DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
SPANISH GOLD
THREE
VARGAS
BARCELONA, SPAIN
18 MARCH 1738
Lovino awoke feeling sick. He had barely lifted his head from the pillow before a needle of pain pierced his foggy brain and he squeezed his eyes shut, deploring the bright sunlight that shone happily into the cabin. Seagulls cried outside, dueling for fish-heads, as the Italian fought the urge to discharge the contents of his stomach in a most ungentlemanly fashion. A gust of wind blew the fishy scent of Barcelona's wharf into the cabin and Lovino lost the battle for control. He stumbled urgently to the window and, clutching the sill, vomited over the ship's side. Then he watched the seagulls dive hungrily to eat the chunky contents floating in the water, and he vomited again. Nature, it seemed, was unsympathetic to his sensitivities. He buried his head in his arms and sat slumped against the window-ledge like the weeping victim of a villain's plot. Half-asleep, too lethargic and afraid of the gastric repercussions to risk moving, Lovino stayed there until the cabin's door opened.
He barely registered the touch of Antonio's hand. "Lovi—?" he inquired.
Lovino uttered a weak moan, afraid to open his eyes. Uninvited, Antonio lifted Lovino off the window-ledge. He tried to protest, embarrassed by the mere thought of vomiting on Antonio, but the Spaniard's warm body had the opposite effect. Lovino rested his head on Antonio's chest and clutched a fistful of his shirt-sleeve, feeling comforted. The scent of Antonio's skin—like roasted-coffee, sweat, and sea-salt—was soothing. "I want to die," he murmured as Antonio returned him to bed.
"I would be muy sad if you did," Antonio admitted. He left then, but returned shortly with a glass of the most foul-smelling concoction Lovino had ever had the displeasure of smelling. He wondered if Antonio was intentionally trying to make him sick, especially when the Spaniard's chipper voice said: "Drink it."
"Fuck yourself," Lovino retaliated grumpily. "N-nooo—!"
Antonio pulled Lovino's forearms until he was sitting, and then pushed the offensive drink toward him. "It'll make you feel better."
"Sí, no doubt. Because if I drink it I'll die."
"Stop fussing, just trust me. Lovi"—Antonio pinched Lovino's nose—"don't make me feed you like a bebé."
Lovino swatted at Antonio, who only relented when he had taken the glass in defeat. "I hate you," he said, eyeing the thick grog, which looked like a witch's brew. With luck it'll send me into an enchanted sleep until the hang-over passes, he thought. The instant it touched his lips, however, his gag-reflex abolished the idea. He leaned forward, but Antonio lifted his chin, forcing him to swallow. Too late, Lovino pinched his nose. The taste on his tongue was horrid, but he managed to choke the rest down. "I—" cough cough "—hate you, Toni!"
As Lovino rolled onto his side, Antonio said: "I shouldn't have let you drink so much last night." He looked sheepish.
Lovino's hazel eyes narrowed, partially at Antonio and partially at the abrasive sunlight. "You drank as much as I did. Why aren't you sick?"
"Because," Antonio said, affecting a teasing manner; he cocked his index-finger, "I already drank my potion."
"Fuck you," Lovino returned. And he went back to sleep.
It was late-afternoon when next he awoke, feeling drowsy. His head felt heavy, as if drugged, but at least it no longer hurt. He peeled his eyes open and gazed out beneath his long, black lashes. Antonio was sitting at a desk in the corner, head bowed as he wrote. Lovino could hear the faint, constant scrape of a quill-pen on parchment, which sang the boy back to sleep.
Lovino dreamt of old fish-scaled witches and magick brews that smelled like something only a Scandinavian would voluntarily eat. He dreamt of being locked in a cage beneath the ocean's surface; he could feel the cage moving as the waves rocked it. He tugged at the bars, made of bone, and screamed for help. He screamed for Antonio, whose silhouette he could see above the surface: dashing, like a swashbuckling hero. The Spaniard's strong hands reached down and pulled the cage apart: the bones broke (Lovino heard the crunch of every one). Then, as the cage emerged, Antonio grabbed Lovino and pulled him to safety. Lovino felt relief. Gazing into Antonio's emerald-green eyes, he felt affection. Then Antonio kissed him, not on the forehead or cheek, but on the lips like lovers. And Lovino reciprocated as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It felt right. Antonio had rescued him so many times and—oh! Lovino had longed to repay him with a kiss. He felt the touch of Antonio's supple lips; he tasted Antonio's slick, wine-laced tongue. And the Spaniard's strong hands, which coiled around the column of Lovino's slender neck. Lovino stiffed, his ministrations ceased. Forcefully Antonio's hands constricted around his neck, crushing his windpipe. Lovino couldn't breathe. He tried to call-out, but he couldn't make a sound. He tasted brine as Antonio pushed him back beneath the ocean's surface. There were tears in his green eyes, which had clouded-over like a stormy sky. His lips spoke words of regret, but Lovino couldn't hear them. Antonio squeezed his neck until the bones broke. Just like the cage.
Lovino bolted upright, gasping. He felt—scared.
No, Toni wouldn't do that. He's good, he's kind. He clutched his heart, which was beating hard. Toni's soft, he's not a killer. He's a pirate, but he's not bad. Everyone loves him. He wouldn't hurt anyone. He wouldn't hurt me.
"Lovi—? Are you okay, chiquito?"
Lovino turned and faced Antonio, who was sitting at his desk. The sunset was murderous, bathing the pirate captain in blood-red. He stared at the Italian boy with a curious, cryptic look on his face. It reminded Lovino of the Antonio in his dream, who had rescued him only to crush his bones. An involuntary whine escaped him.
"Lovi, what's wrong?" Antonio crossed the room in three long-legged strides and knelt by Lovino's bedside. When he reached for him, Lovino flinched. "Hey there, chiquito," he smoothed Lovino's hair, "tell me what's wrong."
"N-nothing, just a— dream," he said.
Antonio's face had softened. He knelt on the floor, staring eye-to-eye with Lovino. In the shadows, out of the blinding red sunlight, he looked like himself again. He looked like the handsome green-eyed man who had kissed the boy in the garden the night before.
Toni kissed me, Lovino thought, feeling happy. That wasn't a dream, it really happened.
Lovino had been taken off-guard by Antonio's sudden advance, but it hadn't shocked him. It hadn't scared him. On the contrary, it had confirmed a suspicion that he had been feeling for years: something that had grown from an innocent, childhood crush into— love? Is this what love feels like? Lovino had never been in love before and didn't know what it was supposed to feel like. But this—staring into Antonio's handsome, familiar face—doesn't feel so bad. I wanted him to kiss me, he realized. I've wanted it for a long time. Do you feel the same way, Toni? Do you love me?
He stared expectantly at Antonio, waiting for him to speak; waiting for him to confirm the change that had occurred between them; waiting for him to acknowledge his feelings; waiting to be confessed to; waiting to be kissed— waiting. But as the seconds ticked by, Antonio remained silent. Don't you love me? Lovino wondered, feeling nervous. Now is the time to tell me, Toni. I'm here, I'm listening. I want to know why you kissed me. But the silence stretched and the Spaniard lingered, and Lovino's nerves slowly deflated into hopelessness. Are we not going to talk about it at all? Are we going to pretend it never happened?
Finally, as if waking from a daydream, Antonio leaned forward—
—and pecked Lovino's forehead. "Just rest, chiquito. You'll feel better tomorrow."
Days passed with barely a word exchanged between the Spaniard and Italian that wasn't of inconsequence. The polite conversation might have been suitable of a gentleman and a courtier, but it was unlike the way they usually spoke to one other, especially on Lovino's part. Afraid this new-found feeling of—love? would vanish if he didn't cradle it, the boy tried his hardest to avoid upsetting Antonio by complaining or losing his temper—harbouring hope that Antonio would confess to him, or at least acknowledge the kiss—and, as a result, he spent much time out of Antonio's presence altogether. Antonio, however, seemed not to notice. Blaming a busy schedule, he submerged himself in work and the boy saw him even less than before. And when he did, Antonio was distracted. He spent hours at his desk, scribbling what Lovino thought were letters—to whom, the Italian didn't know. Once, when curiosity overwhelmed propriety, he rifled through the contents of Antonio's desk, which the Spaniard had started keeping uncharacteristically tidy, but he didn't find anything of interest. The bottom drawer, which doubtlessly contained the letters, was locked.
Lovino lasted a week before his temper finally ate his patience.
"Supper is ready," he said to Antonio, inching toward him. "You haven't eaten anything today, Toni. And the cook made paella for supper, one of your favourites. It'd be rude not to eat it. Toni—?"
Antonio was sitting hunched over his desk, absorbed in his writing. It looked like a letter, but as Lovino drew closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of it, Antonio flinched and flipped it over in reflex, overturning a pot of pounce in the process. "What's wrong, Lovi?" he asked, ignoring the mess.
Lovino eyed him skeptically, distrusting Antonio's feigned nonchalance. "I said, supper's ready," he repeated in annoyance.
"Oh." Antonio relaxed. "No, you go ahead and eat without me, Lovi. I'm not hungry for empanadas."
"Paella," Lovino corrected, temper flaring. He disliked being ignored.
"Sí, paella— that's what I meant."
In a bout of compressed rage, Lovino reached over Antonio's shoulder, grabbed his ink-well, and threw it at the opposite wall. It shattered, leaving an inky stain on the wood as it fell to the floor. In shock, Antonio protested, but Lovino was already gone. He left the cabin and climbed to the top-most deck, where he had not practised swordplay in weeks. He clutched the guardrail tightly, letting the breeze cool his temper.
Why did I do that? he wondered, feeling unstable; feeling hot like fire. As his fingers closed around the ink-well, his only thought had been: Pay attention to me, Toni! Please— just look at me! Then, irrationally, he had let the ink-well fly in frustration, too late to curb his temper. He regretted it now, of course. It had both startled and confused Antonio, but Lovino felt better for having done it. I've never been able to control my temper, he disregarded, I don't know why I even bothered trying. But it's not my fault. It's because Toni is infuriating! He makes me so angry!
It's became I care, he privately admitted. If I didn't care for him, I wouldn't feel so strongly. It wouldn't hurt this much.
Kisses were supposed to be given in love and affection, not fear. They were supposed to make you feel happy, not sad. Not forgotten. And Antonio—
He won't even look at me, Lovino thought sadly. Does he regret kissing me? Does he really want to forget it so badly? Fine, he accepted defeat. The kiss had been exhilarating, addictive even. It had been everything that Lovino was unwittingly waiting for, everything he wanted. But it wasn't worth losing what he and Antonio already had. If you want to pretend it didn't happen then so will I.
"Because"—Lovino whispered to the wind—"ti amo." I love you.
CARRIEDO
MARSEILLE, FRANCE
ONE MONTH LATER
Antonio folded the letter twice and tucked it into his coat pocket. He had left the ship early, seeking a messenger from Rome. The port of Marseille was quiet compared to busy Barcelona, but amply supplied to quench any seaman's thirst for wine or women. He had met the messenger in a wine-house and received a single letter: a reply to the one he had sent over a month ago. It was written in Roma's artistic scroll, though his words were not quite as artful. It was a short letter compared to the multi-paged composition that Antonio had written him, but just as well. It wasn't meant to be a correspondence between friends, but a plea for help. One to which his former foster-father had replied:
April, 1738
Rome
My dearest Antonio,
It sorrows me to know of your hardships, child. Your soul is tormented, cleaved in two. Ever has it grieved me, but I am afraid it has always been so with you. Passion (I shan't call it otherwise) is in your blood and is yours to command; in this, fear is your enemy. I regret my absence. I would counsel you better if I could, but in matters of the heart I do not believe I can (nor should). I cannot ease your heartache, dear child. Yours is not my decision to make. But I trust you, Antonio. I always have.
If you so desire, thinking it in the best interest of my grandson, send Lovino home with haste.
Yours lovingly,
Roma
It wasn't, Antonio thought, the most straightforward answer. He sighed as he climbed the gangplank, returning to El Escape, thinking on the decision he alone had to make and wishing that Roma had been less abstract in his reply. Unintentionally, he found himself yearning for the days of his childhood when the Italian had commanded, not obliged his foster-sons. If he had ordered Francis and Antonio to do something, they had (usually) done it without question, trusting Roma's judgement. They had never had to make decisions for themselves, and—oh! how much simpler that was then governing oneself! I wrote you for guidance, Antonio thought grimly, and all you've written back is: decide for yourself. That's what I get for leaving home, for pretending that my life is my own. I thought I was escaping the shackles of Italy. I thought that taking control of my own life meant the freedom to do whatever I want. He laughed mirthlessly. But I was wrong: the opposite is true. I have more responsibility now, more cares and worries than I ever did in Italy.
As if on-cue, Lovino's voice interrupted his thoughts:
"Come on, Miguel, please?" he whined. "Jorge?"
Lovino was bouncing eagerly on his toes, engaged in a one-sided debate with the first-mate and boson, who both looked skeptically at the boy. It wasn't an unusual sight: Lovino often pestered the sailors, especially Miguel, who either regarded him with indifference or affectionate tolerance depending on the boy's energy level. Today it was high. Lovino was bright-eyed and determined. It was a refreshing sight. Antonio had been cautious of Lovino since the boy's birthday and, though he tried to be subtle about it, he was sure that Lovino had noticed—if his change in attitude was any indication. Of course, that was before he had smashed an ink-well against the wall. It was good to see the Italian acting like himself again, despite his temper. It made Antonio less afraid of what he had done. If Lovino remembered me kissing him he would have said something by now, long before now, he convinced himself. He doesn't remember, I'm certain of it.
Lovino said: "Puh-lease—?"
Miguel exchanged an exasperated glance with Jorge before answering the boy. "No," he said sternly. "None of us are taking you ashore, Lovino. The capitán would skewer us if we did."
Lovino exhaled dramatically. "Toni? No he wouldn't, he's too soft. He probably won't even notice I'm gone." Antonio felt a pinch of guilt but, like the loneliness slowly creeping back, he steeled himself against it. He was about to interject, but Lovino continued. To Miguel and Jorge, he said: "Come on, I thought we were friends."
Jorge folded his big, dark-skinned arms. "Yesterday you called me a slimy, spineless jellyfish."
"Only in jest, obviously—"
"No, Lovino. The answer is no," Miguel silenced him. "I won't deliberately disobey Capitán Carriedo's orders. I like my organs were they are, gracias."
Lovino scoffed at their retreat. "Toni? You're afraid of Toni—? Pah! Well, fine then! I don't need you, I'll do what I want!" he retorted arrogantly.
Antonio noted the way Lovino's hip cocked, achieving a devil-may-care posture despite his flushed skin. Oh Dios, he's so beautiful, he thought, spying on the impassioned boy. The sunlight was bright, making Lovino's skin look like delicious dark-caramel. The sea's climate and wild temperament agreed with the fiery fifteen-year-old. Antonio wanted so badly to reach out and touch him, but he was afraid of what the physical contact would do to him. It wasn't as if Lovino was consciously trying to entice Antonio, after all. He was just an incredibly vain boy who liked the way he looked in form-fitting clothes; he liked his hair to be perfectly styled; he knew just how attractive he was and liked looking his best. It wasn't as if he was hoping to catch Antonio's eye—right?
"Fucking Toni," Lovino grumbled to himself. He kicked a wooden bucket, making a racket. "Doesn't he know who I am? I'm Lovino fucking Vargas, you bastardos! I'm a lord! He can't just keep me locked-up in here. I should be free to go wherever the fuck I want. And I will. I don't care about Toni's rules. I'm not afraid." He gestured rudely in Miguel's direction. "I'm not going to let those self-serving nobodies order me around like a—"
"Lovino?" Antonio interrupted.
Lovino spun on his heel in surprise. "Oh, Toni," he said sheepishly, wondering if Antonio had heard his rant. When Antonio failed to speak, however, he regained his confidence. "What do you want?"
"Please stop pestering the crew, they have work to do. Nobody is going to take you ashore, chiquito," Antonio said as mildly as possible. He didn't have the energy, nor will, to argue with Lovino just then.
"Then I guess you'll just have to take me," Lovino replied cockily. "I've never been to Marseille, please Toni? Or I'll go by myself," he threatened, knowing that Antonio would follow if he tried.
"No, not tonight. I haven't got the time and you can't go alone."
Lovino exhaled. "When are you going to stop treating me like a child? I've been a pirate—"
"A cabin-boy."
"—for three years! I've learned sailing and swordsmanship, I've even fired a pistol!"
"Once. And you sprained your wrist because of the kick-back," Antonio reminded him. "I'm sorry, Lovi, but it's too dangerous right now. I've just been ashore and it's crawling with sailors on-leave, it's rowdy. The shopkeepers are having enough trouble trying to placate them. Nobody would blink at your getting hurt. Besides that, I found my picture posted to a garden-wall: a wanted-poster. If someone recognized me—or worse, you—what would happen?"
"I can protect myself," Lovino proclaimed, patting the épée on his hip. "I'm a capable swordsman, I can take on anyone who dares to challenge me. You don't believe me?" he noted Antonio's pitying expression. It aggravated his temper, which made his cheeks flush redder. "I'm not a baby, Toni. I'm fifteen. You don't have to protect me, you're not even my real brother. I'm not your responsibility. I can fight my own battles, I— I don't need you anymore!"
Antonio swallowed the verbal blow, which felt more like slap in the face. Lovino's hazel eyes grew wide for a moment and he opened his mouth to speak, perhaps apologize, but his pride would not allow it. Instead he held the Spaniard's gaze, determined to win the argument at all costs. A retort formed in Antonio's mind, but he bit his tongue. I don't want to fight with you, Lovino. Especially not when you're right.
Slowly, Antonio nodded his head. "I know," he said. And walked away.
VARGAS
Lovino eyed his reflection in the wall-mirror, trying to decide if he looked older and more mature than he had a year ago. He was taller, if not broader. Despite two-and-a-half years of fencing lessons, he was physically no stronger now than he had been before, still slender-figured and modelesque. Admittedly, the only thing about him that had grown was his ego—and vanity. I look good, he thought immodestly, trying to smooth down an errant curl. I look like a born-and-bred noble. Satisfied, he slipped his épée into his sash and grabbed for Antonio's coat. The breeze had cooled as the sun set and he wanted something to protect himself from the cold as well as unwanted eyes.
Since he had argued with Antonio that afternoon: since he had seen the heartbreak in Antonio's emerald-green eyes and, because of it, decided that he had won the disagreement, Lovino had felt the need to prove his ability. Antonio would never trust him if Lovino's skills remained untested. I won't go far into the city, he decided, slipping into the coat. I'll just stay long enough to prove that I'm not afraid of being alone, just long enough to prove that I can take care of myself. He knew Antonio would lecture him afterward, but he was prepared for the consequences. I won't let Toni coddle me anymore. I'm not his baby-brother, I never was. And maybe—just maybe—if I can prove to him that I'm not a child, Toni might reconsider his feelings for me. The thought alone made his heart leap hopefully.
Lovino reached for the door, but it swung open before he touched it.
CARRIEDO
Antonio nearly hit Lovino with the door as it swung inward. The first thing he noted was the boy's attire: calve-high boots laced over tight black trousers, a crimson-red sash tied at his slender waist, adorned with his épée, and a long-sleeved white shirt tucked neatly in. He carried himself with all of the confidence of a peacock flaunting its plumage. And he looked good—really good. The second thing Antonio noticed was Lovino's expression: cocky and self-assured, but tense, ready for a fight. "I'm going ashore," he said, sounding less like the wolf-pup he had been and more like a fully-grown wolf. In a show of defiance, he flipped the collar of Antonio's coat up. The coat was too big for him, especially in the shoulders, but it somehow only added to his saucy charm. His beautiful, youthful face was set in an uncompromising scowl not unlike the pout he used to wear as a child. Only now his velvety lips were fuller, his cheekbones were higher, and his hazel eyes burned with a more heated fire. It was an uncomfortable feeling, Antonio thought as he stared at Lovino, to be annoyed and aroused at the same time.
Everything about you has grown-up except for your attitude, Lovino. You're still a brat. Only now you're a brat I want to fuck.
He hated himself for it, but could finally admit (privately, and hating himself) that he was sexually attracted to the fifteen-year-old boy. Which was exactly why Lovino had to return to Italy as soon as possible.
Antonio stepped stiffly into the cabin. "You're not going anywhere," he said, trying to ignore the ache in his—ahem—heart. His blood felt hot; he could hear it pounding in his ears. The growling voice in his head whispered carnal lust, urging him to take: to possess. To conquer. He fought the desire, but felt his self-restraint weaken every time he looked at Lovino. "You won't go by yourself," he said, without making eye-contact, "you hate being alone."
"Maybe I do, but I'm not afraid," Lovino replied.
"Sí, I know. That's what concerns me." Antonio sighed. "Lovi, there's something we need to discuss."
Lovino rubbed a smudge of sea-salt off Antonio's coat and absently fingered the hilt of his sword. "Not now, I'm leaving to go ashore," he said, making to walk by Antonio.
Antonio grabbed the boy's shoulder, applying the gentlest pressure to stop him. But even that sent a shiver of anticipation up his spine. "It's important."
"I don't care. If it's so important then come with me."
"Lovino, please—"
"No!" Lovino snapped. He slapped Antonio's hand away, temper flaring. "You can't just order me around like I'm one of your replaceable crewmembers, you know. I might be your cabin-boy, but I'm also Lovino Vargas, and I'm done taking orders from you."
"When have you ever?" Antonio returned. "It's been three years and you still refuse to play by my rules." He indicated Lovino's attire; his desire to leave. "This is my ship. I'm the capitán and you're the cabin-boy. Do I have to draw you a fucking diagram, Lovino? I'm the top, you're the bottom."
Lovino's cheeks blushed, but he snapped: "I-I am nobility! I am a lord! You're just an orphan who nobody wanted! Your own mother didn't even want you, that's why she abandoned you! If my Nonno hadn't found you, you'd be absolutely nothing! So don't you fucking tell me what to do—"
CRACK.
Antonio had never struck Lovino before, but his hand now tingled from the contact. His sudden, uncontrolled fury ceded quickly into fear as he looked from his raised hand to the Italian boy in stupefied horror. Lovino's eyes revealed disbelief, hurt, and anger as he reached up and cupped his reddening cheek. Antonio's hand trembled as he lowered it. No— no, no, no! Quickly he strode past Lovino into the cabin, facing the window. And he held his breath. No, please not now! Not him!Lovino had never witnessed Antonio lose control before and the Spaniard fought hard now to keep it that way. But when Lovino, recovered from the unexpected blow, retaliated with a furious verbal attack, Antonio spun around and grabbed the boy's biceps.
"And what are you?" he challenged, resisting the urge to squeeze the frightened boy. "Who is Lovino Vargas except for a spoiled lordling brat who hides behind his Nonno's name? You've never earned a thing in your life!" He shook the boy. "You don't know what blood and sweat and tears really are, Lovino, or what it truly means to survive!"
"I-I've earned plenty!" Lovino defended. "I earned my sword—"
"No, I bought it for you."
"I earned it by disarming you! I defeated you in combat!"
"No," Antonio denied. "I let you win."
Antonio's confession took Lovino off-guard. He stared in open-mouthed disbelief, then shook his head. "No, I beat you. It was a one-on-one duel and I beat you. I practised for two years and I finally disarmed you—"
"Do you really think your épée could disarm my cutlass? Do you really think a skinny little boy could defeat me?" Antonio spat pitilessly.
No, stop it! Stop taunting him! said his Conscience. You're scaring him! Calm down or you'll hurt him!
But Antonio ignored it. "I let you win," he growled, teeth clenched. "I let you think you had beaten me so you would stop asking to fight. I was never going to let you fight real battles, Lovino, and the sooner you lost interest in sword-fighting the better. It took me a while to realize it, but you're a quitter. As soon as you've proved your point you quit everything you try. I knew that if I let you win, it would give you that sense of victory you seem to crave, then hopefully you would cast sword-fighting aside like everything else." Lovino's hazel eyes filled with tears of betrayal, which he tried to blink away, but Antonio saw them. He felt his fury ebbing rapidly into guilt as he beheld the young boy, wanting to console him, but he didn't. Instead he released Lovino and took a step back. "I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "I never meant to tell you that, but it's the truth."
"So, what then?" Lovino feigned indifference, though his voice was choked; eyes tear-filled. "You lied to me?"
"I did it to keep you safe."
"By lying to me? By striking me?!" he yelled. The tears fell. "What else have you lied about? What do you—" Lovino stuck his hands into Antonio's coat pockets in search of a handkerchief, but stopped suddenly. He drew out the letter from Rome and unfolded it. His eyes grew wide when he recognized his grandfather's handwriting. "Toni," he said quietly, reading it. "What is this?"
Antonio gasped. "Lovino, don't! That's not for you, it's—"
"From Nonno Roma. What is this?!" he demanded, dodging Antonio's reach. "Are you... sending me away? Do you not want me anymore?"
"No! I mean, sí! I do want you— here," he added, suddenly tongue-tied. Fury became guilt became panic in his brain. He didn't know what to feel. He spoke without thinking: "I love having you here with me, Lovi. I really do. But we both knew you had to go back eventually. You have to go home."
"No, please no! I don't want to go back! I want to stay here with you! Ah—! No! Toni, let go of me!"
Lovino thrashed wildly, but he couldn't free himself from Antonio's grasp. He held the boy tightly, trying to simultaneously soothe and restrain him, but Lovino didn't want to be soothed or restrained; he wanted to fight. He wanted to run. Antonio could see despotism in his teary, hazel eyes. I never wanted to make him cry, he thought, feeling the bite of failure. Not like this. Lovino's pleading voice hurt Antonio, who was so accustomed to giving the lordling whatever he wanted. Not this time. This time it's for your own good, Lovino. You're in danger here; you've always been in danger with me. You have to go back, otherwise I'm afraid I'll— He swallowed. I won't be able to control myself. You'll be safe in Italy, safe from me.
Finally, Lovino stopped fighting and hung his silky head. "Do you hate me, Toni? Is that why you want me to leave?" His voice betrayed fear. He hesitated. "Is it... because you kissed me?"
Antonio was so shocked by Lovino's words that he dropped the boy and stepped back, breaking contact.
"You told me you loved me," Lovino said, clenching the letter in his fist. "Was that a lie too?"
When Antonio failed to speak, Lovino took his silence as truth and left. He let the cabin's door slam behind him, boots dashing across the deck, but Antonio didn't move. He couldn't. He watched in self-loathing as the object of his affection literally ran away from him in fear. His heart pounded; his throat felt dry. But by the time he unclenched his jaw and found his voice it was too late. "No, it wasn't a lie," he said.
But Lovino was already gone.
VARGAS
Lovino ran. He burst from the cabin and raced across El Escape's deck, dodging sailors, who, desensitized to the boy's tantrums, stepped quickly aside. He heard Jorge's deep voice yell at him to be careful, assuming that he was headed to the galley to sulk, but the man's tone changed when Lovino ran past the stairs. Slipping past the surprised guards, he ran down the gangplank onto the wharf. The port was busy, crowded with sailors on-leave and merchants selling their overpriced wares. Lovino heard Miguel's voice yell angrily, frantically, at him to return to the ship, ordering several crewmembers to retrieve him. He heard their loud footsteps bang against the gangplank as they chased after him, but Lovino lost them easily in the throng. His slight dancer's body weaved between bigger, meaner men and soon he had lost himself in a labyrinth of buildings: shops, wine-houses, brothels, and hotels.
He ran, his heart pounding. Tears filled his eyes; his cheek stung. His boots slipped on uneven ground and the big, heavy coat flew out behind him like a cape. His sheathed épée bounced on his hip. His fingers tingled as he clenched his hands, fighting helplessness. Feeling lost. He ran and didn't stop.
The tavern he chose was a small, swarthy place filled with scents that harassed his nose. It was the last place likely to attract a high-born lordling who valued cleanliness, which is precisely why he ducked inside. It was dark and the structure's facade was peeling, falling into disrepair; the inside was little better. Sitting between a pawn-shop and a seedy brothel, the tavern did not draw attention to itself. Lovino almost retreated when he spotted the few patrons inside (who leered at him as he entered), but malice silenced his better judgement. Miguel will never find me in here, he thought spitefully as he wiped his eyes. Feigning confidence—collecting his broken pride; ignoring the attention he drew—he strode to the back and slid onto a barstool.
"Barkeep!" he ordered, drawing the owner's attention. Lovino hesitated (afraid of the man's villainous looks), but he was determined not to be intimidated by appearance or discourtesy. Puffing-up his chest, he hammered his fist on the counter, and said: "Give me your finest wine." The owner stared at him, unimpressed, but his greying eyebrows shot up in surprise when Lovino tossed him a Spanish coin. "Surely such fine gold can buy a man a drink or two—?"
It did better than that. It bought Lovino five drinks before the owner demanded another. Lovino eyed him quizzically, sure that a gold coin was worth more than five vinegar-tasting glasses of wine; sure that the owner was taking advantage of his ignorance. But his head felt heavy and he didn't want to calculate the value and Antonio's coat pockets were full of coins to spend, so he simply slid another across the counter in exchange for a refill.
Toni, you fucking bastardo, he thought, laying his head down on folded arms. Antonio's big coat smelled like brine and tobacco and Lovino buried his nose in it, feeling increasingly weak. He sniffed, determined not to cry, but every sip of wine brought him closer to breaking-down. He ignored the people milling about, focused on the watered-down wine. For the first time in his life, Lovino Vargas just wanted to be alone.
Is that really what you want? asked a small, pitying voice. To be all alone?
Lovino's bottom lip trembled. Do I have a choice? If I go back, Toni will send me away. He doesn't want me anymore: maybe he never did.
You know that's a lie. He loves you—
Lovino grabbed the wine-glass and chugged what was left. It tasted bitter on his tongue. He squeezed his weary eyes shut as he drank, swallowing a concoction that was one-part cheap wine and two-parts water and vinegar. But it served its purpose: It silenced hope.
He snapped his fingers and ordered another.
CARRIEDO
TWO HOURS LATER
KNOCK. KNOCK. "Capitán—?"
Antonio set aside the sherry he had been drinking straight from the bottle and wiped his mouth with a white sleeve. It left a stain. "What?" he called unhappily. The sight of Miguel's repentant face was not reassuring. It struck a nerve with the pirate captain, who was feeling short-tempered in grief and guilt. He stared at the first-mate, who was fidgeting anxiously, having sensed Antonio's dangerous tone.
"Err... Capitán, there's a bit of a problem. It's about Lovino. He, uh... Well, you know what an unruly boy he can be. Uh... that is, he's quite strong-willed, sí?" Miguel offered a nervous half-smile that Antonio did not return. He stared stonily at the first-mate, ordering him to continue. Miguel swallowed. "Lovino is... well, he was quite upset. I sent half the crew out after him, searching for him, but... I hope you'll understand, Capitán, that we tried our best to catch him, but—"
"Where," Antonio interrupted in a low, daunting voice, "is he?"
"Gone, Capitán. Lovino is gone."
The sherry bottle hit the wall and shattered, spilling the contents. Miguel flinched. "Get out," said the green-eyed captain, struggling to keep calm. The first-mate retreated quickly, closing the door behind him. Antonio stared angrily at the floor. He clenched his white-knuckled fists, and he clenched his jaw until it ached. The corner of his lip twitched as he fought to maintain his self-control, biting down a wave of anger-mixed-worry as it bubbled-up like vomit. He breathed through his nose, focusing on each deep intake of breath, listening to it like a bull about to charge. Finally, after several minutes, he managed to swallow his emotions. He grabbed his cutlass and re-loaded his pistols. On-deck, all work had ceased. The crew shied away from Antonio's dangerous gait as he stormed wordlessly down the gangplank, each secretly thanking God that he was not a certain spoiled Italian boy.
Damn you, Lovino! Antonio's green eyes glinted like unquenchable Greek-fire. When I get my hands on you, I'm going to—
He stopped, shook his head, and pushed into the crowd.
VARGAS
Lovino was dozing, but flinched when he felt a hand slip into Antonio's coat pocket. "Hey!" he snapped, slapping the would-be thief. The barstool wobbled; he clutched the counter to keep his balance. "What the fuck are you doing?!"
"Okay, no offense," the man chuckled. He was average-height but thick-muscled, with greasy hair and pale, rheumy eyes. He glanced at a table behind him where several others, presumably his shipmates, grinned and raised a mug in encouragement. He said: "I didn't mean to scare you, boy," though his leer suggested otherwise. "You're not a gutter-rat, are you? Non. You're way too clean." Spontaneously, he leaned down and pressed his nose to Lovino's silky crown. The boy jumped back in surprise, hitting the bar-counter, and fell off the stool. The French sailors laughed at his indignant shout: "Don't touch me, you bastardo!" The greasy Frenchman cocked his head. "Awe, petit seigneur," he cooed teasingly. "Mes amis et myself only wanted to thank you for your generosity." He opened his fist, revealing a handful a gold coins.
Lovino crawled to his feet, swaying. He felt dizzy. "Give those back," he ordered.
The Frenchman flipped a coin up and then caught it again. "What's un petit seigneur like yourself doing here anyhow? Didn't your wet-nurse ever warn you not to talk to strangers, cher? A pretty little thing like you"—he reached toward Lovino—"why, you'd get gobbled up in a heartbeat."
"Don't touch me!" In defense, Lovino drew his épée.
A chorus of mock-appreciation erupted from the table and a few men lifted their mugs to toast the boy's nerve. One said: "Go on, Charles. Un petit seigneur wants to duel."
"Oui, teach him a lesson he won't soon forget," said another, licking his lips.
Charles unsheathed a cutlass in consent. "That's a fine toothpick you've got," he indicated Lovino's épée. "I'd like to have it along with whatever else you've got in your pockets."
"I'm rather more interested in what's in his trousers," said a low, syrupy voice.
Lovino whipped around. A tall, black-eyed sailor was standing quietly behind him. "F-fuck off!" he shouted. "I'll fucking kill you— don't think I won't!" He slashed the épée wildly, off-mark.
"Do you really think," said Charles, swinging his cutlass, "you can disarm me with that. Oh, chéri. I should like very much to see you try."
Provoked, Lovino attacked. He lunged at Charles, but his head felt heavy and his vision blurred and, clumsy and drunk, he stumbled sideways. Too used to El Escape's rolling decks, he tripped over his own legs. He clenched the épée's hilt tightly as he caught himself, but his hand shook and the blade wobbled as a result. It clashed harmlessly off the cutlass, steel sliding on steel. The sailors were laughing at him, everyone howling and shouting in delight except for the black-eyed man, who eyed Lovino like a cat watching its prey. It unnerved the boy, who felt naked beneath his gaze. Distracted, he failed to see Charles' attack until it was too late. The heavy cutlass crashed down, ripping the épée from his hand. It hit the ceiling, so lightweight, and then fell with a clatter. Charles clucked his tongue:
"I'll be taking that," he said, retrieving it.
"No, you can't!" Lovino's tongue worked faster than his brain. "It's mine! Toni gave it to me!"
"Oh—?" The black-eyed sailor grabbed Lovino's shoulders from behind, pulling the boy against his chest. His touch sent a shiver of unease, of revulsion, down Lovino's spine. "And who is Toni, mon cher petit? Is he your Papa, your frère— your amoureux?" he purred, pressing his lips to Lovino's ear.
"G-get off! D-don't touch me, y-you bastardo—!"
The sailor squeezed Lovino's cheeks, lifting his head. His breath smelled like ripe tobacco.
Charles said: "Arrêtez, Arie. You didn't win a prize, I did." Cheekily, he sheathed his cutlass, sticking the épée into his belt beside it. Then he stepped forward and opened his arms—
—and Arie thrust Lovino into them. He hit the Frenchman's chest and immediately found himself locked in the man's steely embrace.
"Let go! Let go of me!" he struggled, kicking-out. "You fucking bastardos, let go!"
Charles grinned and pushed Lovino back to Arie. Then a third sailor joined the belittling game. And then a fourth. And a fifth. They laughed as they groped the boy, pushing him between their sweaty, masculine bodies. They fisted his shirt, pulling off buttons; they ripped the red sash from his waist, undressing him. They hit him and bruised him. They mocked his helplessness and disorientation, miming his terrified face and shrieks for help. Lovino tried to fight, but they were too strong and too many and he was just a boy. Just a stupid, reckless boy. Angry tears filled his eyes. Then Charles grabbed him and threw him against the tabletop. Lovino shielded his tear-streaked face with his hands, and cried: "Just take it," indicating his discarded coat. "Take the gold— take everything, I don't care! Just leave me alone!"
"But chéri," said Arie, pressing down on Lovino's chest, "we are taking everything."
Lovino's hazel eyes grew wide and his lip trembled. Crying, he shook his head. "No, please don't. I-I— I'll give you anything else, please—"
"Hush-hush, petit seigneur." Gently, Arie pressed a finger to Lovino's lips. "Don't waste your lovely voice on useless pleas." He leaned down, nearly nose-to-nose, and whispered: "I only want to hear you scream."
Lovino did scream. He screamed when Arie forced him down, bent over the tabletop. He screamed when the sailors—countless hands—roughly ripped the clothes off his skin. He screamed when Charles fisted a handful of silky, chocolate-brown hair and pressed his cheek against the table's sticky surface. He screamed loudly and continuously, hoping that someone would hear—and care. He cracked one eye opened and saw the tavern's owner watching from a safe distance. Lovino mouthed help but the old man walked away.
Lovino closed his eyes, crying in fear, and braced himself for the inevitable, accompanying pain.
He felt Arie's hard, sweaty cock pressed against his backside, skin-on-skin. He said: "Is that all you've got, mon cher? I bet I can make you scream even louder."
A loud, ear-splitting scream echoed in the tavern rafters. Birds took flight outside. They heard it on the street. They heard it in the brothel next-door. Several people paused in shock, then hurried onward, afraid of what had happened inside. Lovino heard the terrible, bone-rattling scream and was so frightened by it that it took him a minute to realize it hadn't come from him. It took him a minute to realize that he was no longer trapped against the tabletop, being held down. The sailors had let go and Lovino's knees had buckled. Now he sat on the dirty floor staring in disbelief at Arie's decapitated head, which was facing him; staring at the sailor's bloody body, which was carved from neck to waist like a Christmas pheasant. Slowly Lovino lifted his head and a strangled gasp escaped him.
Antonio was covered in blood: his clothes, his skin, his hair—everything. He looked deadly, like the Antonio from Lovino's nightmare. Only, he didn't look sad or sorry. He looked like a man, a warrior, gone insane.
Lovino watched in horror, utterly petrified as the Spaniard cut through like Frenchman like vegetable stalks. He slashed and stabbed, drawing more hot, sticky blood from the onslaught of bodies. It splattered on the floor and walls; it freckled Lovino, who sat motionless. Charles slipped in the blood of his shipmate and fell beneath Antonio's cutlass. He planted it so deeply into the Frenchman's chest that, instead of withdrawing it, he left it there and attacked the others with his bare hands. He beat them to death, his powerful fists serving blow after blow as his wild green eyes flashed, seething with rage. The last sailor begged for his life, but there was no mercy in Captain Antonio Carriedo. Not tonight. The man's corpse fell with a dull thud.
Then everything went silent.
CARRIEDO
Antonio collapsed. He sat on his knees in a puddle of blood, breathing hard, surveying the carnage surrounding him. He lifted his shaking hands, covered in blood. And he clutched the cross at his throat. Then he spied Lovino, who was staring at him from beneath the table, and two thoughts bombarded him. The first was: Lovino's alive! He's not hurt! and his heart leapt in relief. He whispered a prayer of gratitude, squeezing the cross. The second thought, however, was less gratifying. It made Antonio feel physically ill: guilt, shame, embarrassment, fear, and utter failure churned in his stomach like a storm-tossed sea. One horrifying truth monopolized his thoughts: Lovino saw. Lovino saw all of it. Lovino saw me murder those men. Lovino saw me lose control. Lovino saw what kind of monster I am.
The boy's hazel eyes were red and full of unshed tears. He stared silently at Antonio, his lips parted in shock. His body—his naked, beaten body—was shaking violently, but he didn't seem to notice. He seemed paralysed.
Antonio swallowed. He tasted blood. "Lovi—" he said. It was supposed to be an apology, a question: Lovino, I'm sorry. Are you okay? but his nerve deserted him. He choked on Lovino's name and couldn't go on.
Then Lovino did something unexpected. He rose clumsily, like a sleepwalker, and, without taking his eyes off Antonio, slowly walked forward. Absently the boy stepped over the Frenchman's decapitated corpse, bare toes sliding through the blood, and stopped in front of the bewildered Spaniard. "Toni," he said. And fell into Antonio's arms.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Toni, p-please forgive me!" he sobbed, clutching Antonio tight. "It was a mistake. I-I was so scared. I-I tried to— but I wasn't s-strong enough. I'm s-sorry. I should've listened to you. I shouldn't have ran. Ti amo," he whispered, pressing his forehead to Antonio's chest. "Ti amo molto."
Stunned, Antonio wrapped his arms gently around Lovino's shivering body, afraid he might break. He didn't want to hurt him, but the instant his hands touched the boy's cold skin he abandoned caution and pulled Lovino into a fierce hug. Relief flooded him. He cupped the back of Lovino's head and held him protectively, feeling overwhelmed. "No," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. "No, chiquito. It's okay. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything. I should've been here. I should've protected you—"
"You did."
"—from myself. You were never supposed to see me like that. I shouldn't have killed these men—"
"I'm glad you did." Deliberately Lovino lifted his head, staring intently into Antonio's emerald-green eyes. In an unforgiving tone, he said: "I'm glad they suffered."
Slowly, Antonio shook his head. "No, you don't understand, Lovi. I could've hurt you—"
Lovino placed a hand over Antonio's mouth, silencing him. "N-no," he denied. A tear rolled down his cheek. "I don't believe it. You would never hurt me."
Antonio took Lovino's soft hand and held it, pressing a bloody kiss to the boy's palm. "Except that tonight I almost did." Tenderly he touched Lovino's injured cheek and smiled sadly. "It's my fault you left. It's my fault you ran away. This"—he indicated the tavern, the corpses, Lovino's abused body—"is all my fault."
VARGAS
Antonio wrapped Lovino up in his heavy coat and carried the boy back to the wharf. He retrieved the épée, but left the coins. Lovino didn't protest; he didn't want them anyway. He hugged Antonio's neck, hiding his tear-streaked face. He might have been a boy or a girl in the Spaniard's strong arms. He might have been a lord or an orphan, or anyone. He was not Lovino Vargas, wealthy Italian scion. Not just then. Lovino Vargas didn't hate, not truly. And he didn't hurt—not like this. As Antonio walked, the crowd parted. Darkness cloaked his path, but the scent of blood clung steadfast to them both. Nobody spoke as they boarded El Escape. Lovino hid his face, feeling ashamed. In a low voice, Antonio said: "Bring hot water and soap." Then they entered the captain's cabin and the night disappeared. The drapes were closed; the door was shut. Antonio set Lovino down on his bed and lit a candelabra.
They were safe.
Antonio sat down beside Lovino and pulled him into a one-armed hug.
Miguel delivered a bucket of steaming-hot water and soap and then left without a word. Antonio took a cloth, soaked it, and gave it to Lovino. "What about you?" the boy asked.
Antonio gave him a half-hearted grin and left the cabin. A minute later Lovino heard a splash: the sound of a body jumping overboard. By the time the Spaniard returned, dripping wet, wearing only his water-darkened trousers, Lovino was clean and dressed in a long, pale nightshirt.
"You're shivering," he noted.
"It's a cold night."
Lovino watched as Antonio toweled himself off and changed into a dry pair of threadbare trousers. His cross glinted in the yellow candlelight, lying flat against his smooth, suntanned skin. Then he went to his bed and kicked-up his legs, leaning tiredly against the headboard, and Lovino crawled in beside him. He wanted to be close to Antonio, partially because of what had happened (a part of him was still so scared), but mostly because he was afraid that if he didn't force the Spaniard now, Antonio might never hold him again. Sure enough, Antonio sighed. But before he could protest, Lovino said:
"You saved me, Toni. Grazie."
"Lovino, don't."
"But it's true." He shifted closer. Antonio's skin was covered in goose-bumps from the cold. "And what I said is true too: Ti amo, Toni."
"Lovino, please don't." Antonio sat up, breaking physical contact. He covered his eyes with his hand. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
Lovino pushed himself onto his elbows, curious. And afraid. "Make what harder? Toni?" When the Spaniard failed to answer, the boy guessed: "You're going to send me away, aren't you?"
"Sí."
"Why?"
"Because you're in danger—"
"No, I am not!" Lovino argued. "I'm fine because you saved me."
But Antonio continued as if Lovino hadn't spoken. "From the moment you boarded this ship three years ago you've been in danger, Lovi. Every goddamned day. I shouldn't have let you stay, but I thought I could protect you. I thought I could keep you safe—"
"You have!"
"—but I was wrong. I can't escape it, I'm cursed with bad-luck. Only, it's never me that gets hurt."
Lovino saw Antonio take a shuddering breath, shoulders shaking. "Toni?" he said, inching closer in concern. Gently he took Antonio's wrist and pulled it down, revealing the Spaniard's grief-stricken face. He might have thought that Antonio regretted killing those sailors, that he was feeling repentant, guilty for the bloodlust that had consumed him. Except that Antonio's green eyes weren't guilty: they were sad. As kindly as possible, Lovino leaned in closer and said: "What aren't you telling me?"
Antonio licked his lips, debating whether or not to speak. Then, slowly, he said: "When I was a child in Italy, Francis and I were inseparable. I loved him, we were always together. We did everything together. He was more than just my foster-brother: he was my best-friend. We had a happy childhood, privileged and spoiled. Your grandfather has never changed," he added, alluding to Lovino and Feliciano's upbringing. "We were absolutely fearless because we didn't think that anything could hurt us, not as long as Roma and his guards protected us. We thought we were safe." He paused then, staring absently at the wrinkled bed-sheets. It was a minute before he continued. "Then one night the guards did to Francis what those sailors tried to do to you tonight. Only, they succeeded.
"I was thirteen when I watched my best-friend get beaten and raped by seven soldiers," he confessed quietly. "I screamed and kicked and cried, trying to fight them, but they were too strong. They held me and made me watch every painful detail of what they did to him. They were going to do the same to me, but Roma saved me. They say he was once the most fearsome warrior in living-memory, a force of conquest by himself. I never really believed it until that night, but as soon as they saw him those soldiers ran as if the devil were after them. It was incredible. He saved me— but he was too late to save Francis. And even though I was terrified, heartbroken for the fate of my friend, all I can remember thinking was: Gracias a Dios it's not me. I hated myself for that. For weeks I felt sick with guilt. I tried to apologize for being unable to help him, for being scared, but Francis wouldn't talk about it.
"He changed after that," said Antonio sadly. "He tried to pretend he was okay, but it was fake. He wouldn't look anyone in the eye, not even me. I really don't think he could. I knew that he was hurting, but there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I felt helpless. I knew that something was wrong with him and it scared me. I was scared he was going to do something bad— to himself. I wanted to help him. I wanted to protect him, but I was too weak. Every time I tried to say something I saw that night as clear as day in my memory and I broke-down. I was too afraid. I couldn't save him. And eventually I lost him.
"One night, about a month after the incident, I woke up and he wasn't there. I searched everywhere, afraid of what he might've done, but he was gone. And he never came back.
"Back then I was angry at him. I didn't understand how he could just leave me without a word: not even an adios. I was only thinking of myself," he said, chancing a glance at Lovino. His voice was choked. "I was only thinking of myself and how desperately afraid I was to be alone in that place. That's why I clung to you and Feliciano, at least in the beginning. I forced myself to become your protector because I was terrified that what happened to Francis would happen again if I wasn't strong enough to stop it. That's when I vowed to protect you and Feliciano, even if you were too young to know why. I promised I would always keep you safe.
"Then"—his green eyes darkened—"four years later I saw them. Three of the men who had beaten and raped my best-friend were sitting in a tavern in Rome. I don't even think they recognized me," he said in a low, hateful tone. "I didn't give them time. I didn't say anything. I just walked in and killed them. I don't know how, but my fear became rage and I beat them to death with my bare hands. That's why I left Italy," he added, facing Lovino. Shadows from the candlelight gave his face a dark, sinister cast. "I left when I was seventeen because I killed those men and I had to get away before anyone found out. I didn't want to put you and your family in jeopardy. I got passage on a ship and sailed north, but I wasn't running. I was hunting. It didn't take long for me to track down the other men and, one-by-one, I killed them too. All of them except one. One of them is still out there.
"I'm sorry, Lovino," he said, noting the boy's tears. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just one more thing I've failed to protect you from."
Lovino sniffed and shook his head. "No, Toni. If it weren't for you I'd have gotten myself killed a long time ago. Or worse, I'd still be locked-up in Rome. Don't you get it?" he said, taking Antonio's cold hand. "I'm sorry you've suffered. I wish I had known. But, honestly, you could murder a thousand men in cold-blood and I would still love you the same. You would still be Antonio to me. Toni," he said earnestly, kissing the Spaniard's hand, "it's because of you that I've been able to live my life."
"Gracias, Lovino. That means a lot to me, but"—he smiled sadly—"I'm not strong enough to lose anyone else. Especially you.
"That's why you have to go back."
