was always doing that, back then. Martín rested his head against the mast.
He sighed loudly.
"You didn't change at all."
"Really," Luciano said. He held his arms, then, and Martín hoped his light gasp had gone unnoticed, and braced himself, but Luciano didn't pull or squeezed or anything, he just touched his forearms, fingers lightly pressing his muscles, and then let his hands slide down his arms until he could touch his wrists, and then he added, "Does it hurt?"
He was crazy. That, or he was trying to drive him crazy.
"No, I'm fine," Martín said.
"Really?"
"Yes, Luciano, I'm fine, now can you-"
"Heeey, you remember my name. That's so nice of you."
Martín stopped.
He wasn't sure what to make of that. Luciano finally – finally!- came round and stood in front of him, and smiled, as if Martín remembering him was really a sweet unexpected surprise and Martín tried to guess what game he thought he was playing, because-
"So," Luciano said, "A pirate, huh? Who knew."
Martin didn't answer. Even if he really wanted to, because honestly, look who's talking, but Luciano had that special way of saying things that made Martín want to shake him, and he was doing it on purpose, and Martín wasn't going to fall for this, wasn't going to-
"May I ask why? You never cared much for politics, and you were always too coward to fight for yourself, so why are you-"
"Coward? Are you calling me a-"
"A coward, yes. But it doesn't matter, I don't really care. I just asked to be polite. You really think I didn't change?"
It was- strange, and at the same time so familiar, the way his voice could change and one word would sound honest, and almost eager, and the other would sound harsh and the way his smile was both fixed and natural at the same time and had it always been like that?
"You didn't," Martín said. He tried to sound relaxed. "But I admit that I'm surprised. You didn't care for politics either, and I never expected you to be honest, but this?"
Luciano laughed, then. Martín knew it was real, he remembered that. Luciano could force a smile but he couldn't force laughter. He just laughed at the wrong times, and sometimes it had that glint of steel underneath the mirth, but it was never fake. Martín watched as he said something in Portuguese that made his crew laugh too.
He didn't care about them, or what they thought of him, or anything this bunch of barely trained monkeys did, but he could still feel his cheeks burning.
Luciano was shaking his head, still smiling:
"Good to know you didn't change, either."
He patted his cheek lightly, and smiled wider when Martin tried to avoid his touch.
"Now, like I said, I have work to do. Someone was attacking us, you know, so we have some things to fix so we can get the hell out of here. We'll talk more later. Catch up. You know."
"You- you'll leave me here? Like this?"
"That's the plan, yes. This way you won't get in our way, and we can all look at something pretty as we work. You'd like that, don't you?"
He wasn't even looking at him. He was running his fingers through his hair, getting it out of his forehead, and then suddenly Martin was very aware of the heat, and the little rivulets of sweat running down his back, and he couldn't even take off his coat or the cravat and it wasn't even noon yet, and-
"You can't do that."
"Really? Who will stop me?"
"You-"
He could take this. He could handle it. He'd just have to- focus, and he would- he wasn't going to-
"You're a bastard, Luciano."
"Am I?"
Martin tried to breathe. Deep. Don't panic. He hated being restrained. He didn't-
Don'tgo there. He breathed again.
"You can't do that to me. You can't- that's not-"
He stopped. Luciano waited, looking amused.
"I'll- I'll make you pay for this, Luciano, you can't-"
"Really? Should I just kill you? I can do that too. Later. When I get bored."
Martín could recognize that one too, the subtle harshness underlying every word, he had seen this too, back when Luciano could rage all he wanted that it would still be as harmless as a kitten, back then, but right now it wasn't important, he couldn't bring himself to care:
"You can leave me somewhere, I'll find a way to- any shore will do, I can-"
"Come on, Martín, shut up. And here I thought it would take at least ten minutes to get you whining."
"I know why you're doing this, I- do they know? Do they know what's this all about? Because we both do and-"
"Martin, shut up."
At least he dropped the smile. Martin pulled at the ropes, and they held and he had nothing else but pride to hold on to, to get him through this and Luciano was looking at him like that, little drops of sweat glistening on his skin and Martin wanted to move, he didn't even need a shade, just move, just something, anything, and Luciano couldn't do this and-
"Or what, you'll kill me? Do they know you don't give a fuck about the war or anything and this is just because I didn't fuck you like you wanted and that's why-"
The slap took him completely by surprise.
It threw his head against the mast and the hot white burning pain exploded on his right cheek and down his neck and it made little lights flash before him and then Luciano held his chin and forced his head back and then he said:
"Don't say that again or I'll break your neck. As for fucking, Martín, tell you what, if you mind the heat so much, I'll cut off your clothes and leave you naked here and then we'll see how much they care about it? What do you say?"
Martin didn't even blink. He believed that. He wasn't sure he hadn't broken anything, because it hurt, and it was still hurting and he could take this he was sure he could take it this was Luciano for God's sake-
"You wouldn't," he whispered. Luciano held him just a little tighter, and Martin tried to fight back a moan. He wouldn't. He just wouldn't.
Then Luciano relented:
"Well, don't try me," and then he let go.
He said something to his men, and Martin had never wished so hard he could understand Portuguese, but he wouldn't, he was sure of it, this was still Luciano, he would never, he-
He didn't know where to look now, if he should see where Luciano was going or if he should keep his eyes on his men or what and it was like being in the middle of a battle without a weapon. One of them came to him – not the one from before, this one was younger and had dark tanned skin and a crooked smile and he looked at him like he would look at a piece of meat – and patted his cheek. Martin didn't say anything – his throat was completely dry, and he would scream, he knew it, but he couldn't, he still had his pride, so he turned his head away and then waited for another slap or- anything and-
The man laughed, a loud, merry boisterous mocking sound, that was – almost- just as bad as- no, maybe not, but-
Martín glared at him. He could feel his face reddening with shame, as they went back to their business and he became invisible again.
But not completely. They looked at him every now and then and sometimes they touched him. Light, playful touches meant to make him squirm, patting and petting and pinching. Martín tried to glare and tell them off but his voice trembled and they just laughed and mimicked his accent, and he was sure some of them could understand him because, well, they should, but if they did they were hiding it well. And Martín tried to tell them to stop laughing because there was nothing to laugh about, but the way they mimicked his voice was so petty and insulting and so infuriating that he stopped talking, and just glared at him whenever they touched him.
They weren't- Luciano wasn't going to let them. They were just- toying with him. It was obvious. They found him entertaining. They would get tired of it, eventually, he hoped. No, he knew it. So he tried to stay silent, to make his face as blank as he possibly could, and ignore all the hands feeling him up, tried to think of something else.
It was harder than he had thought. After a few minutes, the only thing he could think about was the sun.