[Fanfic] The Promise 6
Title: The Promise 6
Authors: berseker and sakuratsukikage , not in this order.
Rating: PG-15
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Summary: The boys go the plantation, and Luciano needs to make a decision.
Ok, so, this chapter is longer than the others, and this is all Zu's fault, because the only reasonable point to cut it would creat a cliffhanger and she didn't let me do it. So, yeah. Also, thanks to her for betareading it <3
Part 5: "Hmm," Luciano said. He still felt oddly dreamlike, as if this wasn't really happening. It was warm, and Martín was warm, where his head rested on his thighs. "Well, maybe," he said. He sat up, and he wasn't sure if he'd heard Martín sigh when he pulled his hand away from his hair, or not. Luciano yawned, and rolled one shoulder, then the other, then leaned over Martín to look out the window.
It was the afternoon, by now. And he recognized the familiar sights of the countryside rolling by. That meant he had been sleeping on him for hours. Just - how-? It didn't seem like something that could really have happened.
That was it. He was going insane. Prolonged exposure to Martín was making him crazy. Obviously.
He sat back in his seat and looked at him. Martín looked happy, the idiot, and now the events of the previous... conversation, or whatever that had been, were coming back to Luciano and he wanted to hide somewhere and die. What had he been thinking, doing all that, saying all that, and then Martín had confronted him, Luciano remembered it, and- so maybe that was why he looked pleased. Because Luciano had been unable to send him away - and why the hell had that happened, he should have told him to go. He should. That was the whole point.
But he couldn't seem to look away. It was painful, the way his lips curled up in that almost sort of smile, and the softness in his eyes, and how he was completely unaware of what Luciano was thinking, and Luciano wasn’t sure himself. He didn’t want to ruin that. And part of him did, part of him wanted to make Martín just as unhappy as he was. And it wasn’t fair, not after all that had happened. And after sleeping on his lap for the better part of the day.
After a moment Martín started to smile, and his cheeks turned a little pink. "Like what you see?" he asked.
… or he could just go with this, and flirt with him. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to. "I wouldn't go that far," he said. "But you know... well, you shouldn't have to ask me."
Martín shook his head. "I'm asking anyway."
"You're being stupid," Luciano said, feeling his face warm. He looked away.
"I don't think so," Martín said.
"You wouldn't," Luciano muttered.
Martín sighed, but apparently decided to let it go, because the next thing he said was totally different. "So, tell me about your family. We're going to your family's hacienda, right? Where you grew up?"
Luciano’s heart thumped painfully in his chest, and this was so wrong, even the way he said the Spanish word was endearing.
"Fazenda," Luciano said anyway.
"Yes, okay. But you grew up there, right?"
So, how to answer that? He had grown up there, of course. That wasn't the complicated part. He remembered sleeping alongside his mother when he was little, helping her with her chores in the house as much as he could - remembered climbing the old tree that looked over the kitchen garden whenever he'd had a fight, so she wouldn't find out, but she'd always figured it out anyway, and he remembered the way his father had smelled, which he thought was weird, but he'd never really looked at him in the eyes until he was older and they'd started talking about sending him off to places like Rio, then Paris, but... that wasn't the point, really. "Yes," he said.
"So, your parents -"
"They're dead."
"Oh," Martín said. There was a moment of silence, and he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "You never said anything."
The way Martín said that, as if there was no context, no reason whatsoever for him to avoid mention this subject, nothing there at all. Right. What was he trying to do now?
"My father died during the war."
"Oh," Martín said. "I'm very sorry. I mean, not that I had anything to do with it, but I suppose as an Argentinean I should-"
… that wasn't one of the reasons to avoid mentioning it. Luciano stared at him. "Uh, okay," he said. "Don't be weird about it. I mean, it's not like we didn't fight, too."
"Right. Of course. Yes. I didn't- so it was in the war, then."
"Oh, yes," Luciano said. This time he could muster a wry smile. It had been a good death, considering. He remembered listening to his grand speeches about the glory of a nation that wasn't even a whole decade old yet, and wondering if he was the only one who just couldn't see. "He was very patriotic. He thought beating you people was a matter of pride."
"Well, there's nothing wrong with that," Martín said, sounding a bit surprised. "It was."
Of course Martín would agree, he thought, shaking his head to himself. And he didn’t say anything about the ‘beating you’ part, which meant he was thinking about something else and he was going to do the stupid thing and ask, wasn’t he, he was going to say it even after all-
“What about your mother?" Martín asked after a moment. And Luciano wasn't even surprised. Of course Martín was going to ask. He wouldn't be Martín Hernandez if he didn't.
"She died before that."
Martín waited. It was the kind of silence that should be filled, he was being... silent and caring, or trying to, and waiting for Luciano to say more, but - well what if he didn't want to, then what?
He should. So Martín would get it. That was why they were here. So what if even thinking about her made his eyes burn?
"Remember Arthur Kirkland? I mean, of course you do, I - he and my father were friends. He used to come here, sometimes."
"That's... nice," Martín said. He had tensed slightly at the reference, probably thinking Luciano would talk about - other things now, but then he relaxed again, and said, "That man was a bastard. But nice."
"You were in awe of him just like everyone else. The point is, he talked to me a few times, I mean, I was a child, of course, so it wasn't much of a conversation. But I guess I impressed him anyway, and he was the one who came up with the idea. That I should get an education. My father didn't like it, he thought it would be a waste of everyone's time, and that I would be more useful here, but in the end he let me go. Of course, that didn't last much -"
"Did she approve?"
"I'm pretty sure no one asked her."
Martín looked at him. Luciano knew he was feeling defensive, and that was why he was sounding like that, and he didn't want to but now he couldn't help it. It was the same awful feeling of being caught in a trap, that made him leave his class that very first day and hit Martín on the ship and do all the bad decisions he had ever made.
"Come on, Martín, don't be stupid. She had no say in this, and anyway you won't meet her, so let's talk about something else."
"Did she look like you?"
Luciano glared at him.
"Yes, a little, why?"
"I'm just asking! I told you, I want to know more about you, but fine, if you don't want to talk about her, we won't talk about her. Just tell me what you think I should know."
"Why should I? You never told me about your family."
"You never asked, and anyway we're at your house," Martín said, "but fine. My parents live in Buenos Aires. My grandparents are in Spain, but I haven't seen them for ages now. They didn't support the Revolution, so I didn't visit them even when I was there. I can introduce you to them, if you want to. My parents, I mean. Not my grandparents. What else do you want to know?"
"Introduce me to them? That I'd like to see."
Martín didn't fall for it:
"Then you will. Now, you. Tell me about you. So, is this place yours?"
"Why? Do you want to know how much money I have?"
"... you know, I think you should go back to sleep. I'm just asking."
"You don't know what you're saying, that's the problem. And yes, it's mine, can we talk about something else?"
Martín pressed his lips into a tight line, probably to prevent himself for saying something nasty. Luciano was kind of impressed, because he had thought Martín would point out that he was richer than him. Probably. It was the kind of annoying thing he would do, not that it mattered, because class and aristocracy and that... strange ineffable thing that made some people better than the others, Martín had been born. Owning land didn’t mean anything. And all this was making him nervous, now he wanted to do... something, like- hold something, or- he wasn't sure what, just- anything to distract him from the acid tension filling up his stomach. Maybe leave the carriage, so he could think, and decide if he wanted to talk or not.
"And anyway I'm terrible at managing it," he said.
"I see," Martín said, frowning. Luciano frowned too, because what the hell.
"It's his fault, anyway. I wasn't supposed to inherit anything, but there was no one else. Not that I'm complaining, of course. I'm just saying."
Maybe if Martín asked now, he would be able to say it. He could ask why he shouldn't have inherited. Then he would say it. He would open his mouth and say, if Lord Kirkland hadn't done what he did, I would probably be working in the fields, because all those stories that they used to say? All true. All those reasons why you should have never talked to me. That was my life before you, my destiny before I was set apart by sheer blind dumb luck, but he did, and then I went there and met you so your destiny is just as dumb as mine, right? But Martín didn't ask anything, and it could be because of his voice and how tense he was sounding, and now he wished he hadn't brought him, because he didn't want to say that. At all. He could have waited, talked to him in Rio, to get him used to the whole thing, and... he could have.... maybe done something different, and-
"So," Martín said, a little too carefully, "Then I assume you are in charge of the - business here."
"Yes."
He should stop this. He knew he was sending all sorts of crazy mixed signs and Martín was trying to get it right, so he should stop and be a man about all this, and now Martín was pressing his lips again, almost pouting, and probably thinking about how unfair Luciano was because he was just asking, and Luciano tried not to feel guilty over it. He was too sick already, and it was getting hard to talk, to keep his voice steady. He tried to force a smile. He used to be good at it.
"We'll have the house to ourselves," he said, "Maybe you'll like it. Then - I'll show you places. Where I used to go, when I was a child. How about that?"
"I'd like that," Martín said. He smiled too, accepting his non-spoken apology, but it looked hollow. And it made Luciano feel even worse, like he was misleading him, so he had to do something. He would. Really.
The carriage stopped. So, no turning back now.
"We're here. They probably have the lunch ready - should have, anyway, I said I would come, so you'll have the chance to taste our food -"
"Luciano -"
"And then we'll take a walk. How about that?"
He was such a coward. Honestly. He sounded nervous. He knew he did.
"Yes," Martín said, "And then you'll stop this, right? So we can have a normal conversation? Deal?"
Look who's talking, Luciano thought, but now his stomach felt like it was being twisted and this was all so pointless, and such a terrible idea, and he didn't even want to come here himself, why had he decided to bring him along, what the hell had he been thinking. "You won't like it. Maybe it'll be better if I didn't," he swallowed, "I know it would be better, so -"
“We don't know much about each other, have you noticed that? About our lives, I mean," Martín said, and he sounded so sure of himself, so rational, "And I want to know."
Oh God. Luciano almost choked. "I'll... I have to tell everyone we're here," he gasped, "and... and show you your room, and everything."
He got out of the carriage, and then he had a moment when he couldn't decide if he should try to help Martín, but then Martín got out too and he was glad he hadn't done it, it wasn't like Martín was a lady or anything. His hands were cold now, he had to fight against the will to twist them. Come on, he could at least act calm, couldn't he?
Yeah right.
He stared at the house, trying to guess what Martín would say.
It was... there. He had never thought of it in terms of beautiful or ugly, it was just the big house and it had always been there. The white walls, the big windows with the blue windowpane. The porch that used to look so beautiful, and then not so much when Luciano came back, after Paris. The stepping stones leading to the door.
Maybe Martín would like it.
Well, who cared? He started for the house, not bothering to see if Martín was following him, even if he obviously was because he was a stubborn idiot. And at least Luciano managed to push that thought away, for a while, in a flurry of things to do, eating lunch and, as usual, there was way too much food - he felt a surge of irrational pride of that - and then he had to talk to the estate managers and everyone who really knew what was going on here, not like the accountants and clerks in Rio, and getting everything ready.
Martín was charming, the whole time. He refused to be sent away, and if Luciano tried to tell him it was important business he'd just smile and wander over to look at the house or something while he talked and show up again as soon as he finished. And it wasn't fair, Luciano wanted him to be rude, or arrogant, but he wasn't, he was... he was really charming, and it was obvious he knew how to handle this kind of thing, which wasn't fair either, because Luciano had had to teach himself, how to deal with the business and how it was supposed to work, and he'd learned really quickly, he knew he had, but he'd still had to learn in the first place.
And eventually Luciano ran out of things to do, and people to talk to, and Martín smiled at him and said, "I thought you were going to show me places, places you went when you were a child."
Right.
Right, he could do this. Luciano had to swallow very hard, and his palms started to sweat again. "I am," he said.
He led him outside, and then he stopped. Right. Now what.
"I bet you were cute as a child," Martín said, still smiling. They were alone, right then, in a corner of the grounds behind the main house. "I bet you smiled all the time."
"I was dirty as a child," Luciano said. "And I bet you were a brat."
It was beautiful, here. And sunny, and bright and so colorful and all the things he had loved in his life and missed when he was away, the sun on his skin and the, the beauty of everything, that was making him feel like crying even if that was stupid too, and he had to say something, or go away, not for long, just five minutes, it was all he needed to pull himself together and then he would be able to pay attention to what Martín was saying.
"Most children are," he said. "I was very well-behaved."
"Uh-huh," Luciano said. "Well, I wasn't. But you know, if I hadn't done what I was supposed to, I would have been punished."
"Aren't most children?" Martín said. "I was, too, you know, hard to believe as it is." His smile invited Luciano to smile too.
He didn't. "It was a different kind of punishment."
Martín looked confused. "What do you mean?" he said. And that was a great question, amazing, even, the most perfect question he could have made, and Luciano wasn't sure if he was blushing furiously, or if the heat he was feeling was just anger or shame. Emotion, there was too much of it, he couldn't figure out what it was, and he was feeling sick again. "Well, they didn't flog the kids, not like they do the adults," he said. "They'd usually beat us, though. And..." his voice strangled, and dried up, and he couldn't say, through a throat that was suddenly very dry, that he wouldn't have done anything to get his mother in that kind of trouble, because... because. "You see, Martín," he said, "If Lord Kirkland hadn't seen me, and decided whatever he did, I'd probably be working in the fields, right now. But I guess that would have solved our problems, because then we'd never have met."
And God why had he thought he would be able to say anything? He had barely started and he couldn't look at him, couldn't look at his eyes and see... see what he knew would be there, disappointment and... resignation, and maybe disgust, too, who really knew. But he wasn't going to stand in front of Martín with his eyes on the ground and wait for him to speak, like Martín was his father, or something, so he turned around and left, not running, but quickly all the same. And Martín called something - he thought it was his name, but he could barely hear anything over the roaring emotions in his ears - but he ignored it, and when he was around the corner of the house he started to run.
He wasn't quite sure where he was running to, and he didn't have to, this was all his, he could go anywhere he pleased and he could leave and never come back if he wanted to. And if he wanted to go to her - even if he didn't, if he wasn't quite thinking about it, he was just moving because he couldn't stop now - he didn't owe any explanation to anyone and he didn't have to think. If he didn't want to. So he kept going until he reached the slaves' graveyard, and then he finally sank down onto the grass, his breath coming heavily. He could feel sweat staining his shirt, clinging to his skin, his face, dampening his hair. And for a long time after that he stared straight ahead, not looking at anything, and trying not to think about anything. He failed miserably. He'd run away from Martín - he could lie to himself all he wanted to, tell himself that he hadn't run until after he'd left, or - but the point was, he hadn't been able to face him.
He wondered if he would ever see him again, or if he would turn right around and leave on the same carriage he'd come in. Or maybe he'd try to be nice, let Luciano down gently, though that didn't really sound much like Martín, but who knew what he would do, and - or -
Luciano looked at his mother's grave. A wooden cross like many others, and nothing else. Maybe she had been calling him. Maybe that was why he had decided to come all of a sudden? And not because he was completely insane?
A sob jumped into his throat at the same time, but he closed his mouth on it, forced it down. No, of course he'd come here. He'd wanted to get away, he'd wanted to be safe, and it was as close as he could get, and now that felt so obvious. He thought, disjointedly, unhappily, that he hadn't brought any flowers or anything, and that wasn't very fair of him, that he should be a better son. He stared at the grave for a moment, thinking blank, circular thoughts along the same lines. There was weed growing on it, he should at least do something about that. Because she was just as important as his father, right? And he loved her more. And he had a tombstone so she should have one too, with her name too, and angels and the whole thing. Not this. He pushed himself to his feet and walked closer, close enough that he could lean forward and press a kiss to the top of the cross. Because he'd never kissed her enough when she was alive.
"I'm going crazy, mama," he whispered. "You remember what I said about Martín, right? He says he's in love with me. Would that bother you? What would you think?" He looked away, down at the ground. "You - you'd probably say not to be foolish, right? Because. He'll change his mind and go back to Argentina, and I know..." He sighed, and sank down again. He wished she was really there, that he could hear her voice, that she would smile at him and put her arm around him and tell him... whatever she would tell him. To forget Martín, probably, not to spoil everything for himself, that he could marry a beautiful rich girl in Rio and it would be wonderful."I just think I'm in trouble, with him," he whispered even more softly. It didn't matter how loud he was, he thought, either she could hear him or she couldn't. "When he leaves I think I'll miss him. And I won't want him to go. Even though I think he will. I mean, I know he will. And I thought I wasn't this stupid, but... here I am, right?"
He could almost hear her, see her smile at him, and say, well, he is handsome? Luciano closed his eyes and sighed, then shook his head. "He's too handsome for his own good, Mama," he said. "But that's not the problem, I didn't get into this just because... I wouldn't just fall for a pretty face and a promise, right? So he's... more than that, but I can't really tell what, because he's insane. Well, he is Argentinean. And he has money, and... everything, and... you know what I mean. He's not like me at all." He propped his elbows on his knees and sank his hands into his own hair, and sighed. Back in Paris, Martín had thought Luciano's mother might have been a slave, maybe, and he'd done what he'd done because of that, because Luciano had never been good enough for him, because it was dangerous to be involved with him, for Martín. He hadn't ever said that - he wouldn't, Martín hated admitting when he'd been scared, but he'd thought it. Luciano wasn't good enough, his skin was the wrong color, everything about him was wrong. Martín knew that. And if he'd forgotten, he'd remember soon. That was the thing. Why would Luciano expect Martín not to change his mind? That would just be asking for it. He'd feel so, so stupid, when it happened. Like he'd known what was coming, and he'd asked for it, asked to be hurt all over again, let Martín take his heart and hurt him. Stupid. So he couldn't, he just couldn't. He wasn't going to stand around waiting to be hurt his whole life. He was smarter than that. Even if it didn't seem like it, sometimes.
Luciano crossed his arms over his knees and let his head rest on them. He felt stupid already. He was supposed to be showing Martín why they couldn't be together, here. He was supposed to be all right with the idea. It was his decision, after all. He'd already known it was never going to happen, so why was he feeling upset over it now? It wasn't his fault Martín had no idea... no idea what Luciano was really like, or was delusional, or whatever he was thinking. He shouldn't be upset about it. He'd already known. Right? So he was just being an idiot. Again. This was why he couldn't be around Martín. He always forgot, around him, and acted like an idiot all over again. This was why love was so overrated, it made everything so complicated, it made people stupid. What was he expecting? That he and Martín would live together happily for the rest of their lives?
It took a moment for him to realize that his eyes felt wet, and he squeezed them shut, furiously. He was being such an idiot. He rubbed his eyes against his knee, wiping the wetness away, until when he blinked them open again they were dry.
Luciano propped his chin on his arms where they were crossed over his knees again. He wondered what Martín was doing right now. Was he packing his things away again, and cursing Luciano for making him unpack and then pack all over again? It had to be inconvenient, right? Or maybe he was waiting for Luciano to come back, and they'd have to go through all this again, before he left. That sounded like Martín, anyway.
Maybe he wouldn't leave, part of Luciano's mind, that silly, stupid, eager needy hopeful part of him, suggested. Maybe he wouldn't -
He was being so pathetic. He'd told himself he wouldn't get into this. Wouldn't let himself get like this, over Martín of all people, too, and here he was. Luciano sighed and laid his head down, letting his eyes rest against his sleeve.
"Luciano!" The voice from behind him made him jump. Martín's voice. He sounded breathless, like maybe... maybe like he had run after him. "There you are."
What - what was he doing here? Had he come to ask more questions, or - or to tell Luciano that sure enough, he'd - he'd come to his senses after all, and realized that Luciano was beneath him, and it was just a good thing he'd realized now, and Luciano could say that he could have told him that, all along, hadn't he been saying that? And he'd probably point it out a little more, in that blunt, honest way he had like he couldn't even see how much it hurt, and that would be it, he'd never see him again -"I told you," he muttered.
"Why'd you do run away like that, anyway?" Martín asked. His voice still sounded a bit breathless. "For a few seconds there I thought I'd have to wait until you came back for supper."
Luciano didn't say anything. He wasn't certain what he could say.
"Come on, Luciano," Martín said, sounding impatient now. "Talk to me." And then he was there, in front of him, kneeling easily in the grass like it wouldn't stain the knees of his suit, or - or anything, even though it would, and considering how much it had probably cost, Luciano thought he should probably care.
"Just leave me alone," Luciano muttered. "We can talk later." Maybe later he wouldn't be feeling like this, so stupidly fragile and emotional, like there was some kind of bruise in his chest instead of his heart. Unlikely, really, but you never knew. It could happen. He bit his lip so he wouldn't sniffle.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Martín said. "That will just give one of us time to do something stupid. Why'd you run away? I didn't even say anything. Was I supposed to say something? Well, if I was, I didn't know, so you can't punish me for it, all right?"
Luciano didn't know what to say. Martín's expression was confusing, not angry, not even disappointed. A bit frustrated, but then, it was Martín. And it was mostly something else, something Luciano had no idea how to read, and -
Martín sighed loudly and reached out to turn Luciano's face toward him, and Luciano couldn't help it, he twitched his head back, away from Martín's hand, looked away from his face. He could feel himself breathing heavily and tried to make himself stop. Well, not stop breathing, obviously, but -
Martín's hand settled against his face all the same, against his hair, and he stroked it backward off Luciano's forehead, running his fingers through it almost like he was combing it back. "So you don't feel like talking to me, I guess," he said.
"I told you," Luciano said, and at least his voice sounded a little stronger. Right? He was almost sure it did. "We can talk later."
"No, I don't think so," Martín said. "I think we'd better talk now."
"Fine, Martín, then talk. What do you want to say?"
And he had always thought Martín should have talked to him, back then, the first time he had left him, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Maybe finding out like that, from jokes and looks and smiles had been better. This would hurt more.
Martín was still touching his hair.
"Look, I - come on, you need to say something. I think I… I think I know what you’re thinking, but what if I don’t, we’ll fight again and I don’t want that. I’m trying to be nice, remember?"
The words were all wrong, and he spoke as if afraid Luciano would run away again, and that was wrong too, it wasn’t like he was always doing that and he wasn’t a scared child anymore - even if he could recognize the feeling and all, except it was worse because it was with him, but he wasn’t, and -
"I know. You told me. You could leave me alone."
"I don’t think you want that."
"And what do you know about what I want?"
This was familiar territory. Normal. Almost comfortable. And, of course, Martín ruined it.
"Why did you run? What did I do?"
Luciano didn’t answer. He looked away, at the wooden cross no one had bothered to paint. He should have done that. He had time, so why hadn’t he?
"I’m sorry."
"What for?"
"Just - sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here."
"No, I wanted to come and -"
"And kissing you like that, all the times I did it, and -"
"Come on, I like when you -"
"Shut up, I’m talking, you said you wanted to listen, didn’t you, so shut up and let me talk!"
His eyes were wet again, and his voice sounded weird and loud, and he could tell Martín wanted to say - something, complain, probably, and he didn’t want to listen now, so he kept going.
"This is all my fault, I should have - let you go, back then. When we captured you. But I couldn’t, I hated you so much and I wanted to get revenge and I deserved to have it, I thought, but then you didn’t learn a thing and now you’re doing this, and - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. And kissed you like that. And then I just wanted to make you see and make you apologize and you were so - mine, there, and I didn’t want to let you go. I’m sorry."
That wasn’t what he wanted to say. At all. But now he couldn’t remember what it was, just that it wasn’t that, and Martín was still running his fingers through his hair, he was even sitting closer, and - what did he want, why wasn’t he leaving?
"Well…" he said, slowly, and looking at Luciano’s face, like he wanted to check if he could speak now, "I was your prisoner."
"I didn’t want to hit you. I didn't want to scare you - and I know I did, even if you don't want to admit it, I didn't enjoy it, but I just couldn't stop. And then I left you there, and it was raining and I couldn’t sleep and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that."
"That was... unnecessary, yes," Martín said. He frowned, and added, "But I survived, and it could have been a lot worse, and -"
"That’s not the point, see, the point is, I should have made you see, and pay for what you had done to me and we'd be even, then you’d go away and I would feel happy, I would forget all that and it would be perfect, but you got it all wrong and you made that stupid promise and I couldn’t stop thinking about you, these two years, and now you’re here and - we don’t need that, all that all over again, so - we should talk later, I’m not making any sense!"
He rubbed his eyes, and then he thought it was pointless, Martín was too close and he would see how red they were so why did it matter. He really should have painted that cross. And he shouldn’t have kissed him, never. Why had he? He should have gone back to his own room, to think and dream and hope and pine, and maybe write to her. Then he would have finished his education, would have lived a whole different life and wouldn't be here making a fool of himself now.
He tried again.
"I’m sorry. I'm really tired. Maybe tomorrow -"
"Two years, Luciano. That’s almost eight hundred days." Martín shifted his position, sitting by his side. His eyes were so soft, like - like he had nothing to do with this, like he had never rejected him in the first place. "I had time to think, you know? About all that, and then… what do you want me to say? I want to be with you. And I didn’t enjoy that, but I knew… even when it rained, right, I knew you would be… paying attention. To me, I mean. Look, I told you - it was meant to happen! We just find each other, always. And I had time to think, so there’s nothing you can say to make me change my mind."
There never was, Luciano thought. He looked at the cross again.
"He didn’t write to me, when she died. Or ever. I sent him a few letters, just to let him know how I was doing, but then I stopped because it was stupid. So I heard from Lord Kirkland, my father sent him letters sometimes and he thought I should know, so he told me."
"You should have told me."
"How? When I came back, I never asked how she had died. But people wanted to tell me, so I had to listen, after a while, or it would look too weird, it would make me look like a… a really bad person, and it turned out there had been some sort of fever outbreak and I was so, so relieved, Martín, you can’t even imagine. How was why supposed to tell you? Hey, mom died, which is good, because she wasn’t happy anyway, I’m just wondering if my father killed her? And then we could have discussed it in class, right?"
He rubbed his eyes. But the tears were there and he couldn’t do anything about it, and his voice sounded so not like his voice, that he had to stop and breathe and think, because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say anyway.
"So what’s your plan, Martín? What will you tell your parents? How will you explain this to them? What will you say when they ask about my family? About me? She thought I was never coming back, when I went to Paris, she thought he had given me to Lord Kirkland because they were friends and he had to explain me that it wasn't that at all but then I thought, what difference does it make anyway? If I can't come back? Maybe I can tell them that, to your parents, I mean, if they ask us why I was there? When they invite me to dinner? You can do better than that, Martín, you -"
"Forget my parents, you want to know what I think, right?" Martín held his face with both hands, and Luciano tried to turn away, but this time he couldn’t and Martín was so close, his green eyes burning and intense like they had been back in the carriage and at that party so Luciano knew what he was going to say, and it made his eyes fill up again.
"I’m sorry, I really am," Martín said, "I wish I could do something, and if I could… fix that and make you happy, I would, but - I love you. I really love you."
And then he pulled Luciano and that wasn’t even comfortable, the way he held him, pulling his head to his shoulder and holding him tight, with both arms around him and his hand on Luciano’s hair and now he couldn’t stop crying. No matter how hard he tried. He didn’t know why, he hadn’t cried that day when he left Paris, when Lord Kirkland told him he would send him back, and when she wasn’t here and when everyone just smiled and acted like it hadn’t been surprising at all, him having to come back, and when he let Martín go knowing he wouldn’t see him again, and when the war ended and his father was dead and in all the proper moments to cry, he never had, so why couldn’t he stop now, when there was nothing happening?
"Why? Why do you keep saying that?"
That was it, he wouldn’t say anything anymore, his voice sounded stupid and broken and fragile and it was all Martín’s fault, for being here, for making him say this, for - for tricking him into coming here, he had, and for being here, why was he here? Why was he still here?
"Because I do. I told you.” He kissed his hair, then pressed his face against it, "I love you. Please believe me. Please.”
Luciano didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could speak anyway, and his voice would sound pathetic, so he just buried his face on Martín’s shoulder and tried to hug him back, but then he just grabbed his shirt and held it tight between his fingers and it felt so good to be here, and not to be alone, and he didn’t feel bad, and dirty, for talking about her, the words still burned and he felt sick and every sob racked his body and it felt a little like he wanted to throw up, but Martín just held him tight and kissed his hair and didn’t say anything else for what felt like a long time, even though Luciano had no idea how long it had really been. And he stroked his hair and kissed it, again, and again, and held him without saying anything.
When Luciano finally couldn't cry anymore, Martín still didn't let go of him, even though he had to be uncomfortable by now, and after another... what felt like a long time, Martín dug a handkerchief out of somewhere, which was kind of amazing, but then, he was like that, always fashionable and everything, and wiped Luciano's face with it, then gave it to him, and kissed his forehead. "Can you try to believe me?" he asked, earnestly, looking into Luciano's face, and his eyes were so sincere, and he didn't look away, even though Luciano was busy wiping his eyes and blowing his nose.
"You know," Luciano said, after he felt like he could talk again, "you know I want to believe you, right? I mean. It's probably obvious by now.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair."I feel like such an idiot," he said.
"Ha," Martín said, but there was nothing mean about it, and then he reached forward and caught some of the tears left by Luciano's eye on his thumb and smoothed them away. "You shouldn't," he said. "Really."
"I am an idiot," Luciano muttered, and looked away.
"No!" Martín said, and his voice was loud, almost angry, and it cracked in the air. "No, you're not. You can't say that, all right? Not only would I not be in love with an idiot, but - but - look at me." And he turned Luciano's face back toward him, and ran his fingers back into his hair, and looked into his eyes again. "You were born with nothing," he said, "really nothing, and you ended up meeting me in Paris, and becoming a privateer, and now... running this place. It's crazy, Luciano." His cheeks went pink. "And I respect you for it," he said, and then he bit his lip again.
Luciano stared at him. "You - you can't," he said. "You just... can't. That's - I'm -"
"I couldn't love someone I didn't respect," Martín said, and his chin tilted up, and Luciano thought, that makes sense. And then he thought that maybe that was why it was so hard to believe that Martín loved him. Because how could he respect him - after - and maybe that had been the point of tying him to the mast, or part of it, and - well -
"And you love me," Luciano said.
"I've been saying it," Martín replied, and he sounded impatient and a bit frustrated, and that was Martín all right. "So? What now? What happens now?"
Amazingly good question, Luciano thought.
"I don't know," he said again, and his voice broke, and he felt pathetic, so he looked away, and blew his breath out. "This is all so... not what how I thought it would be. You - why do you keep doing that to my plans?"
“So can I stay? With you?”
This time he sounded unsure, and it made Luciano startle. And it was the second time today he did that, that he demanded a decision and Luciano had no idea what he wanted to decide, or what he was feeling now, but it was so good to have him here and so painful because it could still be some twisted sick revenge for everything, doing this to him, and maybe this wasn't even about Martín anymore. He had no idea.
“I want you, I can't- just like you said, you know that, so you were right, I was wrong, I can’t- I don’t know, it's- if something like that happens again, I don't think I could- after all that-”
"After what happened in Paris," Martín said, with a sigh, and Luciano nodded. He expected Martín to say something impatient like, I already apologized and you got your revenge for that so why can't you just let it go, but Martín didn't say anything else, just sat there, one hand against Luciano's cheek. So Luciano started talking, because he felt like someone should be, like there couldn't just be silence, hanging and growing in the air between them, and the words were just spilling out of his mouth.
"I just... you know, it was so strange, to think that you might want to spend time with me in the first place, but you kept doing it, and I thought, huh, maybe he doesn't hate me, and then there was the opera, and you invited me, and I just... I guess I didn't think, I liked you, and - I was so happy, you don't know, you can't know, what it was like, and I was just so... and then it was over, all of it, and... and I had to come back here, and no one was surprised, no one, because of course I'd have failed, because that's what I was, so -"
"Shh," Martín said, and when Luciano kept talking he said, "No, really, Luciano, be quiet. Quiet." And he put his fingers over his mouth, and then when Luciano did stop talking, he opened his own mouth, then closed it. He looked pained, and he looked away, and blinked quickly, several times, and then he looked back at him and leaned forward to kiss him, very softly, and pulled away again, before Luciano could move or make a sound or anything. "I'm sorry," he said. "I... I don't know, if I understand, really. But if you can't... can't trust me, anymore, I guess that's... that's what it is, and I don't really have anyone else to blame. Do I. Because I could have just let you kiss me, or kissed you back, or been a little bit... braver, I guess, and I didn't have to hurt you like that. So even though you did something kind of awful to me, too, I... I guess I understand. Okay. I can... go back to Buenos Aires. But if you ever want to... to come visit, or anything... well, you could. I mean. And I would introduce you to my parents, and everything. Really. I would."
He probably would, too, Luciano thought with a strange sense of distance, Martín was insane like that. He felt like he was falling. Like he'd fallen from a long way away and suddenly everything was changing and - he didn't know, his words and the way he said them, like Martín was finally seeing it through his eyes, and... and then Martín's eyes sparked, and he said, "And you know what? I can't believe the way they treated you, here, and your mother, and there's just something wrong with that. And I'm glad I never met these people, because I would have done something politically unwise, all right? But I want to, and... just... who convinced you that you weren't any good, Luciano? Because I have my pistol with me. I could always just kill them."
“You mean that,” Luciano said. “You really do.”
He was feeling numb. And he was trying to breathe, it was important, and he thought he remembered how, or he would, fairly soon. But he couldn't figure out how to do it and talk at the same time, and he had to say something. Right now. Martín was looking at him, his face open and earnest and angry and eager and beautiful.
“Just one more chance,” Martín whispered. “This is the last time I'll- bother you. But give me one more chance. We'll make this work. I promise.”
Luciano’s eyes filled with tears. Martín kept his promises, he knew that, he could remember him saying it maybe in another life, a long time ago. That he always kept them and that was why he avoided making them, and back then it had been funny but now it made sense, didn't it, he had proved it, hadn't he, and Luciano didn't want him to go. That was the bottom line, he didn't want him to leave. Not if Martín could listen to all that and still say what he had said. Not if Luciano could have him.
So he reached up, closed his hand in Martín's hair -soft and thick beneath his hands just like always - and kissed him, hard, on the lips, and Luciano might have leaned his whole weight into it, because Martín fell over backwards and Luciano ended up on top of him, and then Martín's arms were around him, and he was kissing him back.
Luciano wasn't certain how long it lasted, just that he only pulled away when he had to, and then he kissed the side of his mouth and his cheek, and he realized it was wet. He looked at him in surprise. Martín’s eyes were open, but his lashes were sparkling, thick and wet. "Was that... a goodbye sort of kiss?" he asked, almost, not quite but almost, hesitantly.
"God. You're such an idiot," Luciano said. His voice was trembling. "You're too stupid and crazy to live." He touched his cheek, then pressed his lips against his skin, "So I guess I'll just have to take care of you."
Martín’s breath hitched, and his arms tightened around him. “You got that backwards,” he whispered again, and then he turned, and kissed Luciano lightly, curling his other hand around the back of his neck. Because they couldn’t stop doing it - no matter what, no matter where they were. Luciano knew that. So he kissed him back, and Martín sighed, making a sound in the back of his throat, and shifted his mouth slightly on Luciano's, leaning into it, and maybe this was it, Luciano thought. Maybe it could work.
Maybe this would really be enough.
tbc
Authors: berseker and sakuratsukikage , not in this order.
Rating: PG-15
Pairings: Brazil/Argentina
Summary: The boys go the plantation, and Luciano needs to make a decision.
Ok, so, this chapter is longer than the others, and this is all Zu's fault, because the only reasonable point to cut it would creat a cliffhanger and she didn't let me do it. So, yeah. Also, thanks to her for betareading it <3
Part 5: "Hmm," Luciano said. He still felt oddly dreamlike, as if this wasn't really happening. It was warm, and Martín was warm, where his head rested on his thighs. "Well, maybe," he said. He sat up, and he wasn't sure if he'd heard Martín sigh when he pulled his hand away from his hair, or not. Luciano yawned, and rolled one shoulder, then the other, then leaned over Martín to look out the window.
It was the afternoon, by now. And he recognized the familiar sights of the countryside rolling by. That meant he had been sleeping on him for hours. Just - how-? It didn't seem like something that could really have happened.
That was it. He was going insane. Prolonged exposure to Martín was making him crazy. Obviously.
He sat back in his seat and looked at him. Martín looked happy, the idiot, and now the events of the previous... conversation, or whatever that had been, were coming back to Luciano and he wanted to hide somewhere and die. What had he been thinking, doing all that, saying all that, and then Martín had confronted him, Luciano remembered it, and- so maybe that was why he looked pleased. Because Luciano had been unable to send him away - and why the hell had that happened, he should have told him to go. He should. That was the whole point.
But he couldn't seem to look away. It was painful, the way his lips curled up in that almost sort of smile, and the softness in his eyes, and how he was completely unaware of what Luciano was thinking, and Luciano wasn’t sure himself. He didn’t want to ruin that. And part of him did, part of him wanted to make Martín just as unhappy as he was. And it wasn’t fair, not after all that had happened. And after sleeping on his lap for the better part of the day.
After a moment Martín started to smile, and his cheeks turned a little pink. "Like what you see?" he asked.
… or he could just go with this, and flirt with him. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to. "I wouldn't go that far," he said. "But you know... well, you shouldn't have to ask me."
Martín shook his head. "I'm asking anyway."
"You're being stupid," Luciano said, feeling his face warm. He looked away.
"I don't think so," Martín said.
"You wouldn't," Luciano muttered.
Martín sighed, but apparently decided to let it go, because the next thing he said was totally different. "So, tell me about your family. We're going to your family's hacienda, right? Where you grew up?"
Luciano’s heart thumped painfully in his chest, and this was so wrong, even the way he said the Spanish word was endearing.
"Fazenda," Luciano said anyway.
"Yes, okay. But you grew up there, right?"
So, how to answer that? He had grown up there, of course. That wasn't the complicated part. He remembered sleeping alongside his mother when he was little, helping her with her chores in the house as much as he could - remembered climbing the old tree that looked over the kitchen garden whenever he'd had a fight, so she wouldn't find out, but she'd always figured it out anyway, and he remembered the way his father had smelled, which he thought was weird, but he'd never really looked at him in the eyes until he was older and they'd started talking about sending him off to places like Rio, then Paris, but... that wasn't the point, really. "Yes," he said.
"So, your parents -"
"They're dead."
"Oh," Martín said. There was a moment of silence, and he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said. "You never said anything."
The way Martín said that, as if there was no context, no reason whatsoever for him to avoid mention this subject, nothing there at all. Right. What was he trying to do now?
"My father died during the war."
"Oh," Martín said. "I'm very sorry. I mean, not that I had anything to do with it, but I suppose as an Argentinean I should-"
… that wasn't one of the reasons to avoid mentioning it. Luciano stared at him. "Uh, okay," he said. "Don't be weird about it. I mean, it's not like we didn't fight, too."
"Right. Of course. Yes. I didn't- so it was in the war, then."
"Oh, yes," Luciano said. This time he could muster a wry smile. It had been a good death, considering. He remembered listening to his grand speeches about the glory of a nation that wasn't even a whole decade old yet, and wondering if he was the only one who just couldn't see. "He was very patriotic. He thought beating you people was a matter of pride."
"Well, there's nothing wrong with that," Martín said, sounding a bit surprised. "It was."
Of course Martín would agree, he thought, shaking his head to himself. And he didn’t say anything about the ‘beating you’ part, which meant he was thinking about something else and he was going to do the stupid thing and ask, wasn’t he, he was going to say it even after all-
“What about your mother?" Martín asked after a moment. And Luciano wasn't even surprised. Of course Martín was going to ask. He wouldn't be Martín Hernandez if he didn't.
"She died before that."
Martín waited. It was the kind of silence that should be filled, he was being... silent and caring, or trying to, and waiting for Luciano to say more, but - well what if he didn't want to, then what?
He should. So Martín would get it. That was why they were here. So what if even thinking about her made his eyes burn?
"Remember Arthur Kirkland? I mean, of course you do, I - he and my father were friends. He used to come here, sometimes."
"That's... nice," Martín said. He had tensed slightly at the reference, probably thinking Luciano would talk about - other things now, but then he relaxed again, and said, "That man was a bastard. But nice."
"You were in awe of him just like everyone else. The point is, he talked to me a few times, I mean, I was a child, of course, so it wasn't much of a conversation. But I guess I impressed him anyway, and he was the one who came up with the idea. That I should get an education. My father didn't like it, he thought it would be a waste of everyone's time, and that I would be more useful here, but in the end he let me go. Of course, that didn't last much -"
"Did she approve?"
"I'm pretty sure no one asked her."
Martín looked at him. Luciano knew he was feeling defensive, and that was why he was sounding like that, and he didn't want to but now he couldn't help it. It was the same awful feeling of being caught in a trap, that made him leave his class that very first day and hit Martín on the ship and do all the bad decisions he had ever made.
"Come on, Martín, don't be stupid. She had no say in this, and anyway you won't meet her, so let's talk about something else."
"Did she look like you?"
Luciano glared at him.
"Yes, a little, why?"
"I'm just asking! I told you, I want to know more about you, but fine, if you don't want to talk about her, we won't talk about her. Just tell me what you think I should know."
"Why should I? You never told me about your family."
"You never asked, and anyway we're at your house," Martín said, "but fine. My parents live in Buenos Aires. My grandparents are in Spain, but I haven't seen them for ages now. They didn't support the Revolution, so I didn't visit them even when I was there. I can introduce you to them, if you want to. My parents, I mean. Not my grandparents. What else do you want to know?"
"Introduce me to them? That I'd like to see."
Martín didn't fall for it:
"Then you will. Now, you. Tell me about you. So, is this place yours?"
"Why? Do you want to know how much money I have?"
"... you know, I think you should go back to sleep. I'm just asking."
"You don't know what you're saying, that's the problem. And yes, it's mine, can we talk about something else?"
Martín pressed his lips into a tight line, probably to prevent himself for saying something nasty. Luciano was kind of impressed, because he had thought Martín would point out that he was richer than him. Probably. It was the kind of annoying thing he would do, not that it mattered, because class and aristocracy and that... strange ineffable thing that made some people better than the others, Martín had been born. Owning land didn’t mean anything. And all this was making him nervous, now he wanted to do... something, like- hold something, or- he wasn't sure what, just- anything to distract him from the acid tension filling up his stomach. Maybe leave the carriage, so he could think, and decide if he wanted to talk or not.
"And anyway I'm terrible at managing it," he said.
"I see," Martín said, frowning. Luciano frowned too, because what the hell.
"It's his fault, anyway. I wasn't supposed to inherit anything, but there was no one else. Not that I'm complaining, of course. I'm just saying."
Maybe if Martín asked now, he would be able to say it. He could ask why he shouldn't have inherited. Then he would say it. He would open his mouth and say, if Lord Kirkland hadn't done what he did, I would probably be working in the fields, because all those stories that they used to say? All true. All those reasons why you should have never talked to me. That was my life before you, my destiny before I was set apart by sheer blind dumb luck, but he did, and then I went there and met you so your destiny is just as dumb as mine, right? But Martín didn't ask anything, and it could be because of his voice and how tense he was sounding, and now he wished he hadn't brought him, because he didn't want to say that. At all. He could have waited, talked to him in Rio, to get him used to the whole thing, and... he could have.... maybe done something different, and-
"So," Martín said, a little too carefully, "Then I assume you are in charge of the - business here."
"Yes."
He should stop this. He knew he was sending all sorts of crazy mixed signs and Martín was trying to get it right, so he should stop and be a man about all this, and now Martín was pressing his lips again, almost pouting, and probably thinking about how unfair Luciano was because he was just asking, and Luciano tried not to feel guilty over it. He was too sick already, and it was getting hard to talk, to keep his voice steady. He tried to force a smile. He used to be good at it.
"We'll have the house to ourselves," he said, "Maybe you'll like it. Then - I'll show you places. Where I used to go, when I was a child. How about that?"
"I'd like that," Martín said. He smiled too, accepting his non-spoken apology, but it looked hollow. And it made Luciano feel even worse, like he was misleading him, so he had to do something. He would. Really.
The carriage stopped. So, no turning back now.
"We're here. They probably have the lunch ready - should have, anyway, I said I would come, so you'll have the chance to taste our food -"
"Luciano -"
"And then we'll take a walk. How about that?"
He was such a coward. Honestly. He sounded nervous. He knew he did.
"Yes," Martín said, "And then you'll stop this, right? So we can have a normal conversation? Deal?"
Look who's talking, Luciano thought, but now his stomach felt like it was being twisted and this was all so pointless, and such a terrible idea, and he didn't even want to come here himself, why had he decided to bring him along, what the hell had he been thinking. "You won't like it. Maybe it'll be better if I didn't," he swallowed, "I know it would be better, so -"
“We don't know much about each other, have you noticed that? About our lives, I mean," Martín said, and he sounded so sure of himself, so rational, "And I want to know."
Oh God. Luciano almost choked. "I'll... I have to tell everyone we're here," he gasped, "and... and show you your room, and everything."
He got out of the carriage, and then he had a moment when he couldn't decide if he should try to help Martín, but then Martín got out too and he was glad he hadn't done it, it wasn't like Martín was a lady or anything. His hands were cold now, he had to fight against the will to twist them. Come on, he could at least act calm, couldn't he?
Yeah right.
He stared at the house, trying to guess what Martín would say.
It was... there. He had never thought of it in terms of beautiful or ugly, it was just the big house and it had always been there. The white walls, the big windows with the blue windowpane. The porch that used to look so beautiful, and then not so much when Luciano came back, after Paris. The stepping stones leading to the door.
Maybe Martín would like it.
Well, who cared? He started for the house, not bothering to see if Martín was following him, even if he obviously was because he was a stubborn idiot. And at least Luciano managed to push that thought away, for a while, in a flurry of things to do, eating lunch and, as usual, there was way too much food - he felt a surge of irrational pride of that - and then he had to talk to the estate managers and everyone who really knew what was going on here, not like the accountants and clerks in Rio, and getting everything ready.
Martín was charming, the whole time. He refused to be sent away, and if Luciano tried to tell him it was important business he'd just smile and wander over to look at the house or something while he talked and show up again as soon as he finished. And it wasn't fair, Luciano wanted him to be rude, or arrogant, but he wasn't, he was... he was really charming, and it was obvious he knew how to handle this kind of thing, which wasn't fair either, because Luciano had had to teach himself, how to deal with the business and how it was supposed to work, and he'd learned really quickly, he knew he had, but he'd still had to learn in the first place.
And eventually Luciano ran out of things to do, and people to talk to, and Martín smiled at him and said, "I thought you were going to show me places, places you went when you were a child."
Right.
Right, he could do this. Luciano had to swallow very hard, and his palms started to sweat again. "I am," he said.
He led him outside, and then he stopped. Right. Now what.
"I bet you were cute as a child," Martín said, still smiling. They were alone, right then, in a corner of the grounds behind the main house. "I bet you smiled all the time."
"I was dirty as a child," Luciano said. "And I bet you were a brat."
It was beautiful, here. And sunny, and bright and so colorful and all the things he had loved in his life and missed when he was away, the sun on his skin and the, the beauty of everything, that was making him feel like crying even if that was stupid too, and he had to say something, or go away, not for long, just five minutes, it was all he needed to pull himself together and then he would be able to pay attention to what Martín was saying.
"Most children are," he said. "I was very well-behaved."
"Uh-huh," Luciano said. "Well, I wasn't. But you know, if I hadn't done what I was supposed to, I would have been punished."
"Aren't most children?" Martín said. "I was, too, you know, hard to believe as it is." His smile invited Luciano to smile too.
He didn't. "It was a different kind of punishment."
Martín looked confused. "What do you mean?" he said. And that was a great question, amazing, even, the most perfect question he could have made, and Luciano wasn't sure if he was blushing furiously, or if the heat he was feeling was just anger or shame. Emotion, there was too much of it, he couldn't figure out what it was, and he was feeling sick again. "Well, they didn't flog the kids, not like they do the adults," he said. "They'd usually beat us, though. And..." his voice strangled, and dried up, and he couldn't say, through a throat that was suddenly very dry, that he wouldn't have done anything to get his mother in that kind of trouble, because... because. "You see, Martín," he said, "If Lord Kirkland hadn't seen me, and decided whatever he did, I'd probably be working in the fields, right now. But I guess that would have solved our problems, because then we'd never have met."
And God why had he thought he would be able to say anything? He had barely started and he couldn't look at him, couldn't look at his eyes and see... see what he knew would be there, disappointment and... resignation, and maybe disgust, too, who really knew. But he wasn't going to stand in front of Martín with his eyes on the ground and wait for him to speak, like Martín was his father, or something, so he turned around and left, not running, but quickly all the same. And Martín called something - he thought it was his name, but he could barely hear anything over the roaring emotions in his ears - but he ignored it, and when he was around the corner of the house he started to run.
He wasn't quite sure where he was running to, and he didn't have to, this was all his, he could go anywhere he pleased and he could leave and never come back if he wanted to. And if he wanted to go to her - even if he didn't, if he wasn't quite thinking about it, he was just moving because he couldn't stop now - he didn't owe any explanation to anyone and he didn't have to think. If he didn't want to. So he kept going until he reached the slaves' graveyard, and then he finally sank down onto the grass, his breath coming heavily. He could feel sweat staining his shirt, clinging to his skin, his face, dampening his hair. And for a long time after that he stared straight ahead, not looking at anything, and trying not to think about anything. He failed miserably. He'd run away from Martín - he could lie to himself all he wanted to, tell himself that he hadn't run until after he'd left, or - but the point was, he hadn't been able to face him.
He wondered if he would ever see him again, or if he would turn right around and leave on the same carriage he'd come in. Or maybe he'd try to be nice, let Luciano down gently, though that didn't really sound much like Martín, but who knew what he would do, and - or -
Luciano looked at his mother's grave. A wooden cross like many others, and nothing else. Maybe she had been calling him. Maybe that was why he had decided to come all of a sudden? And not because he was completely insane?
A sob jumped into his throat at the same time, but he closed his mouth on it, forced it down. No, of course he'd come here. He'd wanted to get away, he'd wanted to be safe, and it was as close as he could get, and now that felt so obvious. He thought, disjointedly, unhappily, that he hadn't brought any flowers or anything, and that wasn't very fair of him, that he should be a better son. He stared at the grave for a moment, thinking blank, circular thoughts along the same lines. There was weed growing on it, he should at least do something about that. Because she was just as important as his father, right? And he loved her more. And he had a tombstone so she should have one too, with her name too, and angels and the whole thing. Not this. He pushed himself to his feet and walked closer, close enough that he could lean forward and press a kiss to the top of the cross. Because he'd never kissed her enough when she was alive.
"I'm going crazy, mama," he whispered. "You remember what I said about Martín, right? He says he's in love with me. Would that bother you? What would you think?" He looked away, down at the ground. "You - you'd probably say not to be foolish, right? Because. He'll change his mind and go back to Argentina, and I know..." He sighed, and sank down again. He wished she was really there, that he could hear her voice, that she would smile at him and put her arm around him and tell him... whatever she would tell him. To forget Martín, probably, not to spoil everything for himself, that he could marry a beautiful rich girl in Rio and it would be wonderful."I just think I'm in trouble, with him," he whispered even more softly. It didn't matter how loud he was, he thought, either she could hear him or she couldn't. "When he leaves I think I'll miss him. And I won't want him to go. Even though I think he will. I mean, I know he will. And I thought I wasn't this stupid, but... here I am, right?"
He could almost hear her, see her smile at him, and say, well, he is handsome? Luciano closed his eyes and sighed, then shook his head. "He's too handsome for his own good, Mama," he said. "But that's not the problem, I didn't get into this just because... I wouldn't just fall for a pretty face and a promise, right? So he's... more than that, but I can't really tell what, because he's insane. Well, he is Argentinean. And he has money, and... everything, and... you know what I mean. He's not like me at all." He propped his elbows on his knees and sank his hands into his own hair, and sighed. Back in Paris, Martín had thought Luciano's mother might have been a slave, maybe, and he'd done what he'd done because of that, because Luciano had never been good enough for him, because it was dangerous to be involved with him, for Martín. He hadn't ever said that - he wouldn't, Martín hated admitting when he'd been scared, but he'd thought it. Luciano wasn't good enough, his skin was the wrong color, everything about him was wrong. Martín knew that. And if he'd forgotten, he'd remember soon. That was the thing. Why would Luciano expect Martín not to change his mind? That would just be asking for it. He'd feel so, so stupid, when it happened. Like he'd known what was coming, and he'd asked for it, asked to be hurt all over again, let Martín take his heart and hurt him. Stupid. So he couldn't, he just couldn't. He wasn't going to stand around waiting to be hurt his whole life. He was smarter than that. Even if it didn't seem like it, sometimes.
Luciano crossed his arms over his knees and let his head rest on them. He felt stupid already. He was supposed to be showing Martín why they couldn't be together, here. He was supposed to be all right with the idea. It was his decision, after all. He'd already known it was never going to happen, so why was he feeling upset over it now? It wasn't his fault Martín had no idea... no idea what Luciano was really like, or was delusional, or whatever he was thinking. He shouldn't be upset about it. He'd already known. Right? So he was just being an idiot. Again. This was why he couldn't be around Martín. He always forgot, around him, and acted like an idiot all over again. This was why love was so overrated, it made everything so complicated, it made people stupid. What was he expecting? That he and Martín would live together happily for the rest of their lives?
It took a moment for him to realize that his eyes felt wet, and he squeezed them shut, furiously. He was being such an idiot. He rubbed his eyes against his knee, wiping the wetness away, until when he blinked them open again they were dry.
Luciano propped his chin on his arms where they were crossed over his knees again. He wondered what Martín was doing right now. Was he packing his things away again, and cursing Luciano for making him unpack and then pack all over again? It had to be inconvenient, right? Or maybe he was waiting for Luciano to come back, and they'd have to go through all this again, before he left. That sounded like Martín, anyway.
Maybe he wouldn't leave, part of Luciano's mind, that silly, stupid, eager needy hopeful part of him, suggested. Maybe he wouldn't -
He was being so pathetic. He'd told himself he wouldn't get into this. Wouldn't let himself get like this, over Martín of all people, too, and here he was. Luciano sighed and laid his head down, letting his eyes rest against his sleeve.
"Luciano!" The voice from behind him made him jump. Martín's voice. He sounded breathless, like maybe... maybe like he had run after him. "There you are."
What - what was he doing here? Had he come to ask more questions, or - or to tell Luciano that sure enough, he'd - he'd come to his senses after all, and realized that Luciano was beneath him, and it was just a good thing he'd realized now, and Luciano could say that he could have told him that, all along, hadn't he been saying that? And he'd probably point it out a little more, in that blunt, honest way he had like he couldn't even see how much it hurt, and that would be it, he'd never see him again -"I told you," he muttered.
"Why'd you do run away like that, anyway?" Martín asked. His voice still sounded a bit breathless. "For a few seconds there I thought I'd have to wait until you came back for supper."
Luciano didn't say anything. He wasn't certain what he could say.
"Come on, Luciano," Martín said, sounding impatient now. "Talk to me." And then he was there, in front of him, kneeling easily in the grass like it wouldn't stain the knees of his suit, or - or anything, even though it would, and considering how much it had probably cost, Luciano thought he should probably care.
"Just leave me alone," Luciano muttered. "We can talk later." Maybe later he wouldn't be feeling like this, so stupidly fragile and emotional, like there was some kind of bruise in his chest instead of his heart. Unlikely, really, but you never knew. It could happen. He bit his lip so he wouldn't sniffle.
"I don't think that's a good idea," Martín said. "That will just give one of us time to do something stupid. Why'd you run away? I didn't even say anything. Was I supposed to say something? Well, if I was, I didn't know, so you can't punish me for it, all right?"
Luciano didn't know what to say. Martín's expression was confusing, not angry, not even disappointed. A bit frustrated, but then, it was Martín. And it was mostly something else, something Luciano had no idea how to read, and -
Martín sighed loudly and reached out to turn Luciano's face toward him, and Luciano couldn't help it, he twitched his head back, away from Martín's hand, looked away from his face. He could feel himself breathing heavily and tried to make himself stop. Well, not stop breathing, obviously, but -
Martín's hand settled against his face all the same, against his hair, and he stroked it backward off Luciano's forehead, running his fingers through it almost like he was combing it back. "So you don't feel like talking to me, I guess," he said.
"I told you," Luciano said, and at least his voice sounded a little stronger. Right? He was almost sure it did. "We can talk later."
"No, I don't think so," Martín said. "I think we'd better talk now."
"Fine, Martín, then talk. What do you want to say?"
And he had always thought Martín should have talked to him, back then, the first time he had left him, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. Maybe finding out like that, from jokes and looks and smiles had been better. This would hurt more.
Martín was still touching his hair.
"Look, I - come on, you need to say something. I think I… I think I know what you’re thinking, but what if I don’t, we’ll fight again and I don’t want that. I’m trying to be nice, remember?"
The words were all wrong, and he spoke as if afraid Luciano would run away again, and that was wrong too, it wasn’t like he was always doing that and he wasn’t a scared child anymore - even if he could recognize the feeling and all, except it was worse because it was with him, but he wasn’t, and -
"I know. You told me. You could leave me alone."
"I don’t think you want that."
"And what do you know about what I want?"
This was familiar territory. Normal. Almost comfortable. And, of course, Martín ruined it.
"Why did you run? What did I do?"
Luciano didn’t answer. He looked away, at the wooden cross no one had bothered to paint. He should have done that. He had time, so why hadn’t he?
"I’m sorry."
"What for?"
"Just - sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you here."
"No, I wanted to come and -"
"And kissing you like that, all the times I did it, and -"
"Come on, I like when you -"
"Shut up, I’m talking, you said you wanted to listen, didn’t you, so shut up and let me talk!"
His eyes were wet again, and his voice sounded weird and loud, and he could tell Martín wanted to say - something, complain, probably, and he didn’t want to listen now, so he kept going.
"This is all my fault, I should have - let you go, back then. When we captured you. But I couldn’t, I hated you so much and I wanted to get revenge and I deserved to have it, I thought, but then you didn’t learn a thing and now you’re doing this, and - I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. And kissed you like that. And then I just wanted to make you see and make you apologize and you were so - mine, there, and I didn’t want to let you go. I’m sorry."
That wasn’t what he wanted to say. At all. But now he couldn’t remember what it was, just that it wasn’t that, and Martín was still running his fingers through his hair, he was even sitting closer, and - what did he want, why wasn’t he leaving?
"Well…" he said, slowly, and looking at Luciano’s face, like he wanted to check if he could speak now, "I was your prisoner."
"I didn’t want to hit you. I didn't want to scare you - and I know I did, even if you don't want to admit it, I didn't enjoy it, but I just couldn't stop. And then I left you there, and it was raining and I couldn’t sleep and I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that."
"That was... unnecessary, yes," Martín said. He frowned, and added, "But I survived, and it could have been a lot worse, and -"
"That’s not the point, see, the point is, I should have made you see, and pay for what you had done to me and we'd be even, then you’d go away and I would feel happy, I would forget all that and it would be perfect, but you got it all wrong and you made that stupid promise and I couldn’t stop thinking about you, these two years, and now you’re here and - we don’t need that, all that all over again, so - we should talk later, I’m not making any sense!"
He rubbed his eyes, and then he thought it was pointless, Martín was too close and he would see how red they were so why did it matter. He really should have painted that cross. And he shouldn’t have kissed him, never. Why had he? He should have gone back to his own room, to think and dream and hope and pine, and maybe write to her. Then he would have finished his education, would have lived a whole different life and wouldn't be here making a fool of himself now.
He tried again.
"I’m sorry. I'm really tired. Maybe tomorrow -"
"Two years, Luciano. That’s almost eight hundred days." Martín shifted his position, sitting by his side. His eyes were so soft, like - like he had nothing to do with this, like he had never rejected him in the first place. "I had time to think, you know? About all that, and then… what do you want me to say? I want to be with you. And I didn’t enjoy that, but I knew… even when it rained, right, I knew you would be… paying attention. To me, I mean. Look, I told you - it was meant to happen! We just find each other, always. And I had time to think, so there’s nothing you can say to make me change my mind."
There never was, Luciano thought. He looked at the cross again.
"He didn’t write to me, when she died. Or ever. I sent him a few letters, just to let him know how I was doing, but then I stopped because it was stupid. So I heard from Lord Kirkland, my father sent him letters sometimes and he thought I should know, so he told me."
"You should have told me."
"How? When I came back, I never asked how she had died. But people wanted to tell me, so I had to listen, after a while, or it would look too weird, it would make me look like a… a really bad person, and it turned out there had been some sort of fever outbreak and I was so, so relieved, Martín, you can’t even imagine. How was why supposed to tell you? Hey, mom died, which is good, because she wasn’t happy anyway, I’m just wondering if my father killed her? And then we could have discussed it in class, right?"
He rubbed his eyes. But the tears were there and he couldn’t do anything about it, and his voice sounded so not like his voice, that he had to stop and breathe and think, because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say anyway.
"So what’s your plan, Martín? What will you tell your parents? How will you explain this to them? What will you say when they ask about my family? About me? She thought I was never coming back, when I went to Paris, she thought he had given me to Lord Kirkland because they were friends and he had to explain me that it wasn't that at all but then I thought, what difference does it make anyway? If I can't come back? Maybe I can tell them that, to your parents, I mean, if they ask us why I was there? When they invite me to dinner? You can do better than that, Martín, you -"
"Forget my parents, you want to know what I think, right?" Martín held his face with both hands, and Luciano tried to turn away, but this time he couldn’t and Martín was so close, his green eyes burning and intense like they had been back in the carriage and at that party so Luciano knew what he was going to say, and it made his eyes fill up again.
"I’m sorry, I really am," Martín said, "I wish I could do something, and if I could… fix that and make you happy, I would, but - I love you. I really love you."
And then he pulled Luciano and that wasn’t even comfortable, the way he held him, pulling his head to his shoulder and holding him tight, with both arms around him and his hand on Luciano’s hair and now he couldn’t stop crying. No matter how hard he tried. He didn’t know why, he hadn’t cried that day when he left Paris, when Lord Kirkland told him he would send him back, and when she wasn’t here and when everyone just smiled and acted like it hadn’t been surprising at all, him having to come back, and when he let Martín go knowing he wouldn’t see him again, and when the war ended and his father was dead and in all the proper moments to cry, he never had, so why couldn’t he stop now, when there was nothing happening?
"Why? Why do you keep saying that?"
That was it, he wouldn’t say anything anymore, his voice sounded stupid and broken and fragile and it was all Martín’s fault, for being here, for making him say this, for - for tricking him into coming here, he had, and for being here, why was he here? Why was he still here?
"Because I do. I told you.” He kissed his hair, then pressed his face against it, "I love you. Please believe me. Please.”
Luciano didn’t answer. He didn’t think he could speak anyway, and his voice would sound pathetic, so he just buried his face on Martín’s shoulder and tried to hug him back, but then he just grabbed his shirt and held it tight between his fingers and it felt so good to be here, and not to be alone, and he didn’t feel bad, and dirty, for talking about her, the words still burned and he felt sick and every sob racked his body and it felt a little like he wanted to throw up, but Martín just held him tight and kissed his hair and didn’t say anything else for what felt like a long time, even though Luciano had no idea how long it had really been. And he stroked his hair and kissed it, again, and again, and held him without saying anything.
When Luciano finally couldn't cry anymore, Martín still didn't let go of him, even though he had to be uncomfortable by now, and after another... what felt like a long time, Martín dug a handkerchief out of somewhere, which was kind of amazing, but then, he was like that, always fashionable and everything, and wiped Luciano's face with it, then gave it to him, and kissed his forehead. "Can you try to believe me?" he asked, earnestly, looking into Luciano's face, and his eyes were so sincere, and he didn't look away, even though Luciano was busy wiping his eyes and blowing his nose.
"You know," Luciano said, after he felt like he could talk again, "you know I want to believe you, right? I mean. It's probably obvious by now.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair."I feel like such an idiot," he said.
"Ha," Martín said, but there was nothing mean about it, and then he reached forward and caught some of the tears left by Luciano's eye on his thumb and smoothed them away. "You shouldn't," he said. "Really."
"I am an idiot," Luciano muttered, and looked away.
"No!" Martín said, and his voice was loud, almost angry, and it cracked in the air. "No, you're not. You can't say that, all right? Not only would I not be in love with an idiot, but - but - look at me." And he turned Luciano's face back toward him, and ran his fingers back into his hair, and looked into his eyes again. "You were born with nothing," he said, "really nothing, and you ended up meeting me in Paris, and becoming a privateer, and now... running this place. It's crazy, Luciano." His cheeks went pink. "And I respect you for it," he said, and then he bit his lip again.
Luciano stared at him. "You - you can't," he said. "You just... can't. That's - I'm -"
"I couldn't love someone I didn't respect," Martín said, and his chin tilted up, and Luciano thought, that makes sense. And then he thought that maybe that was why it was so hard to believe that Martín loved him. Because how could he respect him - after - and maybe that had been the point of tying him to the mast, or part of it, and - well -
"And you love me," Luciano said.
"I've been saying it," Martín replied, and he sounded impatient and a bit frustrated, and that was Martín all right. "So? What now? What happens now?"
Amazingly good question, Luciano thought.
"I don't know," he said again, and his voice broke, and he felt pathetic, so he looked away, and blew his breath out. "This is all so... not what how I thought it would be. You - why do you keep doing that to my plans?"
“So can I stay? With you?”
This time he sounded unsure, and it made Luciano startle. And it was the second time today he did that, that he demanded a decision and Luciano had no idea what he wanted to decide, or what he was feeling now, but it was so good to have him here and so painful because it could still be some twisted sick revenge for everything, doing this to him, and maybe this wasn't even about Martín anymore. He had no idea.
“I want you, I can't- just like you said, you know that, so you were right, I was wrong, I can’t- I don’t know, it's- if something like that happens again, I don't think I could- after all that-”
"After what happened in Paris," Martín said, with a sigh, and Luciano nodded. He expected Martín to say something impatient like, I already apologized and you got your revenge for that so why can't you just let it go, but Martín didn't say anything else, just sat there, one hand against Luciano's cheek. So Luciano started talking, because he felt like someone should be, like there couldn't just be silence, hanging and growing in the air between them, and the words were just spilling out of his mouth.
"I just... you know, it was so strange, to think that you might want to spend time with me in the first place, but you kept doing it, and I thought, huh, maybe he doesn't hate me, and then there was the opera, and you invited me, and I just... I guess I didn't think, I liked you, and - I was so happy, you don't know, you can't know, what it was like, and I was just so... and then it was over, all of it, and... and I had to come back here, and no one was surprised, no one, because of course I'd have failed, because that's what I was, so -"
"Shh," Martín said, and when Luciano kept talking he said, "No, really, Luciano, be quiet. Quiet." And he put his fingers over his mouth, and then when Luciano did stop talking, he opened his own mouth, then closed it. He looked pained, and he looked away, and blinked quickly, several times, and then he looked back at him and leaned forward to kiss him, very softly, and pulled away again, before Luciano could move or make a sound or anything. "I'm sorry," he said. "I... I don't know, if I understand, really. But if you can't... can't trust me, anymore, I guess that's... that's what it is, and I don't really have anyone else to blame. Do I. Because I could have just let you kiss me, or kissed you back, or been a little bit... braver, I guess, and I didn't have to hurt you like that. So even though you did something kind of awful to me, too, I... I guess I understand. Okay. I can... go back to Buenos Aires. But if you ever want to... to come visit, or anything... well, you could. I mean. And I would introduce you to my parents, and everything. Really. I would."
He probably would, too, Luciano thought with a strange sense of distance, Martín was insane like that. He felt like he was falling. Like he'd fallen from a long way away and suddenly everything was changing and - he didn't know, his words and the way he said them, like Martín was finally seeing it through his eyes, and... and then Martín's eyes sparked, and he said, "And you know what? I can't believe the way they treated you, here, and your mother, and there's just something wrong with that. And I'm glad I never met these people, because I would have done something politically unwise, all right? But I want to, and... just... who convinced you that you weren't any good, Luciano? Because I have my pistol with me. I could always just kill them."
“You mean that,” Luciano said. “You really do.”
He was feeling numb. And he was trying to breathe, it was important, and he thought he remembered how, or he would, fairly soon. But he couldn't figure out how to do it and talk at the same time, and he had to say something. Right now. Martín was looking at him, his face open and earnest and angry and eager and beautiful.
“Just one more chance,” Martín whispered. “This is the last time I'll- bother you. But give me one more chance. We'll make this work. I promise.”
Luciano’s eyes filled with tears. Martín kept his promises, he knew that, he could remember him saying it maybe in another life, a long time ago. That he always kept them and that was why he avoided making them, and back then it had been funny but now it made sense, didn't it, he had proved it, hadn't he, and Luciano didn't want him to go. That was the bottom line, he didn't want him to leave. Not if Martín could listen to all that and still say what he had said. Not if Luciano could have him.
So he reached up, closed his hand in Martín's hair -soft and thick beneath his hands just like always - and kissed him, hard, on the lips, and Luciano might have leaned his whole weight into it, because Martín fell over backwards and Luciano ended up on top of him, and then Martín's arms were around him, and he was kissing him back.
Luciano wasn't certain how long it lasted, just that he only pulled away when he had to, and then he kissed the side of his mouth and his cheek, and he realized it was wet. He looked at him in surprise. Martín’s eyes were open, but his lashes were sparkling, thick and wet. "Was that... a goodbye sort of kiss?" he asked, almost, not quite but almost, hesitantly.
"God. You're such an idiot," Luciano said. His voice was trembling. "You're too stupid and crazy to live." He touched his cheek, then pressed his lips against his skin, "So I guess I'll just have to take care of you."
Martín’s breath hitched, and his arms tightened around him. “You got that backwards,” he whispered again, and then he turned, and kissed Luciano lightly, curling his other hand around the back of his neck. Because they couldn’t stop doing it - no matter what, no matter where they were. Luciano knew that. So he kissed him back, and Martín sighed, making a sound in the back of his throat, and shifted his mouth slightly on Luciano's, leaning into it, and maybe this was it, Luciano thought. Maybe it could work.
Maybe this would really be enough.
tbc