DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

SPANISH GOLD


FIVE

CARRIEDO

Antonio squeezed his eyes shut, but they burned. Old, syrupy pickle juice seeped past his defenses and pierced his eyeballs and the back of his throat, coating his teeth and tongue with the sharp taste of rancid, months-old liquid. The vinegar stung the cuts and bruises on his skin, making his swollen face throb painfully, worse now than when each blow had been brutally inflicted. The Italian jailor tugged Antonio back by the hair, letting him cough and gasp for only a second before he plunged the Spaniard back into the pickle barrel. This time Antonio swallowed a mouthful of juice before he snapped his dry lips closed. He was so thirsty he almost welcomed the relief of liquid, but knew the salt would only dehydrate him more. He was so dizzy, even on his hands-and-knees he had trouble staying upright. His head pounded like a drum. The taste, the putrid smell, and the back-and-forth motion of being dunked repeatedly head-first into the old pickle barrel was making him nauseous. Never-mind the whiff of body odour and stale urine he got when his head emerged. And permeating it all was the metallic scent of fresh blood. His blood. If he hadn't been starving, the pirate captain would have vomited on the jailor tormenting him.

Finally, Antonio heard the warden say: "Stop."

He gasped and coughed as pickle juice dripped from his face, his hair. He spat on the filthy, flagstone floor, doubled-over on his hands-and-knees as he fought the urge to be sick. He gagged, his body convulsing. Opening his eyes was painful; they stung wickedly. His green eyes were drooping from exhaustion and dehydration. They shone an angry, irritated red; his lids had a sickly, yellowish pallor. When Antonio caught his reflection in the guard's polished breastplate, he quickly looked away.

"Bring the Spanish bastardo here," ordered the warden.

Antonio's legs felt like jelly as he was yanked to his feet and bullied to a long, wooden table. He could see past imprints and stains of unpleasantness in the grains. The jailor pushed and pulled him, and Antonio was made to bend over the edge, his cheek pressed to the surface. He felt the jailor's stout, sweaty body forced against his backside, using his weight as leverage to hold the Spaniard in place.

The warden circled the table, lighting a cigarette as he did. "Where is El Escape?" he asked conversationally.

Antonio twisted his head, glaring blackly at the warden, ringleader of his discomfort, but he remained silent.

The warden sighed. "Listen here, pirate-rat," he spat. He leaned down condescendingly. "I know you know that I know you know where that blasted ship is, so— tell me!" No sooner had the words left his lips than the burning cigarette was ground roughly into Antonio's cheek, extinguishing it. Antonio winced, squeezing his eyes shut. "Fuck," the Italian growled.

He snapped his fingers at the waiting guard, who was a huge, light-eyed blonde with a broad chest and arms like tree trunks. No doubt, he had come to Italy as a mercenary from the north. On orders, he grabbed the Spaniard's arm and flattened it against the tabletop, no more hindered by Antonio's struggles than by a child's. Well this isn't good, Antonio thought bleakly. The Italians were brutal, but didn't possess the same caliber of strength this half-giant did. God, I hate Germans. The guard's powerful elbow came suddenly down on Antonio's forearm, bruising it. He grunted at the impact, finding it harder and harder to bite his tongue. The last thing he wanted was to cry-out, as if voicing discomfort would break his dignity. Yet, he couldn't deny his fear. He tried but failed to prevent his fingers from trembling, especially when the guard splayed them over the tabletop and the warden grabbed a mallet. Antonio's eyes grew wide, but, with the jailor on top of him and the north-born guard holding him, there was nothing he could do but watch in horror as the warden drew nearer.

"Where," he said deliberately, as if Antonio was a particularly stubborn schoolboy, "is that fucking ship?!"

In reply, Antonio squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his teeth.

The mallet came down hard on his hand, crushing the bones. Antonio screamed out-loud, unable to subdue his voice. It was loud and anguished, a howl of intense pain. Blood coated his teeth; he had bitten his tongue.

"Something you want to tell me, Spanish-rat?"

Antonio's whole body trembled from the shock. Slowly, he nodded.

The warden gestured to the guard, who released the pitiful Spaniard. A shameful whine escaped him when the jailor tugged his head up to face the warden, who looked self-satisfied. Antonio's bloody lips parted, struggling to bite-out words. "Hmm? What's that?" asked the warden, leaning closer.

Antonio waited until he was mere inches away, then spat bloody saliva in the Italian's face. "¡Que te den!"

The warden's fist hit him so hard, he felt his neck crack.

He fell to his knees and gagged, choking on pickle juice as he regurgitated what he had swallowed.

"You've wasted my patience, boy," said the warden, wiping his face with a handkerchief. "All you had to do was tell me where to find El Escape. Now, instead of a nice, clean hanging, I'm going to make you suffer. Oh? Perhaps you thought this was suffering—?" he teased, noting Antonio's look of disbelief. The warden stood to his full height—which was still shorter than Antonio's—and maliciously uncoiled a leather whip from a hook on the wall. "I'm going to make you regret every life-choice you ever made. And I'm going to enjoy it. I'm going to make you scream, boy. I'm going to make you admit every dirty deed you've ever done. Thought it'd be fun to be a pirate, did you? Thought it'd be worth it to murder, and pillage, and rape? Thought you'd get away with it, did you?" He kicked Antonio as he passed, heading toward the pickle barrel. Antonio gasped; his broken ribs ached in pain. "Thought you were special, did you?" the warden continued. He pierced Antonio with a disgusted glare. "Thought you could kidnap the Vargas family's heir and not suffer the consequences?"

Antonio's body was breaking, piece-by-piece, but the mention of Lovino hurt worse. It hurt his heart. He had tried so hard not to think of the boy he loved, especially since he had been captured. I'm sorry, Lovi, he thought, like a man at the noose. As the jailor dragged Antonio to his feet, he finally let himself remember Lovino. As they roped his wrists together around a pillar, he pictured Lovino's beautiful face, those gold-flecked hazel eyes so full of passion and fire; those lips so ripe for kissing, so heartbreakingly sweet when he smiled. As they ripped the drenched shirt off his back, Antonio focused on the sound of Lovino's voice, his laugh; the breathless whispers that had sent a chill of desire down Antonio's spine. He missed Lovino; ached for him. Being without the boy was like being bereft of sunlight, cold, and dark, and depressed. And hopeless. At least he's safe, Antonio consoled himself. At least I could do that much for him. In his peripheral vision, he saw the warden douse the whip in pickle juice, grinning sadistically as he did so. He heard the crack as he tested it's bite. Lovino, he distracted himself. He closed his eyes. Lovino, I hope you're happy. All I ever wanted was for you to be happy. I love you. His whole body shivered in fear. The slow, steady sound of the warden's boots drew closer. I love you, Lovino. I've always loved you. I always will.

"Lovi—" he whispered.

Then the whip came down.


VARGAS

Wait!" Lovino called as he chased the Neapolitan visitor (who was not Neapolitan at all). He sped down the corridor barefoot, having kicked-off his heeled shoes in pursuit, and finally caught the visitor as he entered a covered gallery. There the man stopped and waited, careful to keep out of view of the gardens, where sentries patrolled. He was nearly as tall as Antonio, but broader in the chest. He was wearing a knee-long velvet coat trimmed in gold tassels, with a silk shirt underneath; his breeches hugged his legs tightly, his stockings pulled to his kneecaps, his feet encased in buckled shoes. On his head sat a cocked cap with dyed plumage hanging in his face. It was the richly embroidered ensemble of a gentleman; the cut was exquisite. It looked fitfully uncomfortable, as did the man wearing it. It looked gentlemanly. It looked—Lovino thought—absolutely ridiculous.

"Miguel!" he gasped. He fought the urge to hug El Escape's first-mate, so glad to see him.

Miguel's hawkish eyes characteristically glared, but he said: "It took you long enough, Lovino. I've been here since dawn."

"Toni," Lovino said, ignoring Miguel's complaint. "Is it true? Is he—" He bit his lip; he couldn't say it.

Miguel's face softened for a fleeting second, then he said: "Why else would I be here?"

The hardness in the first-mate's tone was so familiar to Lovino that he felt tears prick his eyes, but he quickly blinked. The last thing he wanted was to sully their reunion with blubbering. Besides, Lovino was not the child he had been three years ago and was determined not to behave like one. He would not regard Miguel as a saviour, like a little boy letting an adult protect him, but instead he looked at him like an accomplice. An equal. "Where is El Escape?" he asked, steely in determination.

The ghost of a proud smile lifted Miguel's lips. "Where can we talk in private?"

Lovino took Miguel, dodging sentries and serving-staff, to his bedchamber, where Feliciano was waiting. Too impatient for information, Lovino disregarded introductions and launched into a volley of fervent questions, showing his youth in his demand for answers. Miguel sat the Italians down, recognizing the same energy in Feliciano. He told them that El Escape was hidden—waiting for them—in an inlet five miles east of the city-proper. The crew had agreed that the danger was worth risking to rescue Antonio, which touched Lovino's heart on the Spaniard's behalf. He really is loved, he thought, smiling despite the situation. Miguel reported that the ship would be safe for a few hours yet, but it couldn't sit there like a target forever. He need not have bothered; the countdown to Antonio's impending execution was enough of a deadline. "We've got plenty of weapons and ammunition," Miguel said (El Escape was always armed), "but they're holding the capitán at the fort. She'll never get close enough to attack, and, even if she does, there are too many guns. It would be suicide."

"So," said Lovino anxiously, "we'll just have to get inside by means other than force."

Miguel frowned, as if he doubted the effectiveness of any plan without force. "I hope you're not suggesting we walk right in," he said skeptically.

Frustrated, Lovino started to pace. "No, I'm not. I just—" He kicked a table, upsetting a box atop it. It was full of trinkets he had received as gifts. "Maybe we could bribe the guards?" he suggested.

Miguel shook his head. "Capitán Carriedo is too high-profile a criminal. The Italian military has been after El Escape for too long. A bribe wouldn't go unnoticed, and not even the lowest station of guards would risk the noose for money." He paused then, long enough to roll his eyes at Lovino, who had tripped on a length of silk. "A small number of us might be able to sneak onto the grounds," he continued, "but it's doubtful that we could find and free the capitán before being discovered. It's suicide," he repeated. "If you've got a better idea," he added, noting Lovino's displeasure, "now would be the time, little lordling." He balled-up an embroidered headscarf and chucked it at the boy.

Lovino clenched it, fighting the need to tear it in frustration.

Feliciano said: "Maybe we could parley with the warden? Buy Toni's freedom?"

Miguel snorted. "Spoken like true nobility."

Feliciano bowed his head, toying with a string of glossy pearls. "I just thought—"

"Never-mind," Miguel exhaled. He looked tired. "I shouldn't have come here. There's nothing you can do for him," he said placidly. It was the closest that the first-mate ever came to showing sympathy. "Capitán Carriedo would never forgive me if I endangered you, Lovino. He's been protecting you since—"

"I don't need his protection!" Lovino burst. "I need him alive! I need him here with me!" he yelled, clenching his fists. His whole body was shaking as he tried desperately not to cry. Fear, grief, and anger all fought for dominance within him, making him feel like cornered-prey. But, for once, he didn't feel weak; he wanted to attack. He grabbed a silver-backed hairbrush and fired it across the room. It landed on a pair of bejeweled shoes. "I'm not useless," he said aloud, as much to himself as to his audience. "There has to be something I can do. I'm a pirate!" he snarled viciously, taking pride in the label. "Toni needs me. This time he needs me. I'm not just going to let him die. I'm not a baby who needs his protection. I'm not some delicate fucking damsel, who—"

Lovino stopped midsentence. His face changed in wonder. He scanned the bedchamber as if seeing it anew; seeing the potential. It was untidy. All the birthday gifts Lovino had received, the ones he had scorned, were scattered haphazardly in piles. He saw shirts, coats, cloaks, hats, veils, stockings, and heeled shoes; he saw gemstones, jewelry, and hairpins; he saw a box of cosmetics. What he didn't have, he could steal. Briefly, he considered the scullery. Then the stable: he would need a fast horse (a well-behaved horse, since he hadn't ridden in four years). Vaguely, he knew that Miguel and Feliciano were watching him in puzzlement, but they didn't interrupt his search as he collected items, muttering incoherently to himself as a plan took shape. Finally, when the first-mate had enough, he cleared his throat. Lovino stopped in the centre of the bedchamber, carrying an armful of clothes.

"Lovi—?" Feliciano questioned.

Lovino's eyes flashed, the fire reignited. He said: "I have an idea."


O-oh—! Nn, mm— g-gah!" Lovino squeezed the sideboard, crying-out in pain. "Miguel, I-I can't— Ah! FUCK!"

"Oh, pipe-down. It can't be that bad," said Miguel's voice behind him. He tugged the laces tighter. Lovino felt the bones dig into his ribs, constricting his waist into a perfect hourglass. "It's just a corset," Miguel dismissed. "And it has to be tight"—he pushed his knee against Lovino's back for leverage; Lovino gasped—"else it won't look like you've got a woman's curves. Fuck. Hold your breath," he advised.

When Lovino had initially shared his plan, Miguel's face twisted as if he had swallowed something rotten. He had shook his head in refusal, repeating his promise to keep Lovino safe. But as Lovino explained, Miguel's expression had relented in defeat. It helped, too, that Feliciano had jumped up in enthusiastic support. When Lovino had tried to leave Feliciano behind, however, the younger Vargas had argued stubbornly back. "Toni was my brother just as much as he was yours," he had snapped. "Don't make the mistake of thinking you're the only one who loves him, Lovi." After that, Lovino had accepted his brother's help. "Besides," Feliciano had added slyly, "you'll need a distraction inside the fort, and I am very good at distracting people. It'll be more believable if there's two of us anyway. We can be sisters," he teased. "What sort of a noblewoman visits her imprisoned lover alone?"

"A scandalized one," Lovino replied.

They had waited until sunset, much to Lovino's displeasure. He had wanted to act immediately, but he knew that his plan required the cover of darkness. Miguel had handled the grooms—"but please don't hurt them," Feliciano begged—while the Vargas brothers saddled two fast horses. Getting past the gate was the trickiest part, but Feliciano had been right: he was good at creating distractions, and soon the trio were riding eastward from the Vargas' house. It was a mild night, the sunset a blazing scorch on the dark horizon. El Escape was sitting in a hidden bay, as promised. When the crew spotted Miguel's signal, they sent a longboat to fetch them from the shore. "What's in the bag?" Jorge asked, lifting one, surprised by its lightweight. After a sober reunion with what was left of the small crew—who eyed Feliciano in a way that Lovino disliked—Lovino repeated his plan. Like Miguel, they hesitated, but Lovino's fierce tone silenced any complaints. "If any of you have a better idea," he recycled Miguel's words, "then I would love to hear it. No? Then shut the fuck up and weigh anchor!" he snapped. That said, he led Feliciano into Antonio's private cabin, where he had spent the last (best) three years of his life.

"You heard the little lord," Miguel called sternly. "Hoist the mains!"

Lovino had grinned, secretly proud of himself.

"Son-of-a-fucking-whore!" he cursed now, as Miguel fasted the corset's laces. "Ow!"

"Stop whining," Miguel criticized.

"Oh?" said Lovino, taking Miguel's hand in assistance. He stood up and exhaled slowly. "Let's stuff you into a corset and see how you feel about it, fat-ass."

Feliciano snorted. Already dressed, looking spectacularly disguised in a tight-waisted gold dress and pearls, he was standing in front of the wall-mirror, artfully dusting his cheeks with rouge. Later, when Lovino was struggling to effeminize his features, Feliciano took the cosmetic brush in one hand and Lovino's chin in the other and made-up his brother's face like an artist painting a canvas. Then he pinned Lovino's dark hair in a way that made it look longer beneath a cherry-red headscarf, decorated with jewels that bit into the Italian's scalp. Lovino looked at his reflection, half-horrified, half in admiration. "You are suspiciously good at this," he said, eyeing his younger brother, who merely shrugged.

Feliciano had barely spoken since they had left home, which was uncharacteristic of his constant chatter. He might have been scared or nervous. In fact, Lovino was certain he was, having rarely left the safety of Rome. Feliciano had never been so unguarded before, always secure in the knowledge that someone would protect him from potential harm, never left alone to make mistakes. Lovino, however, was less worried about his brother's nerves than about his health, which had always been delicate. He feared what too great a shock might do to him. Had Feliciano ever seen a battle before? Or even a fight? Had he ever seen blood that wasn't being let by a physician? Lovino doubted it.

"I'm perfectly fine," Feliciano said when asked. "I'll do whatever I have to do to rescue Toni. I won't let you down, Lovi. You'll be together again soon, I promise."

At half-ten, Lovino and Feliciano emerged on-deck disguised as two noblewomen. The crew wolf-howled in appreciation, joking to ease the tension everyone felt. Lovino disregarded it; he didn't even blush, or yell. He just said: "That's it, get it out of your systems now." He even turned in a circle, lifting both middle-fingers as he did. Once sated, the crew fell silent, awaiting orders. Lovino's orders. The sixteen-year-old boy repeated the plan one last time, making sure everyone knew what they were supposed to do. Even disguised, it was dangerous. If Lovino and Feliciano were found out, the punishment would be severe. Not to mention, Antonio would— No, I won't think like that. I can't. The only thing keeping Lovino from breaking-down was the hope that it wasn't too late to save the man he loved.

At a quarter to midnight, El Escape approached the fort, flying an ambiguous Italian flag. She maintained a safe distance, avoiding the main gate and the biggest guns. "That flag won't fool them for long, you've got half-an-hour tops," Jorge said. Miguel, disguised as the Neapolitan noble, ushered the Italians into a longboat. As it descended, the waves rising up to meet them, Feliciano grabbed his brother's hand. Lovino squeezed in reassurance, trying to remain calm for his brother's sake, but his heart was racing. A heavy fog rolled over the rocks as they neared the escarpment, paddling cautiously toward the tall gate. Two guardsmen called-out to Miguel, who answered, feigning a Neapolitan accent when Lovino suggested it. One of the guards offered Lovino a hand, which he took, letting Miguel half-lift him out of the longboat and onto the dock. The motion was repeated with Feliciano, and then Miguel pulled himself out. Lovino let the guards leer at he and Feliciano, playing the role of distraught lady to the best of his ability. It wasn't all that difficult, considering that the distraught part was entirely true. He held tightly to Feliciano's hand, pretending to need his sister's comfort as Miguel explained the situation.

"Please, signori. M'lady wishes to see the prisoner."

"Please," said Feliciano, barely disguising his effeminate voice. "Have a heart, signori. Mia sorella only wants to see her love one last time, to say goodbye to him. Please," he repeated, adding a bereft sigh. He bat his eyelashes and puckered his pomegranate lips. "You don't think we have anything to hide, do you? You're not going to search us, are you?" he asked, innocently hiking the gold dress high enough to expose most of his shapely leg.

Lovino saw the guards exchange a hungry look. No doubt, it had been months since they had seen a woman, and they thought Feliciano a very weak-willed maid, ripe for taking advantage of—which is exactly what Feliciano had intended. He let one guard rub his leg in inspection, pretending to shiver coyly. When the other tried to touch Lovino, he let out a hysterical howl of grief and called-out Antonio's name, and the guard leapt back in shock. Feliciano pulled Lovino into a sympathetic hug, petting his head like a dutiful sister.

"Please," he begged. "Please let her see him. I would be so grateful if you did."

They waited while the guards sent a message to the warden, asking for permission to admit Lovino. Lovino's heart was beating so fast he felt hot beneath the layers he wore. Fortunately, it worked in his favour. He really looked like someone anxiously awaiting a verdict; someone desperately heartbroken.

It didn't take long for an answer to return. "I'll escort you, Signora," said the messenger-guard, smiling as he extended a guiding hand toward the entrance.

Lovino was led down a long, windowless corridor that twisted downhill. His shoes clapped on the stone steps as he descended, taking the guard's hand to maintain his guise and his balance. The steep stairs were wet and warped, and the further down they ventured, the muskier the air became, forcing Lovino to press a perfumed handkerchief to his nose. The cells were horrible; he felt angry just thinking of Antonio being locked inside one. When a pitiful moan bounced off the walls, the boy jumped, inviting the guard to slam an armoured boot into the bars to quiet the inmate. Lovino tightened his hold on the handkerchief. They had almost reached the end of the long corridor when the guard finally stopped.

"He's there." He pointed to a dark cell. "I can't let you in."

Lovino glared at the guard until he finally got the message and stepped back to give the couple the illusion of privacy. Only then did he look into the cell.

It was a small box of wet stone and dirty straw. There was no window, but the guard's lantern was enough to illuminate a body lying against the farthest wall. He was curled into a defensive position—protecting himself from the chill or physical abuse, Lovino didn't know—and was utterly still. He was filthy, his lovely suntanned skin covered in a layer of blood and grime, and wearing soiled breeches. Lovino stopped directly in front of the cell, afraid to let his eyes travel upward. When he did, he failed to suck back a sob. Antonio's bare back was scored with angry lashes, too many to count. Just then he was glad for the dim light; he didn't want to see those ugly wounds in greater detail. He grasped the cell's bars, and called:

"Toni." His voice broke. He tried again. "Toni," he said louder. "Please, darling. Toni, it's me. Please wake up. Please," he addressed the guard in distress, "let me in, he needs me."

"I'm sorry, Signora. My orders were to keep the cell locked."

Lovino clenched the bars tightly, letting a note of anger permeate his tone. "Toni, you bastardo! Wake up!"

This time, Antonio stirred. Lovino heard him utter a soft moan, then saw him try to rise. With intense effort, he pushed himself onto his cut elbows and cast a dazed look over-the-shoulder. Again, Lovino struggled to contain his grief. The Spaniard's handsome face had been brutally beaten. There was dried blood in his hairline and fresh blood on his cheek. His eyes, so alive before, barely opened, as if the lantern's dim light hurt. His breathing was laboured as he studied Lovino, trying to identify him. He looked confused at first, fooled by the female disguise. But when Lovino said: "Toni, it's me, you bastardo," Antonio's eyes opened wide in realization. He let out a whine and forced himself to his feet, staggering as fast as he could across the cell. He reached the bars and thrust his arms through, wrapping the boy in an awkward embrace.

"Lovino," he whispered, too soft for the guard's ears. His voice sounded strangled, raw in disuse. "How—?"

"It's okay." Lovino's voice quivered as he held Antonio, inhibited by the cell's bars. He stroked the Spaniard's greasy hair, trying to press himself closer. Gently, he kissed Antonio's bruised cheek, his lips trembling. "It's okay, I'm here. Toni, I'm here."

"No," Antonio denied, burying his face in the folds of Lovino's disguise. "I'm dreaming. You can't be here."

Lovino's heart ached. He had thought twelve months apart had taught him the meaning of pain, of yearning, but, over the past year, the sharpness of that pain had ebbed into a constant throb. Now it was fresh, like a reopened wound, and it stung with a vengeance. He need not fake tears for the guard's benefit; they were already falling freely and naturally from his eyes. He couldn't stop—but he had to. He couldn't fall apart, not yet. He had to rescue Antonio.

"You bastardo," he said sternly, "of course I'm here. Did you really think I'd leave you?"

Antonio lifted his head, green eyes bloodshot and shining. "I thought I'd never see you again. I thought—" He broke off, coughing. "I thought I would die without ever seeing you again."

"You're not going to die," Lovino whispered fiercely. "I would never forgive you if you did. You can't leave me alone, Toni, which is why I'm not leaving you here."

Despite his depleted health, Antonio managed a smile. " Te quiero, chiquito," he said, touching Lovino's rosy cheek. "Te quiero, mi tesoro."

"Signora?" the sentry interrupted. He raised the lantern, silhouetting the couple in yellow light. "Your time is expired. I must escort you back now."

Lovino clutched Antonio tighter. The metal bars dug into his chest, but he didn't care. This was it, a pivotal point of the plan. Ignoring the guard, Lovino took Antonio's face in his hands and pulled him down into a desperate kiss. He opened his mouth, encouraging Antonio's tongue, which tasted sour. His lips were dry and cracked, but hot, as always. He sighed and moaned softly, mournfully, into Antonio's mouth, drawing the deepened kiss out for as long as possible. Vaguely, he heard the guard's voice telling him to stop, that it was time to go, but Lovino pretended not to notice. The theatrics were just for show, of course, which he exaggerated. He pawed hungrily at Antonio to distract the guard's attention from their locked lips. Just before he was physically pulled away, Lovino's tongue entered Antonio's mouth, pushing a tiny, metal lock-pick with it. "I won't leave you," he gasped, relaying the message in secret. Then he was forced back, the guard having lost patience. Antonio played his role well, growling and trying to fight the guard as Lovino was pulled away. Lovino held Antonio's outreached hand for as long as possible before the guard dragged him away. Then the theatrics intensified as Lovino wailed loudly, calling-out for Antonio in farewell.

He was paraded back to the entrance, where Feliciano and Miguel were waiting. As they approached, Lovino realized that a small crowd had gathered around his brother, who was sitting on a stool looking faint. Miguel had hold of Feliciano's shoulders to keep him upright and was trying in vain to fend off advances from several concerned men.

"Your sorella took faint, m'lady," he said in explanation, indicating Feliciano. Lovino wondered for a moment if it was an act, until he saw the pallor of Feliciano's face. The boy wasn't faking; he really was sick. "These signori"—Miguel eyed the guards—"were kind enough to make a fuss."

"Lorenzo has gone to get wine and smelling-salts, Signora," said a guard kneeling by Feliciano's side. He looked to Lovino, expecting a reply.

"Grazie, signori," he said, taking the guard's place beside Feliciano. An exchange passed silently between the two brothers, speaking in coded facial expressions. Lovino frowned, eyes narrowed; Feliciano glared. Though ill, he was as determined as everyone else to see the plan succeed. He would no more abandon Antonio than Lovino would. Lovino was displeased—he wouldn't forgive himself if Feliciano got hurt—but he was grateful too. He leaned down, pretending to embrace his sister, and whispered in his ear: "How long can you stall?"

Feliciano's breath tickled Lovino's cheek. "As long as you need."

Lovino straightened, putting on his best entitled-noble look. "Take me to the warden," he ordered. "Mia sorella is unwell and I would like for him to contact a doctor. Signori," he threatened, remembering to let his voice shake in grief, "please do not add to a poor signora's heartbreak. Mia sorella, please. I will not be able to contain my sorrow if she comes to harm. I will likely cry and cry—and cry," he emphasized, reading their discomfort, "until I have lost my voice or cast myself into the sea. I will be utterly inconsolable! And, oh! What will Padre say when he learns what transpired here? We're not even supposed to be here! What will he do to you who caused our distress?!"

"Sì, of course, Signora! My deepest apologies!" said the guard in charge. "Worry not," he forced an appeasing smile, "I will take you to the warden myself. This way, if you please."

Lovino pressed the handkerchief to his lips, pretending to swoon in grief. But as he stepped back through the fort's entrance, he glanced over-the-shoulder at Feliciano and winked.


CARRIEDO

Antonio counted to two-hundred, giving the guard a generous head-start, and then spit the lock-pick into his hand. Then he set to work on the cell's door. It was nearly pitch-black in the corridor, forcing him to rely on touch, not sight. The only light was a weak yellow glow coming from farther down the corridor, a torch on the wall. But Antonio's eyes were light-sensitive, having spent too long in the dark, and he found that he worked better by touch. His hands were usually deft at quick work, but, with his left hand broken and swollen beyond use, he had to pick the mechanism one-handed. His body ached and his head throbbed, but seeing Lovino's face had revitalized him.

Initially, he hadn't recognized Lovino. He hadn't expected the boy to be there, obviously. But when he finally did recognized the disguised boy through the cell's bars, Antonio had truly believed he was dreaming. Or dead. That's it, I'm dead, he thought in delirium. The lashings killed me; I'm already dead. But, while Lovino might have appeared like a Botticelli angel, he certainly did not sound like one. The Italian's angry voice had penetrated Antonio's brain like an axe splitting stone. At first, he had been gripped by fear. Lovino shouldn't be here, it's not safe! Then an irrational anger had bubbled-up inside him, furious at the boy's placing himself in danger, but it was short-lived. Nothing could contend with the graciousness he had felt at getting to see Lovino one last time.

Click. The lock released and Antonio's weight pushed the door open. It squealed, echoing in the silence and making him flinch. He leaned his shoulder against the cold wall for balance. Every move tore the wounds in his back, piercing his nerves, but he pressed on. He had been paraded back-and-forth for interrogation enough times to know which direction the courtyard was, from where he could scout the exit. He felt defenceless without a weapon, though he doubted he could wield a sword if he had one, and a pistol's fire would provoke alarm. His heart pounded hard as he climbed the stairwell, knowing there would be nowhere to hide if the guards entered; he would be trapped. But he needn't have worried. There seemed to be no guards patrolling the corridors. Even so, he was less inclined to believe in good-luck than he believed in Lovino. Whatever the Italian's plan was, it was working.

Antonio made it to the courtyard without incident, but had to immediately duck out of sight of two sanguine guards. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from hissing in pain as he hid behind a fortuitously parked wagon, and pressed a hand to his mouth and nose to quiet his panting. But, except for them, there was no one else in the vicinity, and they seemed rather distracted, discussing the "two beautiful signoras" and cursing their own bad-luck.

"A fucking fortnight I've been posted at that gate and not so much as a decrepit priest for weeks. But tonight, of course, I'm stuck in here," said one guard, indicating the courtyard. "I'd sell my fillings for a look at those girls."

"I heard that one of them fainted," said his partner, a wicked gleam in his eye.

Antonio felt a jolt of jealously, then panic. Lovino! he worried. Did he— faint? No. Lovino was a reckless boy, but his health wasn't weak. Two girls? he considered. It took his foggy brain longer than it should have to realize that the second girl must be Feliciano in disguise. Oh, Lovino, you didn't! Knowing that Lovino had infiltrated the filthy, diseased fort was bad enough, but Feliciano's health was delicate. Antonio could vividly recall long, tiresome nights of rocking the child back to sleep after Feliciano had woken, terrified, from fever-dreams, shrieking and crying. I used to sing to him, he remembered absently.

"I'm dead jealous of the men posted at the gate, getting to comfort her; touch her. I love a helpless maiden," the guard snickered.

"I wouldn't be so quick to call those two maidens," the first guard warned. "One of them, the hysterical one, was fucking the Spaniard until recently."

"More's the better."

They sauntered off with a bark of companionable laughter. Antonio resisted the urge to bludgeon them both from behind; it would be messy and invite unwanted attention. Plus, he didn't think he had the strength. More's the pity, he thought, crawling out of hiding.

He doubled his pace, which was pitifully slow. The sooner he reunited with the Italians, the better for all of them. The need to protect them suddenly flooded his veins, reanimating his spirit if not his body. He had always thought it was his duty to protect the Italians, even before Francis had left, as if guarding Roma's precious grandsons would somehow repay Antonio's debt to him. Like the waves that break upon rocks, never reaching the palace above, Antonio had always been the first line-of-defense. He would have gladly risked himself to ensure their safety. But this time it wasn't his choice. This time, it was Lovino risking himself to save Antonio, which both infuriated the Spaniard, making him feel helpless, and made him more proud than he had ever thought possible. Never, even as a child, had he ever expected that anyone would risk themselves for him someday. Since forsaking Francis all those years ago, he had never thought he deserved to be saved. But now—

Antonio didn't know how or when it had changed, but he did know why. It was love. And for the first time in his life, it was mutual.


VARGAS

Lovino made short work of the guard. As soon as they were out of sight of the entrance—and re-enforcements—he slit his escort's throat. The hardest part had been removing his épée from the bulk of his heavy petticoats without drawing the man's attention to it. But the guard had been more focused on getting Lovino to the warden's office as quickly as possible to avoid future hysterics to notice the boy's attack until it was too late. Lovino struck like a snake, the razor-sharp blade slicing clean through the man's flesh at the base of his neck. After hiding the body, Lovino pulled off the dress, glad to be rid of the heavy, suffocating fabric. Underneath, he wore snug breeches and a shirt made skin-tight by the corset, which, try as he might, he could not get off unassisted. In defeat, he left it on and continued down the corridor with his épée cautiously outstretched. As long as he took the guards by surprise, he held the upper-hand. Of course, he wasn't intending to meet many of them face-to-face in the corridors: not as long as Feliciano kept the men occupied, drawing them like flies to honey.

Lovino followed the corridor until it opened into a rectangular courtyard. Based on Miguel's intelligence, he knew that there was an exit—a culvert—attached to the courtyard that led into the bay. He hoped Antonio had come to the same conclusion, knowing, as he did, how secure the fort otherwise was. It had been Antonio who had taught him how to infiltrate the weakest points of a stronghold; Lovino just hoped the same logic applied in reverse.

I know you, Toni, Lovino thought as he surveyed the courtyard. It looked empty. I know how you think.

Suddenly, he caught movement in the corner of his eye. "Toni!" he said, racing toward him. He leapt back to avoid a clumsy attack. Off-balance, the Spaniard spun to meet the threat he thought Lovino was. "Fuck! Toni, it's me!" Lovino snapped, blocking Antonio's fist. "It's okay, it's me," he repeated more softly, as if soothing a beast.

Antonio's body relaxed. "Lovi, I-I'm sorry—"

"Shut up," Lovino ordered. Carefully he wrapped Antonio's right arm around his shoulders, taking half of the Spaniard's weight in support. Even so, Antonio failed to smother a grunt. His body was bruised; swollen; broken. The boy tried not to look at Antonio's left hand, which was as plump and purple as a ripe plum, white veins popping-out; it looked like he was wearing an ugly glove. As they began to walk, Antonio leaned heavily on Lovino, who cringed every time Antonio did. "I'm sorry," he started, but Antonio said: "Shut up," and smiled ruefully.

"Here." Lovino stopped by a low-lying gate. It was well-hidden. If they hadn't been looking for the culvert, it would have been invisible. "I need both hands, Toni. Just hold on, okay?"

Gently, he helped Antonio sit. The Spaniard braced himself against the wall and closed his eyes.

"Toni?" Lovino said in concern. Antonio didn't reply until Lovino touched his cheek (avoiding a pink wound that looked like a burn). He murmured a sleepy "Mm hmm" and leaned into the boy's hand. Lovino felt a stab of guilt for pulling back, but they didn't have time for sentiment. We've got to get out of here, he thought, refocusing on the culvert. From his belt, he took a hooked tool and started freeing the nails from the iron latch, sweating as he worked each one loose. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but the banging and clanging of metal-on-metal was sure to attract attention in the otherwise silent courtyard. "Just a few more," he whispered to Antonio, who didn't move. He twisted his slight body, using his weight as leverage to force the nails out. Every time one freed, his heart lightened, knowing they were that much closer to escape. "Just one more," he said, wiping sweat from his forehead. He forced the tool beneath the nail-head and jerked it. Antonio was the one who had taught Lovino how to do it; a blacksmith's trick, he had said. It fell out just as a bell pealed loudly from a tower overhead.

"Fuck!" Lovino cursed. He had hoped to be further along in escape—preferably aboard El Escape—before the alarm was sounded. They must've found the guard's body, he thought, regretting his choice of hiding spot. And if they had found the corpse then they had doubtlessly found the Lovino's disguise. It placed Feliciano in immediate danger, because either her sister was wandering around the fort naked, or both of them were not who they were pretending to be. Lovino could only hope that Miguel had gotten Feliciano to safety before the alarm tolled, as planned.

"Hey! Hold it there!" someone shouted.

Lovino spun on his heel, his épée poised in defense. Two guards charged at him, lifting two swords in attack. Lovino had often pictured himself in a real swordfight, not just at practise. He had always fancied himself as a sort of hero dispatching villains, looking dashing while doing it. He had rarely considered the real-life application of what he had been taught, like how important balance and footwork were; or timing; or instinct. But as the guards' blades came down, Lovino's body moved without conscious volition. He dodged, leaping sideways, drawing attention to himself to protect Antonio, and then attacked in a flurry of light strikes that disoriented the guards and left them chasing him. This is— easy! Lovino realized, parrying each blow. After years of dueling Antonio, who was as swift a swordsman as he was strong, the guards were slow. Layers of leather and steel armour disabled them as much as it protected them and weighed them down. "What's wrong? Tired, old man?" Lovino insulted them. He couldn't help it. He grinned like a prowling wolf, readying to corner its prey. He leapt onto a wagon and delivered a fatal blow. One of the guards fell, his throat cut. The other staggered back. To Lovino's wolf eyes he looked like a creature ready to die. He propelled himself from the wagon, pouncing at his prey—then balked.

As his body tried to stretch, the corset constricted on his lungs and he crashed to the ground, gasping for air. The guard saw the opening and swung his sword, but it clanged off steel. Sha-ring!

"¡Que te den!" Antonio yelled. He had grabbed the dead guard's sword and used it to block the attack.

Quickly, Lovino knocked off his opponent's helm and stabbed the épée clean through the man's neck. Then, without a backwards glance, he thrust the épée's hilt into Antonio's right hand and turned. "Get it off me!" he begged, hands braced on his knees. The corset laces pulled taut. "Cut it off, I can't breathe!"

"Hold still," Antonio advised. Lovino felt each lace snap as the blade sliced the corset's back open. He gasped and his lungs filled with full, deep breaths. He had not realized how dizzy he was, starved of oxygen. In retribution, he pulled the undergarment off and stomped on it, while lifting his shirt to assess the damage. The bone had dug grooves into his skin where it had constricted his waist, forcing it into an unnatural shape. It had been so tight that Antonio's hands could have easily encircled the boy's whole waist. "Lovi—?" he said in concern.

Lovino paid him a rueful grin. "Come on," he said, taking the Spaniard's weight.

The threatening sound of metal boots was getting closer; a patrol of armed guards was approaching. Quickly, Lovino hobbled to the culvert's grate. He tugged it, expecting it to swing open on its hinges, but it didn't. He grabbed the bars one-handed and shook it violently, but the iron barely rattled.

"Lovi—!" Antonio gasped frantically.

"There they are!" someone shouted.

"Fuck!" Lovino cursed. "There's a fucking latch on the inside! I can't fucking reach it!" He stretched, trying to squeeze his fingers through the crease, but it was useless. It was too narrow, too deep.

"Lovi, leave it! We have to go!"

In desperation, Antonio retrieved a sword from the corpse's chest cavity. He pushed himself up, wavering as he stepped around Lovino, standing back-to-back with the Italian. It was a defensive-stance. It was protective. Fuck! Lovino thought as fear bombarded the panic-centre of his brain. He's doing it again! Toni's half-dead, but he's still trying to protect me! "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he snarled, slamming his fist against the metal (bruising it; his fist, not the metal). He clenched his épée's hilt. Why am I so fucking useless?! Why can't I

"A-AH!"

Antonio knocked Lovino aside as the patrol of guards attacked. He took a sword-tip to the forearm, making him howl in pain—and ire. His green eyes lit like a funeral pyre, burning with a sudden, uncontrollable, unquenchable rage. Recklessly, he threw himself at the guards. He growled and slashed wickedly, off-balance and panting; he cried-out when he, inevitably, got hit and cut. Lovino cried-out in reply as the Spaniard shielded him with his injured body. A gunshot sounded from the fort's ramparts, but, fortunately, it missed its target. He watched wide-eyed as the pirate went berserk, teeth clenched and splattered in fresh blood—his own blood. Lovino felt like he was living a nightmare: he was literally watching the man he loved be killed.

"No, Toni!" Lovino clenched his épée and pushed himself to his knees. If we're dying, we're dying together!

Swords clashed, steel-on-steel producing a harsh ring. Lovino was forced back as he struck, trying and failing to protect Antonio from a blow. He nearly lost his weapon as it was harmlessly deflected. It was too small. Against two guards his skill was passable; against a whole patrol it was useless. His back hit the culvert grate and an embarrassing squeak escaped him. He coughed, winded. But it gave him an idea.

Please let this work! Please—dear God in Heaven—let this fucking work!

Recklessly, he shoved his épée's thin blade through the narrow crease. It slid through unobstructed, reaching the latch inside. He yanked upward and felt the latch release. Too afraid to feel anything except relief, he pushed hard and the culvert grate swung heavily open. Toni! He whipped around, spotting Antonio, who was being forced back. He was slowing; failing. Despite his wild eyes, he had reached his end. He dropped the sword. He staggered—

—Lovino caught him. But instead of trying to fight the onslaught of guards that rushed them, Lovino tore the wooden rod from the wagon wheel's spoke, releasing it, then dove back, dragging Antonio with him. The heavily laden wagon lurched forward over the uneven ground, blocking their retreat and crashing into two guards in the process. It happened fast—the guards recovered fast—but it gave Lovino enough time to slam the culvert's grate closed behind he and Antonio, re-latching it. One of the guards grabbed the bars, shaking it; another tried to do as Lovino had and slide his sword's blade into the crease, but it was too thick. It got stuck, slowing their pursuit. Lovino barely acknowledged it. His entire being was running on adrenalin and only focused on one thing: saving Antonio.

"Come on, just a little further. Just a few more feet," Lovino panted as he struggled on his hands-and-knees, half-carrying, half-dragging Antonio.

"Lovi..." Antonio's voice was weak, barely a whisper.

They reached the exit as gunshots started firing, bouncing off the stonewalls, but Lovino didn't even flinch. It was high above the water, but, fortunately, there were no (visible) rocks at the bottom. Lovino paused briefly, looking down into the frothing waves. The water looked like sludge; it was dark-grey and opaque. A thick fog hung low on the surface. "I'm sorry," Lovino said as he pulled Antonio onto his back. He was heavy. The Spaniard moaned, only half-conscious. "I'm so sorry, Toni, please don't die. And please don't hate me for this."

He dove into the water below.


Lovino's head bobbed above the water, gasping. He knew he was exhausting his strength kicking and treading-water, but it was the only way he could hold Antonio—who had blacked-out—above the surface. Come on, Jorge! he begged. Where are you? Where is El Escape?! A wave crashed over his head. He swallowed a mouthful of seawater as he tried to keep Antonio from drowning. The pirate ship was supposed to be waiting to rescue them from the water, but it was nowhere in sight. Not that Lovino could see anything in the fog and darkness and blinded by cold seawater. At least the searchlights haven't spotted us, he thought, but they couldn't hide forever. Help. Lovino could feel himself sinking as he propelled himself slowly through the water, secretly grateful that Antonio had taught him (forced him) to swim. He stayed as close to shore as he dared, but the rocks were slick and offered no support. They only scraped Lovino's skin. Help. Somebody help us

He couldn't do it. He was spent. He was done.

Desperately he grabbed a fortuitously low-hanging tree branch and lifted himself up. Then he hung there, his thin arm trembling as wave after wave crashed over him. He re-position Antonio, letting his body's natural buoyancy and the saltwater hold him up. The Spaniard's head rested on Lovino's shoulder, which bobbed just above the water's surface. "I-I-I— I'm sorry, Toni." A single tear rolled down his cheek, makeup smeared and running down his face. He turned his head and pressed his lips to Antonio's brow, kissing him. "I'm so sorry," he said weakly. "Ti amo."

Then he rested his cheek atop his love's crown.

And he closed his eyes.


Feliciano cried when the crew pulled Lovino and Antonio out of the longboat onto El Escape. A lookout in the crow's nest had spotted them, clinging to the shoreline a fair distance from the fort; far enough to escape the spotlights. Did Lovino really swim so far—? The elder Vargas had always been the better swimmer; Feliciano had been too afraid to learn how. Miguel had had to pry Lovino's ice-cold fingers from a tree branch before hauling he and Antonio into the longboat. Feliciano's stomach clenched as he watched, hanging dangerously over the bulkhead as they approached. He felt sick with worry. A high-pitched squeak escaped him as they lifted Lovino's unconscious body onto the deck and began trying to revive him. Jorge had to physically prevent Feliciano from throwing himself hysterically onto his older brother. "Is he dead?" he sobbed in fear. When they confirmed that Lovino was alive, he sobbed in relief.

"And Antonio—?"

Miguel lowered his gaze. "He's alive, but just. He probably won't survive the night."

"He will survive," said Feliciano, but he sounded braver than he felt. He was shaking. He stared down at the prostrate Spaniard, who looked like a drowned corpse. Lovino lay beside him, being tended to by what passed for the pirate crew's physician (and barber). Slowly, the colour was returning to the Italian's face. As the injured captain and exhausted lordling were relocated to Antonio's private cabin, Feliciano followed. He spent a very long, tiresome night going between Antonio and Lovino's beds, doing everything he could—which was precious little—and worrying about the future of his two closest friends. At dawn, Lovino finally stirred. Feliciano knelt by his bedside, talking softly to his brother as Lovino registered his surroundings. "It's okay, Lovi. You did it. Your plan worked, we're safe," he said. But Lovino wouldn't be distracted from Antonio. Gingerly he crawled out of his bed, wordlessly crossed the short distance, and climbed into the Spaniard's bed. Feliciano felt the bite of grief as Lovino laid down beside Antonio, careful of his injuries, and closed his eyes. Lovino would stay there until Antonio awoke or was pronounced dead, Feliciano knew, his hand resting gently over Antonio's heart.

El Escape returned to the hidden inlet within the first hour of escape, but Feliciano stayed aboard until noon the following day. He knew his absence would not go unnoticed at the Vargas' house, but he didn't care. Even though the physician (and barber) confirmed that Lovino's health had fully recovered, Feliciano faithfully stayed by his side. Lovi's body may be healed, but his heart won't be unless Toni survives.

Antonio's death would completely destroy Lovino. Both of the Vargas brothers knew it, and both, it seemed, had accepted it.

Eventually, Miguel knocked.

"Little lord," he said as kindly as possible. "El Escape needs to leave."

Feliciano wanted to argue, but knew he couldn't. El Escape had already lingered too long. "Sì, I understand."

He sat down on the edge of Antonio's bed and touched Lovino's shoulder. "Lovi—?" he said softly. The elder Vargas murmured sleepily before he slowly opened his eyes. It took him a minute to focus on Feliciano's face. "I have to go home, Lovi," he said, fraternally brushing back Lovino's fringe.

Lovino's eyes shifted to Miguel, whose shadow leaned in the cabin's doorway. In effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and wrapped his arms around his younger brother. Feliciano hugged him tightly in return. "I'm not coming with you," he said.

There was no question in his voice; no room for argument.

Feliciano said: "I know. I'll miss you, fratello. And Toni," he added, conveying his faith in Antonio's recovery. "Promise you'll visit?" he asked. He felt Lovino nod. "Be safe, Lovi."

A tear rolled down Feliciano's rosy cheek.

"Be happy."

Just as he was leaving, Lovino's breathless voice stopped him.

"Toni!" he whispered. As he leaned down over the Spaniard, the Italian ex-lordling had eyes for nothing and no one else. Nothing mattered except for Antonio, whose emerald-green eyes looked vibrant in the bright afternoon sun. "Oh, Toni," Lovino cried. And weakly—voice raw and cracked and almost inaudible— Antonio replied:

"Lovi."

Feliciano left the cabin quietly, smiling as he did.