AN: Back to the present! (And back to Spanish as the main language.) This chapter was going to be longer, but it was being a tremendous pain to write and I'm sick of it :) Hopefully you like it more than I do =_=
TIGHT ROPE
Chapter IX
When Antonio woke up, the first thing he saw was Francis' face hovering over him. He was blurry, and the sound of his voice calling his name sounded distant. "Fran…" he managed to mumble through dry lips as he slowly came back to his senses.
"Antonio!" Francis sighed in relief. "Merciful heavens, you're awake! Hey, take it easy. You've been out for a couple of days."
"… What happened…?" he asked, blinking slowly as he tried to get used to the light.
"We clashed with the Turk. You fought him. Do you remember any of that?"
Yes, he did. Brief flashes of his duel against Adnan crossed his mind — but he didn't recall the outcome. "Did I lose?" he muttered.
"Not quite." As he explained, Francis slowly helped him sit up, placing a few cushions behind his back to support him, and handed him a glass of water that Antonio drank avidly. "I wouldn't say there was a winner this time. He hurt you badly, but so did you: I don't know whether he survived or not, but he didn't leave the ship on his own foot. He was bleeding a lot."
"I'm lucky to be alive, aren't I?" Antonio said quietly. After moving, the covers had slid off him, and now he could see all the bandages crisscrossing his abdomen and part of his chest.
"You're very lucky," Francis nodded. "But you still need to rest," he warned. "I know you're going to hate it, but don't do anything stupid until you recover. Please."
"Okay," he sighed. At the moment, he didn't have it in himself to argue. "Anything else I should know? Where are we going?"
"To Alistair's. Don't protest," he added quickly before Antonio could complain. "You need to rest somewhere safe and with healthier conditions than a pirate ship, and right now Alistair is our only option."
Francis was right, and Antonio knew it. His tired gaze travelled across his bandages and he nodded. "Fine," he agreed. He didn't like the idea of leaving the Mediterranean and sailing up to the British Isles, but it's not like he had many options. Besides, there'd be no point in arguing: they were probably halfway there already. "How's the rest of the crew? How are you?"
"Oh, I'm fine, don't worry about me," Francis smiled, nonchalant. "Barely got a scratch," he added, rubbing his injured arm. "About the crew… Well, we did lose a few men." He grabbed a list of names from Antonio's desk and started to read: "Luis, Miguel, José—the short one, not the tall one—, Gregorio, Felipe…"
He said a few more names, but Antonio was no longer listening. His mind had gotten stuck on a name. "Did—Did you say Gregorio?" he asked when Francis finished reciting his list. "The doctor?"
"… yes…"
"But then…" He frowned in confusion and slid a hand over his bandaged abdomen. "Then who did this?"
"Ah, that's… That's a funny story," Francis chuckled nervously. "Promise me you're not going to freak out."
"Francis…" Antonio practically hissed, his eyes narrowing into a glare. "Who was it?"
~{x}~{§}~{x}~
Lovino sighed, bored, as he stared into the sea. The fishing rod in his hand remained as still as it had been for the past hour and a half. By his side, Raúl exclaimed in delight when something bit his bait.
"You won't catch anything with that attitude," the pirate said as he pulled a fish out of the water and dropped it in his almost full bucket.
"Is that so?"
"It is! You gotta put some passion in what you do if you want to succeed!"
Lovino snorted at those words, but couldn't hide a smile. Raúl's optimism and energy were contagious.
After the battle against the Turkish pirates, when Lovino had earned some freedom and the respectable position of the ship's doctor, Raúl had taken it upon him to become his mentor. He had shown him around the ship, teaching him the most basic chores and shielding him from other crewmates' curious (and sometimes hostile) glances. Francis had been way too busy playing the role of captain to look after Lovino, so in the end Raúl had become his biggest ally (friend, even) aboard El Diablo.
"It's not that I'm not catching anything because I'm gloomy — I'm gloomy because I'm not catching anything," he retorted.
Raúl laughed at that. "Well…" he started to counter.
But then there was a loud noise that seemed to come from the captain's cabin, followed by some unintelligible cursing, and it caught their attention. There was a bang, some screaming, and then the door was slammed open and Antonio stumbled outside. The bright sunlight blinded him for a moment and he recoiled, but soon after his piercing glare was scanning the deck.
Before his gaze landed on him, Lovino already knew it was him who the captain was looking for.
"You," Antonio growled when he finally spotted the former prisoner and walked towards him in clumsy strides. Behind him rushed Francis, who had clearly failed at stopping the captain from leaving his bed, with a worried expression on his face.
"When did you wake up?" Lovino asked, unfazed by the Spaniard's enraged stance.
"You—" Antonio hissed.
"Not even five minutes ago," Francis answered. Cautiously, he placed a hand on the captain's shoulder in a futile attempt at calming him down.
"You—" Antonio started, only to be interrupted again:
"Then you shouldn't be walking around so freely. Much less under the sun."
Those words only seemed to anger Antonio some more. "Hey," he growled, taking a step towards him. "Don't tell me what to—"
Before he could complete the line, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed on Francis' arms.
"Do?" Lovino finished for him, smiling a bit smugly.
"Sorry about that," Francis grunted as he battled against Antonio's dead weight. "I'll take him back—Raúl, please come help me, he's heavy—back inside."
Raúl hurried to do as told, and together with Francis they carried the captain to his cabin. Lovino stayed behind for a moment to order the rods and then followed them.
He had the feeling he'd have some stitching to do.
~{x}~{§}~{x}~
The second time Antonio opened his eyes it was much darker. The last rays of sunshine entered through his cabin's window, tinting the ceiling a pastel orange, and the soft rocking of the ship invited him to go back to sleep. From outside came the sound of the men finishing their daily tasks and getting ready for the night.
You're the captain, a voice whispered in Antonio's head. You should be overlooking.
Groaning, he pushed the covers off him and rolled to the edge of the bed.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said before he could stand up, and Antonio froze in place, suddenly realizing he wasn't alone.
Lovino was sitting next to the window, reading a book no doubt taken from Antonio's small collection. It was hard to see him due to the backlight, but his posture was clearly relaxed, very different from the other times they'd met.
"You almost snapped your stitches before," the Italian went on, not even bothering to look away from the book. "Make it easier for the both of us and don't move for a while." His eyes flickered for a moment to Antonio and he added: "It's a nice tattoo you got there, by the way."
Antonio instinctively took a hand to his abdomen, feeling protective even though it was covered by the bandages (but, it seemed, not destroyed by the injury). Alistair had always been heavily inked, and Antonio had wanted to emulate him. "It has to be something important to you," the Scottish captain had told him. Then he had barely had to think about it to make his choice.
"What is it with you and bulls anyway?" Lovino asked, glancing at him from behind the pages.
Indeed, his one and only tattoo was a fierce, broad bull, ready to attack, different in form but not in meaning to the one on his pirate flag.
It was Francis who had designed it, only a little before they captured El Diablo. He had kept the classic Jolly Roger, but it was reduced to a corner — all the attention was directed to the red silhouette of a charging bull.
"I like bulls," Antonio snarled in reply to Lovino's question.
"… Yeah, no kidding," he mumbled back, eying him with mistrust. He clearly suspected there was something else behind it, but decided not to pry and resumed his reading.
"Francis said I'd be dead if it weren't for you," Antonio said then, radically changing the topic.
"He wasn't lying."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
Antonio frowned, irritated. Lovino knew exactly what he was being asked; he just wanted to hear the proud captain saying it. "Why did you save me?" he gave in. There was no answer. Antonio insisted: "You hate me. Why would you save my life?"
Lovino slammed the book shut and stared at him, serious. "I believe in redemption," he said. "And second chances."
"Redemption?" Antonio scoffed. "You surely don't expect me to quit piracy because of this."
"Dreaming is free, Carriedo. Why do you do this anyway?"
Antonio stilled. His eyes scanned Lovino's face, which was filled with genuine curiosity, and for what seemed an eternity a dense silence settled on the cabin. The sun disappeared behind the horizon, leaving them in the dark.
And then he answered, his voice cold:
"I want to kill a man," he said with eerie calm. "Until I do, like it or not, this is my life."
"You want to kill a man," Lovino repeated slowly. "Who? Why?"
"That's none of your business," Antonio replied, smiling dangerously at him.
"Alright," Lovino snorted. "Keep it to yourself. I don't care."
"Fine. I don't care about you either."
"Great."
The childish argument might have gone on for a little longer, but thankfully Francis walked in on that very moment and prevented it. He carried a tray with a bowl on it, which he gave to Antonio. "Dinner," he said with a smile. "A simple soup, for starters. Lovino said you shouldn't eat solid for a while."
"Did he now?" Antonio growled, glaring at Lovino but accepting the food nonetheless. He was starving.
Francis' gaze flew from Antonio to Lovino and back, as if he were only then noticing the tense atmosphere. "Is there any problem?" he asked, wary.
"Not at all," Lovino replied before Antonio could say anything. "I was just leaving." He jumped to his feet and walked to the door, taking the book with him. "If you need me," he added before walking out, "let me know."
Antonio waited until the sound of Lovino's footsteps got lost among the other noises on deck. "How long was I alone with him?" he asked then, frowning.
"I don't know," Francis answered, a bit taken aback by the question. "A couple hours, maybe three?"
"That's a long time."
"So?"
"He could've stabbed me or something."
"Stabbed you? Why would he stab you after having saved your goddamn life?" Francis chuckled in incredulity, amazed by the lack of logic in his captain's statement.
Antonio groaned, sulky, and finished his soup. He knew Francis was right: if Lovino wanted him dead, he could have simply let him die. It'd be stupid to kill him after having put all that effort into saving him. And Lovino wasn't stupid. Impulsive to the point of recklessness, yes; but not stupid.
Francis' hand found his shoulder and squeezed in a comforting manner. "I know you're not thrilled by owing Lovino your life," he said. "But I wasn't going to let you die just like that."
"Maybe you should have," Antonio mumbled, deflated.
"Don't — Don't go that way," Francis almost pleaded, sitting next to him and pulling him into a hug. Antonio didn't resist; he simply flopped against him like a cloth doll. "You can't die yet. You've got someone to kill, remember?"
Antonio clenched his fists. His injury hurt; his tattoo itched. The thirst for revenge swelled inside him, returning some vitality to him.
"Yes," he muttered darkly into Francis' embrace. "Yes, I remember."
~{x}~{§}~{x}~
The following days passed slowly and without mishaps. Antonio spent most of his time in bed, slowly recovering from his injury. Eventually, Lovino gave him permission to stand up and walk around, but always with someone supervising, and never for too long. "I won't stitch you up again if you keep idiotically reopening your wound," he had snapped at Antonio after he had protested.
Grumbling, and encouraged by a stern glare from his first-mate, the captain had agreed.
That didn't mean he was happy with the whole deal.
"I hate the way he looks at me now," he growled at Francis as he helped him walk around his cabin. "Such superiority in his eyes. He looks at me and I can tell he's thinking, If it weren't for me you'd be six-feet under. I can't stand it."
"I mean, he's not wrong," Francis shrugged it off.
"Not helpful," Antonio protested.
"Your idea of being helpful is joining in your sulking against Lovino," Francis replied, "and I'm sorry, but I don't plan to do that. Like it or not, you owe him your life — and he has every right to feel superior, considering how you treated him before. You must give it to him: he's got the moral high ground."
"Whatever. I'm no angel; I never pretended to be. If he wants to pretend, then good for him. But I think I'm allowed to dislike the way he shows it off."
Francis rolled his eyes. "You know, sometimes you're way too sensitive for a pirate."
"Look who's talking."
"I'm sensitive, but at least I balance it with sensibility," Francis replied. "And anyway I don't complain half as much as you do."
"He just gets easily on my nerves, the goddamn princeling."
"Come on, you'll survive." Francis patted his back supportively as he guided him back to bed, where they sat together. "It'll only take us a couple of days to reach Wales."
"I can survive Lovino for two more days," Antonio sighed. Then he processed the rest of Francis' words. He frowned. "Wait, Wales? I thought we were going to Alistair's?"
"Yes. He settled down in Wales."
"I thought he'd gone to Scotland."
"He told us a thousand times that he'd rather stay in the south of the British Isles. Did you ever listen to him when he spoke?"
"… sometimes…"
Captain and first-mate shared a knowing look.
"Alistair is going to kill me, isn't he?"
"Maybe Lovino saving your life was a futile effort after all."
~{x}~{§}~{x}~
As Francis had predicted, they reached Wales in just two days. He stood at the front of El Diablo, watching in excitement as they sailed closer to shore. Unlike Arthur, who visited his brother often, Antonio had never once dropped by, and Francis had long wanted to meet Alistair again and see his new lair.
Although lair didn't seem to be the most appropriate word. When he finally spotted it, he wasn't sure at first that it was actually Alistair's home until he recognized his Jolly Roger waving on top of the roof. He was expecting a big mansion, sure, but what stood on top of the hill was closer to a castle. It was big enough to house both Antonio's and Arthur's crews at the same time, and maybe another if needed.
Why the old man needed so much space, Francis did not know.
The ship sailed towards the private dock on the beach, from where stone path led all the way up to the mansion. A lone figure stood at the edge of the pier, waving at them, and when they got closer, Francis was pleased to recognize Matthew.
He was the youngest of the Kirkland clan, and allegedly Alistair's favourite relative. Francis had no idea in which way Matthew and his twin Alfred were related to the other Kirklands — he wasn't even sure that they were actually related, knowing first-hand the fondness Alistair had for strays. Either way, Matthew was a kind boy whom everybody was fond of. He'd been rightfully declared "too soft for the noble art of piracy", so he'd stayed with Alistair after he retired (much to the satisfaction of both), and Francis had missed him. He really liked the kid. No longer a kid, though, he considered as he waved back with a smile. Already in his late teens, Matthew could already be considered a man.
"Hello, Mattie!" he called when they were close enough. "I take it Alistair expects us?"
"He saw your ship and asked me to come greet you!" Matt yelled back. "He told me to tell Antonio that he's the most ungrateful brat he's ever had the misfortune to meet and that he better have a good reason to show up now out of the blue!"
Francis smiled, easily picturing the Scottish retired pirate grumbling those words yet unable to hide a thrilled smile. Alistair might have been one of the worst pirates ever to sail the Mediterranean, but he was also incredibly soft when it came to Antonio.
"That… That is a good reason," Matthew admitted, paling when the Spanish captain was helped off the ship and he caught sight of the bandages under his shirt. "Are you alright?"
"I'll survive," Antonio smiled at him. "Unless Alistair murders me the moment I set foot in his house," he added, betraying a certain nervousness.
"He won't," the boy assured, though he didn't sound very certain himself.
Matthew guided them on the way up. The crew, eager to reach the safeness of the castle, climbed behind him at a great speed, and soon Francis and Antonio were left behind. The captain was having a hard time with the hike and his pace was slow, even though he was leaning most of his weight on Francis.
"We can stop for breath if you need to," the first-mate offered, already knowing that his suggestion would be refused.
"I'm fine," Antonio panted. "I'll take proper rest once we get there."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Let's hurry."
A quiet smile made it to Francis' face.
Antonio, it seemed, was eager to meet Alistair, too.
~{x}~{§}~{x}~
Alistair had received him with a glare and an unamused expression. His emerald eyes gleamed with the same briskness Antonio remembered — it reminded him of the feared pirate captain he had known, distracted him from the greying hair and chubbier body. Neither had said anything when they met face to face. Antonio had remained quiet, leaning on Francis for support, trying not to show the toll the hike had taken on him; and Alistair, his gaze never leaving him, had gestured for Matthew to go to him and had whispered a command in his ear.
Obedient as always, the boy had guided the captain and first-mate to a room where Antonio could rest.
And now Antonio was alone in said room, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling in thought. Despite the way the first meeting had gone, he knew — or perhaps he hoped — that Alistair would eventually show up to talk. That in itself was good: Antonio loved him dearly, knew he had disappointed the old man, and reckoned he owed him an apology. The bad part was that Alistair was as unpredictable as always, and Antonio wasn't sure in which way he'd be approached.
When the door to his room opened and he recognized Alistair's footsteps walking to him, he muttered an unsure "hey". He suddenly felt like a child again.
"Hey," Alistair mimicked, though with more certainty. He grabbed a chair, placed it backwards next to the bed, and sat on it straddling it, arms resting on the backrest. "Francis told me you were hurt badly." His voice sounded just like Antonio remembered: commanding, coarse from years of barking orders, yet still warm when he addressed his former protegee. "What happened, exactly?"
"Had a misencounter with the Turk," Antonio answered, relieved. He had really feared that Alistair would behave coldly with him, or maybe not even talk to him at all. With some effort, he sat up and pulled up his shirt to show Alistair the bandages. "He cut me. But I cut him, too, so we're even."
"Hm." Curious, Alistair leant forward, squinting. "Those are good bandages. Did you get yourself a proper doctor?"
"… sort of…"
"Sort of?"
"He's a somewhat proper doctor, but I didn't get him. It's complicated."
"Yeah, no kidding. But he saved your life."
Antonio sighed. "Yes, so it seems."
"I'll ask Francis to introduce us. I should thank him."
"What for?"
"Saving your life, obviously."
"Oh." Antonio shifted uncomfortably on the bed, nervously fidgeting with the sheets. "Aren't you—? I thought… I thought you'd be angry with me."
"Angry?" Alistair repeated. He looked amused. "What for?"
"I haven't visited you, not even once, unlike Arthur. I've only come now because you were the only option I had, and because Francis had already set course."
Alistair snickered. "I appreciate the honestly," he said, "but no, I'm not angry. Upset, maybe. But not angry. You're old enough to do what you want."
"I'd like to come visit, and I'd do it often," Antonio kept apologizing, "but I don't want to leave the Mediterranean for so long. You know my motives."
"I know your motives," Alistair nodded. "I don't share them, though. Still with your vengeful crusade, then?"
Antonio nodded.
"After all this time… You really can't let it go."
Antonio shook his head.
"Killing him won't end the nightmares."
"No," he admitted. "But I'll feel better."
Alistair bobbed his head. This time, Antonio could acutely feel the disappointment in his gaze. "You're so obsessed with your past you forget about your present," the former captain said, a sad tone in his voice. "You're going to end up hurting those who love you."
The message was clear: you're already hurting me.
Antonio clenched his fists, blinked fast to stop some treacherous tears that threatened to spill. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.
"So am I."
Alistair's eyes were now filled with pity. It hurt more than the disappointment.
"I'd better go back to your crew," the Scot changed topic, standing up. "I told Mattie to organize them in the rooms, but who knows if they'd even listened to him. That kid has such small presence he's practically invisible."
If that were the case, Antonio was certain that his crew would get an earful for having so blatantly ignored Alistair's beloved little sibling… or cousin… or whatever he was.
"Alistair?" he called just as he was about to leave the room.
The old captain stopped in the doorframe and glanced back at him. "Yes?"
Antonio managed a smile, shy and small, yet honest. "It's good to see you."
Alistair smiled back. "You too, boy.
"You too."
AN: Everyone's scared of Alistair when he's one big softie~ I changed the cover pic; you can see Antonio's Jolly Roger on the new one. And... I hope the next chapter behaves better than this one. u_u Thanks for reading and putting up with my very inconsistent posting schedules!
