You and Lovino, you two alone, had managed to snag a creaky, decrepit boat; barely enough to fit the both of you, and are currently sailing the seas of Whatever the Hell; simply wanting to go Anywhere But Home. Home is Spain, Home was Spain, and Spain was you, but in one gut-wrenching moment, Home and Spain and You has become the Holy Trinity of Not-Anymore.
And so you flee.
Before your alternate even has a chance to open his grotesque, gold-teethed mouth, you turn tail and run, just run, and you take Lovino with you.
One night, when the stars seem to be smiling upon the ruined world, you find him praying.
He's perched on the dingy, algae-slick wood of the deck, his legs poking through the rusted metal railing and dangling over the boat's edge. His body's hunched in on itself, looking for all intents and purposes like a round, curled bug.
As you approach Lovino, you can make out the words he's saying, the Latin he's reciting with a tone bordering on desperate. The Our Father, and you notice how his tongue stumbles haltingly on deliver us from evil, like it's working its way around a sob.
Even as you crouch next to him, even as you can feel the heat of his sunburned thighs; he stares ahead at the glittering horizon, like you aren't even there; and continues the prayer in a bastardized mixture of Italian and English and mangled Spanish. His voice is hushed and fervent and wrought with the trembling inflections of someone about to scream. It's then that you figure out who he's praying for.
Feleciano?, you whisper.
Lovino blinks, his prayer cutting off in the middle of a word. Glancing sideways at you with suspicion, he nods.
You smile. Si, I know you're scared for him too, so am I—
No. The word comes out harsh and biting and like bile from his mouth. Fucking no. You don't, you don't know how I feel right now. You and your collecting of "lackeys" like goddamn butterflies on the wall. I'm so fucking worried, I can't…even sense him, anymore. He could be dead; he's my brother, my goddamn fratello, and he could be dead. And I've never done a single thing for him.
Look at the crazy burger-chomping bastard, Antonio. Look at the crazy Swiss bastard, the crazy Russian bastard. What do they all have in common, besides being crazy? He's obviously not waiting for an answer, because he continues, They actually have the damn capacity to protect their stupid little siblings. I don't think I've ever seen Feleciano as anything more than a nuisance, and I just-…He trails off, running a fingertip over a patch of red-brown rust. -…I'm sorry, for it.
He goes on.
I've been a shitty brother.
Felieciano was murdered.
I'm not important anymore.
I don't think I ever was.
And we have to do something, I think that if we all don't just grow some balls and do something...I think we're all going to die.
And so, you turn to him. Not to comfort, not to reassure. To confirm the truth as you know it. Si, I cannot deny any of this., and before he can shout at you, you steer his head to the side to rest on your shoulder; which would have worked better if he was still a child and shorter than you. His voice is lost around an unspoken word; in a choked, bird-like sound.
You listen to the sea-birds cry for one unbroken moment, and he says, And you, Antonio. You're going to have to face that bastard sooner or later; and neither of you need to say who he's talking about. If you're going to spit the acid truth in his face with a smile on your lips, you can trust that he'll be doing the same.
That is true, this is all true, we have to do something. But, Lovi, are the stars not beautiful tonight?
You smile, serenely, and throw Lovino's Bible into the sea.
A/N: Who loves making Spain a dick? I love making Spain a dick.