TIGHT ROPE

Chapter II

The night was calm, quiet. Anchored in a hidden bay of the Spanish coast, the ship rocked softly under the starry sky, lulling everyone in it to sleep.

Sat on the upper deck, Antonio sighed, his tired gaze lazily staring at the stars as he slowly grabbed the bottle of rum and took one long swallow. While his crew appreciated these nights in which they could take some deserved rest, sleep and not fight against storms, or simply enjoy the sweet pleasure of having nothing to do, Antonio hated it. He hated the calm, the quiet, the idleness. It left him alone with his thoughts.

As he drank some more, he heard steps coming up the stairs, and recognized them even before seeing who it was. He didn't even have to look to know Francis would have the same expression as always, half worried, half disappointed.

"Antonio," Francis called softly, walking to him and sitting by his side. "Are you drunk?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Not enough."

Francis sighed and ran his fingers through his long, blond hair. "Antonio, you drink too much," he finally said after a while.

Antonio groaned and threw his head back. Not this again.

"I'm worried," Francis went on, ignoring the other's clear disgust towards the topic. "It can't be good for you."

"I don't care."

"I do."

"See, that's your problem," Antonio muttered. "You care too much." He took another sip. "Francis, I appreciate that you worry for me, I really do — but don't bother."

Francis made a face that Antonio had learnt to recognize as his I'll-stop-for-now-but-don't-think-I've-given-up expression. For how long had they been periodically having this same conversation? Years. Although he kept telling him to stop, deep inside Antonio knew he'd hate it if Francis actually stopped interrupting his late-night drinking to (try to) convince him to quit it. It made him feel loved. He liked being reminded that Francis was there for him.

Francis, his first-mate, his best friend, who knew his darkest secrets and deepest fears yet still welcomed him.

Francis, who had just said something Antonio had missed.

"Hmm—?"

"I said that I've finished writing the letter for the Vargas family. I'll send the next time we reach port."

"It's taken you some time."

"I've written a few copies, just to make sure one reaches them. And my Italian is a bit rusty — I had to ask the kid to help me with a few sentences."

Antonio narrowed his eyes. "You've talked to him?"

"Just a couple of times," Francis shrugged. "He's smart. It's nice to have someone in this ship who can carry a conversation outside of money, alcohol and women."

"What about me?"

"Well, you don't really care about money or women, I'll give you that. But you have enough alcohol to cover for them." He made a show of pointing towards Antonio's almost empty bottle. "And all the other topics you provide are rather grim."

"Can you blame me?" he growled, darkly.

"No. I actually pity you a lot," Francis said, patting his shoulder. "Which is why I try to help you, and why I keep insisting that you should drink less." He stood up and stretched. "I care for you, Toni. Don't forget it," he added with a smile before walking away.

Antonio snorted. Why did Francis always seem to know what to say? There were few things he was actually grateful for, but one of those was definitely having Francis by his side. He couldn't have asked for a better friend.

Slowly, he raised the bottle to his eye level. There was still some rum inside. He tilted it, little by little, until the liquid threatened to spill out. Francis was right, he knew it. He drank way too much; it was surprising he still hadn't encountered any health problems related to it. They would come soon, though, if he kept drinking at such a crazy pace.

Then again, the nightmares were worse. And alcohol kept them at bay.

Antonio spilled what was left of the rum, but in his throat.

~{x}~{§}~{x}~

Lovino groaned as he tried to find a comfortable position. The chain was too short: he could barely walk two steps away from the wall, nor lay down on the floor without his arms hanging awkwardly. In the few days he had been in the pirate ship, he had only been unlocked a couple of times; times when Raúl didn't have any duty and could spare some time for him. The pirate would drop by, grab the keys to his shackles (which were hanged in the opposite wall, just out of his reach) and set him free just for ten minutes. He'd watch him with a keen eye, a hand always ready to draw his sword, but allowed him to walk around freely and answered to most of his questions.

The first time, Lovino had asked him why he followed a man like Antonio Carriedo.

"The Captain isn't a bad man," Raúl had replied after thinking over it for a while. "He gets carried away in battle and despises the likes of you, but that's it. He's just someone you don't want to be enemies with."

Lovino had a hard time believing that. Raúl had tried to convince him that, bloodlust and apparently random hatred aside, Carriedo was in fact a nice person, but Lovino couldn't imagine him as anything else than a monster who constantly thirsted for blood.

And then there was Francis. The first-mate had visited a couple of times with the sole purpose of having him help with his own rescue letter, but had always stayed longer to talk. He had apologized on Antonio's behalf for what he had made him do, but Lovino had correctly guessed that the captain didn't regret it in the slightest. Still, he had appreciated the Frenchman's attempt at lifting up his spirits a little bit. And he knew he had Francis to thank for remaining alive — he was well aware that, if it weren't for him, he'd been rotting in the bottom of the sea by then. All things considered, he quite liked the Frenchman.

Besides Raúl and Francis, he hadn't talked to anyone else. Some pirates sneered at him when they walked by his side, sometimes dropping humiliating or offensive comments, but never actually talked to him. And Carriedo hadn't bothered to visit him even once, something for which Lovino was, in fact, very grateful.

Frustrated, Lovino pulled at the chain and kicked the wall. There really wasn't a single comfortable position, and his muscles were starting to get sore. Groaning, he stretched and rubbed his shoulder.

And then he heard heavy steps coming down the stairs.

He froze in place. Although Francis had assured him that no crewmember would lay a single finger on him, Lovino couldn't help but be afraid. He had seen the way some of the pirates stared at him, with poorly-disguised lust in their half-lidded eyes; it made him wonder how long it had been since the last time they had touched anyone, and if any of them would be desperate enough to accept a few lashings in exchange for relief. He clenched his fists. If his night visitor did, indeed, have that in mind, he sure as hell was putting up a fight.

But when someone finally entered the brig, Lovino was shocked to see Antonio Carriedo himself. It took him a moment to recognize him: he wasn't wearing his signature red coat nor carried any weapons, and his long hair was loose. Also, unlike during their first meeting, in which he had moved with purpose, showing who was in charge with just his mere presence, he now stumbled, tripping with his own feet, until he crashed against the wall in front of Lovino.

For a few minutes, they didn't do or say anything — Lovino was too taken aback, and Antonio was looking around himself with a confused expression on his face, as if he didn't know what he was doing down there. But when his gaze landed on Lovino, he smirked and purred: "Good night".

That snapped Lovino back to reality. He crossed his arms (or did the closest he could manage with the shackles) and glared at him. "Get out," he spat.

"Giving me orders in my own ship?" Antonio chuckled, his smirk growing bigger. His fingers started to play with the keys to Lovino's shackles, that hanged right next to him. "That's not very smart, is it?"

Lovino raised an eyebrow, having noticed that the captain was slurring. "Are you drunk?"

Antonio laughed and stumbled towards him; instinctively, Lovino walked backwards and pressed against the wall, only to end up trapped between it and the pirate when he reached him and pressed his fists to the wall, one on each side of him. "Maybe," Antonio answered, and Lovino furrowed when the stench of alcohol reached him. "Are you scared?"

"No," Lovino replied vehemently, even though he had to admit to himself that yes, he was a little afraid. "You're not going to do anything to me. I'm valuable," he added, defiant. He had been whispering those same words to himself like a mantra during those last few days, whenever despair threatened to take over.

Again, however, he received a drunken chuckle as an answer. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Antonio said, pulling away from him and pacing around. "You and your ilk are always so arrogant."

"I am," Lovino spat, offended. "Like it or not, I'm worth much more than you'll ever be, you fucking bastard."

Had he known the effect those words would have, he would have never said them.

Antonio's expression morphed from happily drunk to furiously enraged in a matter of seconds, and he moved fast: before Lovino could process what had happened, he pulled out a dagger from God knew where and jabbed it on the wall behind Lovino, merely centimetres away from his neck.

Startled, Lovino flinched and closed his eyes. He was scared now — he was very, very scared. The pirate was now even closer than before, and he could feel on his face his quick, shaken breath. The arm that had wielded the dagger, which he still held, was pressed against his shoulder, making Lovino painfully aware of how close the blade was from his jugular. He briefly wondered if the Spaniard had missed on purpose before the other's cold, angry voice reached his ears:

"Let's make one thing clear," Antonio hissed, moving slightly so that he was speaking directly into Lovino's ear: "your life has no value to me. As far as I'm concerned, you are absolutely worthless. So you should consider yourself lucky — very lucky — for being alive and in one piece; and don't you ever again dare to think that just because I've kept you alive this far I won't do anything to you if you dare to insult me again." Roughly, he pulled the dagger out of the wall and slid the edge against Lovino's neck, softly enough to avoid cutting him yet firmly enough to help convey the message: "I won't miss the next time," he warned before abruptly pulling away and stomping out of the brig.

The moment his steps could no longer be heard, Lovino dared to breathe again. There were tears rolling down his cheeks, and his knees felt so weak. Trembling, he slid against the wall until he was sat on the floor; then brought his knees to his chest.

And then he started to sob.

~{x}~{§}~{x}~

Francis opened the door to Antonio's cabin to find him sprawled on his bed, lying on his face, in a deep slumber. It was to be expected, after all he had drunk the night before. Out of experience, Francis knew it'd be unwise to wake him up: not only was it early (Antonio was NOT a morning person), but also the captain despised being awoken. Deciding he'd better let him arise on his own when the time came (though knowing he'd do it himself if he was still asleep by noon), Francis got out, closing the door behind him without caring if he banged it too hard and made his way down to the brig.

He completely forgot what he wanted to do when he saw Lovino: curled up on the floor, eyes red from crying, trembling like a frightened deer. The boy flinched when he walked towards him, although seemed relieved to see him.

"Lovino?" Francis asked, tentative, as he moved slower. "What's the matter?" His gaze flickered to the hole in the wall, then back to the trembling boy. "Did any sailor do anything to you?"

"S-Sort of," Lovino answered in a low voice, sniffing.

"Okay, it's alright," the Frenchman assured, crouching in front of him. "Did he hurt you?"

"Not really; he just—just threatened me."

"Right. How about you tell me what happened, hm? I'll see what I can do," he offered, smiling kindly.

But Lovino shook his head. "There's nothing you can do."

"I doubt it. I'm the second-in-command, you know? I can have anyone in the ship flogged — unless it was Antonio, of course," he added with a chuckle. His smile died the moment he saw Lovino wince. "Oh God. It was Antonio, wasn't it?"

Lovino nodded.

Groaning, Francis dropped his face on his hands. "That fucking idiot," he mumbled, pissed off. With a deep, exhausted sigh, he properly sat on the ground and rubbed his forehead. "Will you please tell me what happened?"

"He—He came late at night. He was very drunk," said Lovino. "He was cheerful. Then I—said something that really angered him." He made a pause to dry his nose on his sleeve. "He suddenly got so violent; he stabbed the wall n-next to m-my n-neck," he stuttered, almost starting to cry again, "a-a-and threatened me."

"Yes, that sounds like Antonio," Francis sighed again. "He's a bit violent when drunk. Just what did you say to him to anger him that much?"

Lovino's gaze focused on the floor, unable to meet Francis' interrogating blue eyes. "I told him that I'm worth more than him," he whispered. "And I called him a bastard."

"Really?" Francis raised an eyebrow, impressed. "I'm surprised you're still alive, then." Not giving Lovino the chance to ask, he stood up. "I'm certain you've learnt your lesson, but I'll warn you again just in case: if Antonio ever comes back down here, be very careful with what you say. Anyway, as a precaution…" he sighed, knowing fully well he was going to regret it, "I'm going to hide his alcohol."

~{x}~{§}~{x}~

Antonio jolted awake when a glass of ice-cold water was poured on his head. "What the—?!" he yelled, pushing himself to a sitting position.

"Wake up. It's noon," said Francis as he left a now empty glass on the nightstand.

"Couldn't you wake me up like a normal person?" Antonio groaned, pushing wet strands of hair out of his face.

"I tried, but you were sleeping so deeply that nothing worked. If you hadn't been snoring, I'd have feared you were dead."

"The wonders of alcohol-induced sleep," the Spaniard commented as he stood up and stretched.

"Ah, speaking of — do you remember everything you did yesterday night?"

"Yesterday night?" he frowned. "Mostly drink, I think."

"What about threatening Lovino?"

Antonio froze in place at those words. He blinked slowly, trying to rescue fogged memories from the dark abyss the rum had created. "I—think I did something of the sort, yes," he finally admitted. "I didn't hurt him, did I?"

"No, he's fine — physically. You scared him a lot, though."

"He said things I didn't like."

"I know; he told me. But, Antonio," said Francis, in the same tone a mother would use to reprimand an unruly child, "that doesn't mean you can just go and threaten to kill him."

"I didn't hurt him in any way," the captain replied. He was starting to be annoyed. "And he won't do it again, if he's smart, so there's no risk of me actually harming him. End of conversation," he added with a growl when Francis opened his mouth to rebate.

Francis shut his mouth, a hurt look in his eyes. "As you order, Captain," he said with a cold voice, promptly leaving the cabin.

For a moment, Antonio considered rushing after him to apologize. He knew Francis, before his first-mate, was his best friend, and as such worried about his well-being and only wanted the best for him. And he returned the feelings — he didn't want to fight with him.

But his pride was stronger.

He waited a little, just to make sure he wouldn't bump into Francis; then, throwing his red coat over his shoulders, he walked outside. All the crew was already on deck, rushing from one place to another, preparing the ship to set sail. Antonio went straight to the upper deck, where the navigator was already at the wheel.

"Morning, Captain!" he greeted. "We'll be ready to leave soon. Where to?"

Antonio smiled and leant against the railing.

"Ibiza."

~{x}~{§}~{x}~

The ship had been moving for a while, and Lovino was starting to feel nauseous. He had dealt fairly well with seasickness when he could be on deck, but now, being locked in the brig, everything was even worse (and being surrounded by disgusting pirates didn't help, either). To make things worse, whenever he stood (the only position in which he didn't feel like throwing up), there was the whole in the wall that reminded him of his encounter with the Spanish captain the night before.

Things couldn't be worse.

He was so relieved when Raúl finally showed up with some food (even though he wasn't sure if he was going to be able to stomach it), because it meant both a distraction and being unchained for a while.

"Good morning, Lovino," Raúl smiled, cheerful, as he dropped a small bag next to him. "There's breakfast."

"Someone's in a good mood," Lovino commented as he raised his hands, silently asking to be released.

"Of course I am!" the pirate laughed. He grabbed the keys and unchained Lovino's shackles. "We're setting course to Ibiza!"

"Ibiza? What's so special about Ibiza?" Lovino asked as he started to pace around the brig, stretching.

"Ah, Ibiza…" Raúl sighed, and stumbled to the stairs to sit on them. "Ibiza is an island outside of the law. The Mediterranean Tortuga. Nest of pirates, bandits and every kind of despicable outlaws — like yours truly," he chuckled, saluting mockingly. "The best place to get drunk surrounded by women… which is probably what the whole crew is dreaming of," he mused. "We got a good loot the other day."

"Oh, really?" Lovino grunted.

Raúl smirked an raised his hand, as if holding an imaginary cup.

"I'll toast for you as I spend your money."

AN/ First things first: all that about Ibiza, I totally made it up. I've no idea if it ever was a pirate port (probably not), but for the sake of the story, it now is. Then again, I doubt any of you is reading this for the historical accuracy. :P Anyway, I hope you liked drunk Antonio and actual-mother Francis; review? :3