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hetalia2010-09-24 10:40 pm
compos-dementis.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-09-24 10:40 pm
FIC: As I Lay Me Down to Sleep (1/?)
Title: As I Lay Me Down to Sleep
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Characters: Spain, N. Mexico, S. Mexico
Rated: M
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but Maria and Pablo are mine.
Overall summary: The story of S. Mexico's time spent with the Spanish Inquisition during the War of Mexican Independence.
Chapter summary: In which Pablo is welcomed into a small town close to the American border, and almost-but-not-quite gives into temptation.
Coahuila, Mexico. 1811.
The heaviness of the previous battle still weighed densely in his skeleton even as a new relief swelled in his chest at the thought of rest. Sleeping on stony riverbeds in makeshift tents wasn't Pablo's ideal vision of a perfect bed; and besides, the hotel just ahead would be a welcome sanctuary from the Spanish army in addition to the discomforts of war.
As he dismounted his horse, he thought briefly of his sister and wondered if she was okay by herself. She'd always been Spain's favorite of the two New Spanish children, probably for her pretty face and tendency to metaphorically lick Antonio's heels - well, at least he hoped it was only metaphorical. Though knowing Maria, she'd probably do it. She was certainly bold enough. And he knew she could handle herself if any Spaniard soldiers made an advance on her; her skills with that shovel of hers were shockingly numerous. She'd wielded it at intruders more than once in the past.
Yes, she'd be fine. That was the line repeated ad nauseum in his head - she'd be fine.
The hotel wasn't anything extravagant, just small and saloon-like, which is honestly what he'd expected from a hotel so close to the American border. Simple, just beds and an open bar and maybe a few roaches, but still the hotel of an independent country (which is what he would be too, soon, he and Maria both). It was beyond kind of America to offer this place to him and his men, so he wasn't about to complain, especially not since the hotels in New Spain were faring no better.
Pablo brushed past a few of the shaken older soldiers and approached the desk of the lobby with a nervous swallow. The man at the counter was white, with short honey hair and an American smile. No, not America - just a man. It made his heart ache to think about how long it had been since he'd seen the damned cowboy.
"Check your weapons, por favor," the man said in that hokey American Spanish. Pablo removed his two guns from their holsters and slid them across the counter. He wasn't stupid, though, and kept his knife on him, strapped firmly to his thigh, hidden beneath his shabby coat hem. "There's a room for you upstairs, gots a bed and a window. Figure you don't need much else. Breakfast'll be provided in the mornin', so get a good night's sleep - you'll need it."
The men all dispersed to their own rooms after a short time spent sucking down sour tequila; Pablo finished off his drink and took one of the complimentary sarsaparilla candies out of the glass bowl on the counter before ascending the stairs. It began to nearly melt in his mouth from how thirsty and dry his mouth was, and the sweet sugary flavor of it coated his teeth and his tongue. He thought again of his sister, no doubt still at home and angry with him for starting this war in the first place; he thought of America's glittering smile and freckled white skin and that knee-weakening glint in those eyes, as limitless and unexplored as a summer sky...
He thought of his step brothers in South America, Venezuela especially, and wondered if the other was thinking of Pablo too, even for as simple a reason as going on this suicide mission. And finally he thought of Antonio... the too-soft touches and crippling good looks and the sick childish desire in Pablo's own heart. Stupid, stupid - so stupid to ever long for anything Antonio bothered to throw his way.
Too heavy, so he let the thoughts go. No, he was determined to get through the night and get a good rest without harboring any fear of his Empire. He would win this war, with or without Maria's help - he had to. He stifled an exhausted yawn, stretched until he heard the audible pop of his shoulder, opened the door to his assigned room...
Froze. His heart shoved up into his throat - stopped dead in his tracks, felt the blood drain from his face - as he saw the figure on the bed, waiting for him, lying against soft pillows.
"Hola, mi nino. Que tal?," Antonio said cheerfully and Pablo felt the door slam shut against his back. A cold fear immediately began to trickle through his veins as his eyes unconsciously measured how much larger Antonio was than himself, how the window was bolted closed, the door behind him firmly shut.
Trapped.
"A-America promised you wouldn't be here," he choked out in the calmest voice he could manage to summon. "Por que estas aqui? This is supposed to be a refuge... America promised, you're not supposed to be here--"
"And stop me from seeing my son?" Antonio smiled as he leaned back against the headboard. "No, America was very understanding once I explained it to him. You are my boy, after all."
Pablo had never once heard his Empire say that aloud in the past, so was stunned for a moment before remembering to protest. "No," he insisted. "No, I'm... Maria and I, we're going to be our own country soon enough. I'm not your boy... I never have been, not to you."
He tried not to think too much about America, since nothing could be done about it now. But Antonio just sat up, well-dressed where Pablo looked ragged, confident where Pablo was over caffeinated and scared.
"Aren't you? With my eyes and my hair and my face..." Antonio trailed off thoughtfully and in the moment of silence, Pablo could hear only the deafening sound of his own heartbeat. Finally, Antonio chuckled softly to himself. "No, I suppose you're right. You're not my son." Pablo felt himself flush with shame at that, but Antonio continued on as if he didn't notice. He probably didn't. "In any case, I can come and go wherever I want in Mexico, si? No one tried to stop me. I didn't need to be let in; I can come and go as I please here."
Pablo opened his mouth to protest before Spain cut him off yet again. "Now, nino, vamos aqui."
It was an order. If Pablo was sure of anything right now, it's that he was being given an order, not a request. The tone said as much, even if the words didn't. And the order hit him with the force of a blow, but he willed himself to stay rooted to his spot, and yet there was also that magnetic pull that urged him a few shaky steps toward his Empire, who was finally sitting up on the bed instead of suggestively sprawled out the way he was. He took one step, then another, then another, and on like that until he was finally before him, standing at his petite five foot one, and pale with terror.
"You're... not supposed to be here," he continued on in that falsely brave voice he forced out of his throat. Not as much gusto as he'd liked, but it was enough, just enough. "I was promised safety. America... America promised me."
Only now did he realize that he'd obeyed the order; so he tried to move back to the door, one foot behind him, but Antonio's hand shot out to grab at Pablo's narrow wrist. The grip tightened and yanked him in as suddenly his other hand was taken too - and he was pulled in, too close, much too close, close enough to feel Antonio's breath push across his face.
"America does not tell me what to do," the other hissed as Pablo's breath went very shallow and frightened. "You do not tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do, because I can do whatever I please. I can do whatever I want - to you, to your country, anything at all - because no one would dare to try and stop me. No one can. Not America, not anyone... certainly not you."
He'd checked his gun at the desk. He'd checked his gun, cursing his own name and America's under his breath... He couldn't believe he'd agreed to that, couldn't believe he didn't see this coming. Just his luck to be promised safety and have it torn from his fingers before he'd even touched it.
"Let... let go," he ordered, but of course, Antonio didn't budge. Pablo was too weak to pull away, and the grip was tightening to the point that it would bruise if he kept it up. He hadn't been strong enough to pull away since the Aztecs, which seemed so long ago now. "Don't touch me... cabrón. I'm not yours anymore. I'll be... my own, free to do what I want... when I want. Lock my doors to you..." But it was to no avail. No matter how brave he tried to sound, nothing came but the terrifying clenching of his own heart. "Is this how you get your kicks, jefe?"
Pablo narrowed a glare at him that he hoped was one that could make paint peel, but Antonio only laughed with that honest amusement in his tone. "Ah, mi hijo, you still call me jefe. That's cute." The smile on the other's face was sickeningly sweet. Almost sincere. "I thought you were independent? Perhaps not as much as you think, si?" The words came from his lips naturally between the laughter, and Pablo felt small and thin and shameful. "You couldn't move me from this spot, let alone do anything you were once able to do."
He flushed as his slip-up was caught - "jefe," calling him "jefe," what a stupid move - and felt panic begin to flood him, pulling on Antonio with all his might and yet unable to budge him even a centimeter.
"I am independent!" he shouted a little too loud, pulling hard and beating at him with his other hand, landing a hard punch right into his shoulder. The other didn't even flinch. "Let go of me! You're nothing but a sick man with a disturbing love for children, but I'm... I'm going to fix that soon enough! I'm going to make sure you can never lay your filthy hands on me again!"
Both of Pablo's wrists were held once again, tight in Spain's grasp, those fingers wrapped around his arms hard enough to leave marks. He stood from his spot, pressed in on him to force him a step backwards; Pablo stumbled back a step and felt ill at the look of amusement on his Empire's face.
"Fix what?" Antonio drawled in that slow Spanish of his. "There is nothing to fix. Nothing to fix but you. You're behaving badly, nino, and you know what you do with bad children, si? You punish them." Pablo's blood ran cold at the words and he just kept thinking, the door, the door... the door was behind him, almost directly so, as Antonio walked him backwards. "You've become such a disappointment. But don't worry; I'll set you right again."
His heart was lifting as he walked back and back, each step one step closer to the freedom on the other side of that door. It was unlocked, he knew it was, all he had to do was reach it and grasp the knob and run out into the halls and he would be free. But then he realized that his wrists were held still in those strong hands, and his back hit the wood of the door just as he'd dreaded. He felt very small suddenly as he looked up at Antonio - so tall - and pushed himself back against the door as though if he tried enough, he could melt right through the wood and clear to the other side.
"It isn't my duty to please you," Pablo choked out.
"No," Antonio agreed. "Pero... you wish you could." His voice was a low purr as he dropped his head down closer, close enough to let his lips barely touch against Pablo's ear, and his voice dropped as well, that accent really picking up the rolls as if they were tangible objects rather than collections of sounds. "You want to. You want to give me anything I request." Pablo felt his eyes start drifting closed instinctively as Antonio pulled back a bit, lips brushing Pablo's in passing as he moved to his other ear to give it the same treatment. "As long as I said it was only you that I wanted it from."
Pablo swallowed. It wasn't true. No, it couldn't be true - but at the same time, it was. If Antonio asked for it, he would give him the sky if it meant hearing that he wanted it from Pablo and not from Maria. The thought, however, made his stomach turn.
"Te odio," he finally managed to breathe. "No eres nada para mi. I'm... done with you. Te odio, Espana. More than I've ever hated anyone." Despite the brave words, he could feel his body heating up in response to the near full-body contact that Spain gave him; blood rushed through him and made his face flush before he could think about the reaction at all. His stomach gave another violent turn until he thought that he would literally vomit on Antonio's shoes.
Antonio shrugged a bit. "Maybe you do. Pero..." Pablo felt the other lean more into him, up and in, and an alarm went off somewhere in the back of his mind that told him to scramble for escape. Somehow, he was left rooted to the spot in terror and fascination. "You want me. You wish you could have me. Not only that, but you want me to want you. You call me sick, but you're so much worse than myself. Look at you, nino." Warm breath fanning against his jaw. "You want me more than anything right now."
And he did. Pablo couldn't deny that part of himself, no matter how hard he struggled against it. He was burning up for him, wanted to wrap his limbs around Spain and plead, "take me, take me, take me" - and he didn't care how young people told him he was ("You can't be more than twelve years old, Pablo, you're far too young") because he always felt much older than he was anyway. So much older; Spanish colonies never stayed young for long.
Breathless with want, Pablo forced that mask of disgust onto his face. "Nobody wants something as disgusting as you," he said, trying to put venom into his voice. It wasn't working. "You and Francia both. Nothing but sick, perverted old men."
Antonio laughed at him again. He was becoming used to this now, being ridiculed. He knew the insult was shallow and pointless, anyway. But then he felt those lips trace along his cheek so that when next they spoke, they fluttered against the corner of his mouth.
"And what would you do," he asked, "if I said I wanted you right now..." Pablo flushed darkly at the words, felt his hands come up to clutch into Antonio's shirt unthinkingly. He hoped that the faint glimmer of hope he felt wasn't apparent in his eyes. "Tu... y solo tu...?"
"You don't," Pablo spat out quickly, with bitterness in his tone. Loneliness. "You never have." There were others out there better than himself. So much better. He wasn't what Antonio wanted, even if they'd 'played' several times together in the past. It must have been unsatisfying, a turn-off, for Spain to be doing this to him now. "You don't want me. So there's no point in asking the damn question."
Frustration. "But you didn't answer. I asked you, what if I did?" Luckily, he couldn't move much closer, just that little space left between them, but Pablo felt a leg come up and press between his thighs. Warmth began to flood him. "Pablo... te quiero... te quiero solamente tu..."
It wasn't true, none of it was. Pain stung his heart and replaced the hope there, crushing him down just like every other time, and he gathered the courage to look up into Antonio's eyes. "But you don't love me," he said simply, never one to dance around the subject. Spain was the nation of passion, not of love at all. Not the kind that Pablo wanted. "And you never have. So there's no point."
A simple frown.
"No," Spain agreed. "But that isn't important. I don't love anyone." So blunt, just like always, and Pablo knew the words to be true. Antonio was always in it for the chase, never for the results. "And I want you. I want you, and that's the best that's possible for someone like you."
It felt like a blow to hear the words aloud because he knew all too well that they were true. Nobody would love him the way he wanted, not even Maria, if he were honest with himself. No, he was just convenient for her right now. The darker part of him wondered what would happen when he stopped being convenient for her.
He whispered, "Get out. I don't want this - get out. This isn't how war is fought, is it? Trying to... seduce underage boys in sleazy hotel rooms...?"
"Oh, but I'm not trying. I don't have to try. I don't have to do much to make you want me - you've wanted me ever since I told you to walk over to that bed." That much was true, and Pablo's cheeks burned with shame, feeling Spain's hands stroking the tender lower half of his ribs. They were still bruised from the fight at Calderon, and his eyes drifted closed. "And even if you didn't, if I want to do something, that much won't stop me. You can't do anything, nino. Nada. You can't even run from this. All you can do is decide if you're going to go along with it, or if I'll have to punish you for disobedience after."
Terror flooded him again, eyes shooting open, and he opened his mouth to protest but Antonio silenced him by continuing on. "Either I'll do what I want and you'll try to fight me off just like every time and I'll make it hurt more than anything you've felt before... or..." Here he went into that sensual whisper again, the one that made Pablo's knees weak just to hear it. "Or you'll go along with it and I'll make it so nice that you'll feel like I actually do love you, even if we both know that you're worthless and nobody ever will."
Even without the love attached, Pablo wanted it to some extent. He pushed that part into the back of his mind and trembled against the door. "Maria doesn't think I'm worthless. It's just you. Telling me things to bring me down, and as soon as I'm independent, it won't work..." He realized he was still holding onto Spain's shirt, but he didn't let go yet.
"Maria," Antonio drawled, "will think whatever I tell her to think. She's nice to you because you are her hermano. Because she can't think badly about her little brother without feeling like she's doing something wrong. But she's so much better at being obedient than you are. If I told her that she didn't have to put up with you... she'd tell you what she really thought." The leg forced itself up between Pablo's much harder than before, grinding, and he winced, gasped, felt his shoulders bang against the door. "I'm the only one who really acknowledges you at all."
Escape. It was just beyond the door. But his nerves were singing with the press to sensitive areas, and his legs were closing obediently around Spain's own. Finally he let his hand scrabble along the door until it found the knob, trying to open it even with the two bodies leaning against it and keeping it shut. "Stop... stop it." The voice was weak from his throat for some reason, and he wanted him, almost wanted to thank him because he was right - nobody else would have done this for him. Nobody else cared. But if... if he were independent, then...
"But you don't want me to stop... do you?" Antonio's breath danced along his skin and Pablo was almost arching into the touches, the hands palming along his front to get at his coat, and he was growling, almost clawing at him but instead he clawed against the door. Needed it open - needed freedom.
He shoved at him, panic flaring behind his eyelids in white spots. "Stop- stop, stop it, stop!" Pablo shoved at him, yelling, but the other just relentlessly pinned him against the door and took a fistful of his curly hair so hard that his head slammed back into the wood. Without the use of much else, he tried to force his legs closed, but the one between them made such an action impossible. "I don't- I don't want it, stop!"
Consent wasn't the issue here, at least it didn't appear to be for his Empire. "But you do, don't you?" Antonio asked, almost purring in the way the words rolled off his tongue, seemingly delighted in the reactions he was getting. Sick bastard. Pablo was helpless at the moment and felt a flare of adrenalin as one of Spain's hand slid further down his front, the other hand releasing his hair but getting a tight hold around his throat.
He gave me the option. He told me what would happen if I didn't comply. He's only following through.
Air cut off, and with Antonio digging harder at that spot between his legs, the sharp edge of a hipbone through thick Inquisition clothing. He choked on a nonsensical word and finally, his hand snapped down to unhook the dagger from his thigh.
His arm jabbed forward so that the knife slid through the clothing and straight into the Spaniard's abdomen with a stomach-turning noise, and he felt the blade puncture something, hopefully something vital, but no time to check. Spain's hold on him finally relinquished; he dropped to the ground again, green eyes narrowed in mistrust and an attempt to mask his fear, and he landed a hard kick right between Antonio's legs, sending the other bent double in surprise.
Dirty pool - Mexicans were good at that.
The doorknob was like heaven itself under his fingers as he wrenched the door open hard enough to smack Antonio straight in the face with the hard corner of it, and tripped over the threshold a bit as he stumbled out into the hallway in sheer blind panic.
His twiggy legs carried him almost as far as the stairs before he heard the thundering footsteps behind him of whoever was guarding the door, and then felt that same someone slam into his back and send him flying to the floor. He hit the carpet with enough force to make his teeth bite clean through his lip and part of his tongue, searing pain flaring along the nerves there and blood suddenly flooding his mouth and staining his normally white teeth.
"Cabron!" Pablo hissed through his torn lips, flailing out an arm behind him to beat at his captor's face. To no avail - they gripped his arm, slammed it down on the carpet, much stronger and far more powerful than himself, the southern half of a country that wasn't even a country, not yet. Though in all honesty, Pablo couldn't see how this could possibly wind up in his favor anymore.
"Usted es un chico sucio," he heard Antonio gasping, and the conquistador came forward to take up a handful of that curly hair again, yanking Pablo's face up toward his own. "Filthy, dirty child. Never as... as important as your sister..."
Covered Pablo's mouth and nose to effectively stop his breathing, Pablo's eyes widening and body starting to jerk to get free - useless. He was still held down by both wrists, with a body crushing his own and now Antonio gripping him, hard - even with Antonio's clothes now starting to drip crimson from the fresh wound.
"Never as loved as your sister..."
He was starting to black out. Tiny black spots exploded in his vision.
"And never as useful to me."
And Spain hit him hard with a fist in the back of the head; Pablo felt a blinding pain and a strange lull before his vision went dark.
- - - - - - - - - -
Historical Notes:
After a defeat at the Battle of Calderon Bridge, the Mexican rebels moved north toward the border. It was an invitation from the Kingdom of Leon to have the army stay in a secure location to trade weapons and restock provisions; Americans promised the Mexican army protection against the Spanish. However, upon arriving, the army was ambushed and taken in by the Inquisition. They were later taken to the city of Chihuahua where they were brutally tortured, mutilated, and eventually beheaded. The head of their lead general was put on display as a warning to the other rebels.
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Characters: Spain, N. Mexico, S. Mexico
Rated: M
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, but Maria and Pablo are mine.
Overall summary: The story of S. Mexico's time spent with the Spanish Inquisition during the War of Mexican Independence.
Chapter summary: In which Pablo is welcomed into a small town close to the American border, and almost-but-not-quite gives into temptation.
Coahuila, Mexico. 1811.
The heaviness of the previous battle still weighed densely in his skeleton even as a new relief swelled in his chest at the thought of rest. Sleeping on stony riverbeds in makeshift tents wasn't Pablo's ideal vision of a perfect bed; and besides, the hotel just ahead would be a welcome sanctuary from the Spanish army in addition to the discomforts of war.
As he dismounted his horse, he thought briefly of his sister and wondered if she was okay by herself. She'd always been Spain's favorite of the two New Spanish children, probably for her pretty face and tendency to metaphorically lick Antonio's heels - well, at least he hoped it was only metaphorical. Though knowing Maria, she'd probably do it. She was certainly bold enough. And he knew she could handle herself if any Spaniard soldiers made an advance on her; her skills with that shovel of hers were shockingly numerous. She'd wielded it at intruders more than once in the past.
Yes, she'd be fine. That was the line repeated ad nauseum in his head - she'd be fine.
The hotel wasn't anything extravagant, just small and saloon-like, which is honestly what he'd expected from a hotel so close to the American border. Simple, just beds and an open bar and maybe a few roaches, but still the hotel of an independent country (which is what he would be too, soon, he and Maria both). It was beyond kind of America to offer this place to him and his men, so he wasn't about to complain, especially not since the hotels in New Spain were faring no better.
Pablo brushed past a few of the shaken older soldiers and approached the desk of the lobby with a nervous swallow. The man at the counter was white, with short honey hair and an American smile. No, not America - just a man. It made his heart ache to think about how long it had been since he'd seen the damned cowboy.
"Check your weapons, por favor," the man said in that hokey American Spanish. Pablo removed his two guns from their holsters and slid them across the counter. He wasn't stupid, though, and kept his knife on him, strapped firmly to his thigh, hidden beneath his shabby coat hem. "There's a room for you upstairs, gots a bed and a window. Figure you don't need much else. Breakfast'll be provided in the mornin', so get a good night's sleep - you'll need it."
The men all dispersed to their own rooms after a short time spent sucking down sour tequila; Pablo finished off his drink and took one of the complimentary sarsaparilla candies out of the glass bowl on the counter before ascending the stairs. It began to nearly melt in his mouth from how thirsty and dry his mouth was, and the sweet sugary flavor of it coated his teeth and his tongue. He thought again of his sister, no doubt still at home and angry with him for starting this war in the first place; he thought of America's glittering smile and freckled white skin and that knee-weakening glint in those eyes, as limitless and unexplored as a summer sky...
He thought of his step brothers in South America, Venezuela especially, and wondered if the other was thinking of Pablo too, even for as simple a reason as going on this suicide mission. And finally he thought of Antonio... the too-soft touches and crippling good looks and the sick childish desire in Pablo's own heart. Stupid, stupid - so stupid to ever long for anything Antonio bothered to throw his way.
Too heavy, so he let the thoughts go. No, he was determined to get through the night and get a good rest without harboring any fear of his Empire. He would win this war, with or without Maria's help - he had to. He stifled an exhausted yawn, stretched until he heard the audible pop of his shoulder, opened the door to his assigned room...
Froze. His heart shoved up into his throat - stopped dead in his tracks, felt the blood drain from his face - as he saw the figure on the bed, waiting for him, lying against soft pillows.
"Hola, mi nino. Que tal?," Antonio said cheerfully and Pablo felt the door slam shut against his back. A cold fear immediately began to trickle through his veins as his eyes unconsciously measured how much larger Antonio was than himself, how the window was bolted closed, the door behind him firmly shut.
Trapped.
"A-America promised you wouldn't be here," he choked out in the calmest voice he could manage to summon. "Por que estas aqui? This is supposed to be a refuge... America promised, you're not supposed to be here--"
"And stop me from seeing my son?" Antonio smiled as he leaned back against the headboard. "No, America was very understanding once I explained it to him. You are my boy, after all."
Pablo had never once heard his Empire say that aloud in the past, so was stunned for a moment before remembering to protest. "No," he insisted. "No, I'm... Maria and I, we're going to be our own country soon enough. I'm not your boy... I never have been, not to you."
He tried not to think too much about America, since nothing could be done about it now. But Antonio just sat up, well-dressed where Pablo looked ragged, confident where Pablo was over caffeinated and scared.
"Aren't you? With my eyes and my hair and my face..." Antonio trailed off thoughtfully and in the moment of silence, Pablo could hear only the deafening sound of his own heartbeat. Finally, Antonio chuckled softly to himself. "No, I suppose you're right. You're not my son." Pablo felt himself flush with shame at that, but Antonio continued on as if he didn't notice. He probably didn't. "In any case, I can come and go wherever I want in Mexico, si? No one tried to stop me. I didn't need to be let in; I can come and go as I please here."
Pablo opened his mouth to protest before Spain cut him off yet again. "Now, nino, vamos aqui."
It was an order. If Pablo was sure of anything right now, it's that he was being given an order, not a request. The tone said as much, even if the words didn't. And the order hit him with the force of a blow, but he willed himself to stay rooted to his spot, and yet there was also that magnetic pull that urged him a few shaky steps toward his Empire, who was finally sitting up on the bed instead of suggestively sprawled out the way he was. He took one step, then another, then another, and on like that until he was finally before him, standing at his petite five foot one, and pale with terror.
"You're... not supposed to be here," he continued on in that falsely brave voice he forced out of his throat. Not as much gusto as he'd liked, but it was enough, just enough. "I was promised safety. America... America promised me."
Only now did he realize that he'd obeyed the order; so he tried to move back to the door, one foot behind him, but Antonio's hand shot out to grab at Pablo's narrow wrist. The grip tightened and yanked him in as suddenly his other hand was taken too - and he was pulled in, too close, much too close, close enough to feel Antonio's breath push across his face.
"America does not tell me what to do," the other hissed as Pablo's breath went very shallow and frightened. "You do not tell me what to do. No one tells me what to do, because I can do whatever I please. I can do whatever I want - to you, to your country, anything at all - because no one would dare to try and stop me. No one can. Not America, not anyone... certainly not you."
He'd checked his gun at the desk. He'd checked his gun, cursing his own name and America's under his breath... He couldn't believe he'd agreed to that, couldn't believe he didn't see this coming. Just his luck to be promised safety and have it torn from his fingers before he'd even touched it.
"Let... let go," he ordered, but of course, Antonio didn't budge. Pablo was too weak to pull away, and the grip was tightening to the point that it would bruise if he kept it up. He hadn't been strong enough to pull away since the Aztecs, which seemed so long ago now. "Don't touch me... cabrón. I'm not yours anymore. I'll be... my own, free to do what I want... when I want. Lock my doors to you..." But it was to no avail. No matter how brave he tried to sound, nothing came but the terrifying clenching of his own heart. "Is this how you get your kicks, jefe?"
Pablo narrowed a glare at him that he hoped was one that could make paint peel, but Antonio only laughed with that honest amusement in his tone. "Ah, mi hijo, you still call me jefe. That's cute." The smile on the other's face was sickeningly sweet. Almost sincere. "I thought you were independent? Perhaps not as much as you think, si?" The words came from his lips naturally between the laughter, and Pablo felt small and thin and shameful. "You couldn't move me from this spot, let alone do anything you were once able to do."
He flushed as his slip-up was caught - "jefe," calling him "jefe," what a stupid move - and felt panic begin to flood him, pulling on Antonio with all his might and yet unable to budge him even a centimeter.
"I am independent!" he shouted a little too loud, pulling hard and beating at him with his other hand, landing a hard punch right into his shoulder. The other didn't even flinch. "Let go of me! You're nothing but a sick man with a disturbing love for children, but I'm... I'm going to fix that soon enough! I'm going to make sure you can never lay your filthy hands on me again!"
Both of Pablo's wrists were held once again, tight in Spain's grasp, those fingers wrapped around his arms hard enough to leave marks. He stood from his spot, pressed in on him to force him a step backwards; Pablo stumbled back a step and felt ill at the look of amusement on his Empire's face.
"Fix what?" Antonio drawled in that slow Spanish of his. "There is nothing to fix. Nothing to fix but you. You're behaving badly, nino, and you know what you do with bad children, si? You punish them." Pablo's blood ran cold at the words and he just kept thinking, the door, the door... the door was behind him, almost directly so, as Antonio walked him backwards. "You've become such a disappointment. But don't worry; I'll set you right again."
His heart was lifting as he walked back and back, each step one step closer to the freedom on the other side of that door. It was unlocked, he knew it was, all he had to do was reach it and grasp the knob and run out into the halls and he would be free. But then he realized that his wrists were held still in those strong hands, and his back hit the wood of the door just as he'd dreaded. He felt very small suddenly as he looked up at Antonio - so tall - and pushed himself back against the door as though if he tried enough, he could melt right through the wood and clear to the other side.
"It isn't my duty to please you," Pablo choked out.
"No," Antonio agreed. "Pero... you wish you could." His voice was a low purr as he dropped his head down closer, close enough to let his lips barely touch against Pablo's ear, and his voice dropped as well, that accent really picking up the rolls as if they were tangible objects rather than collections of sounds. "You want to. You want to give me anything I request." Pablo felt his eyes start drifting closed instinctively as Antonio pulled back a bit, lips brushing Pablo's in passing as he moved to his other ear to give it the same treatment. "As long as I said it was only you that I wanted it from."
Pablo swallowed. It wasn't true. No, it couldn't be true - but at the same time, it was. If Antonio asked for it, he would give him the sky if it meant hearing that he wanted it from Pablo and not from Maria. The thought, however, made his stomach turn.
"Te odio," he finally managed to breathe. "No eres nada para mi. I'm... done with you. Te odio, Espana. More than I've ever hated anyone." Despite the brave words, he could feel his body heating up in response to the near full-body contact that Spain gave him; blood rushed through him and made his face flush before he could think about the reaction at all. His stomach gave another violent turn until he thought that he would literally vomit on Antonio's shoes.
Antonio shrugged a bit. "Maybe you do. Pero..." Pablo felt the other lean more into him, up and in, and an alarm went off somewhere in the back of his mind that told him to scramble for escape. Somehow, he was left rooted to the spot in terror and fascination. "You want me. You wish you could have me. Not only that, but you want me to want you. You call me sick, but you're so much worse than myself. Look at you, nino." Warm breath fanning against his jaw. "You want me more than anything right now."
And he did. Pablo couldn't deny that part of himself, no matter how hard he struggled against it. He was burning up for him, wanted to wrap his limbs around Spain and plead, "take me, take me, take me" - and he didn't care how young people told him he was ("You can't be more than twelve years old, Pablo, you're far too young") because he always felt much older than he was anyway. So much older; Spanish colonies never stayed young for long.
Breathless with want, Pablo forced that mask of disgust onto his face. "Nobody wants something as disgusting as you," he said, trying to put venom into his voice. It wasn't working. "You and Francia both. Nothing but sick, perverted old men."
Antonio laughed at him again. He was becoming used to this now, being ridiculed. He knew the insult was shallow and pointless, anyway. But then he felt those lips trace along his cheek so that when next they spoke, they fluttered against the corner of his mouth.
"And what would you do," he asked, "if I said I wanted you right now..." Pablo flushed darkly at the words, felt his hands come up to clutch into Antonio's shirt unthinkingly. He hoped that the faint glimmer of hope he felt wasn't apparent in his eyes. "Tu... y solo tu...?"
"You don't," Pablo spat out quickly, with bitterness in his tone. Loneliness. "You never have." There were others out there better than himself. So much better. He wasn't what Antonio wanted, even if they'd 'played' several times together in the past. It must have been unsatisfying, a turn-off, for Spain to be doing this to him now. "You don't want me. So there's no point in asking the damn question."
Frustration. "But you didn't answer. I asked you, what if I did?" Luckily, he couldn't move much closer, just that little space left between them, but Pablo felt a leg come up and press between his thighs. Warmth began to flood him. "Pablo... te quiero... te quiero solamente tu..."
It wasn't true, none of it was. Pain stung his heart and replaced the hope there, crushing him down just like every other time, and he gathered the courage to look up into Antonio's eyes. "But you don't love me," he said simply, never one to dance around the subject. Spain was the nation of passion, not of love at all. Not the kind that Pablo wanted. "And you never have. So there's no point."
A simple frown.
"No," Spain agreed. "But that isn't important. I don't love anyone." So blunt, just like always, and Pablo knew the words to be true. Antonio was always in it for the chase, never for the results. "And I want you. I want you, and that's the best that's possible for someone like you."
It felt like a blow to hear the words aloud because he knew all too well that they were true. Nobody would love him the way he wanted, not even Maria, if he were honest with himself. No, he was just convenient for her right now. The darker part of him wondered what would happen when he stopped being convenient for her.
He whispered, "Get out. I don't want this - get out. This isn't how war is fought, is it? Trying to... seduce underage boys in sleazy hotel rooms...?"
"Oh, but I'm not trying. I don't have to try. I don't have to do much to make you want me - you've wanted me ever since I told you to walk over to that bed." That much was true, and Pablo's cheeks burned with shame, feeling Spain's hands stroking the tender lower half of his ribs. They were still bruised from the fight at Calderon, and his eyes drifted closed. "And even if you didn't, if I want to do something, that much won't stop me. You can't do anything, nino. Nada. You can't even run from this. All you can do is decide if you're going to go along with it, or if I'll have to punish you for disobedience after."
Terror flooded him again, eyes shooting open, and he opened his mouth to protest but Antonio silenced him by continuing on. "Either I'll do what I want and you'll try to fight me off just like every time and I'll make it hurt more than anything you've felt before... or..." Here he went into that sensual whisper again, the one that made Pablo's knees weak just to hear it. "Or you'll go along with it and I'll make it so nice that you'll feel like I actually do love you, even if we both know that you're worthless and nobody ever will."
Even without the love attached, Pablo wanted it to some extent. He pushed that part into the back of his mind and trembled against the door. "Maria doesn't think I'm worthless. It's just you. Telling me things to bring me down, and as soon as I'm independent, it won't work..." He realized he was still holding onto Spain's shirt, but he didn't let go yet.
"Maria," Antonio drawled, "will think whatever I tell her to think. She's nice to you because you are her hermano. Because she can't think badly about her little brother without feeling like she's doing something wrong. But she's so much better at being obedient than you are. If I told her that she didn't have to put up with you... she'd tell you what she really thought." The leg forced itself up between Pablo's much harder than before, grinding, and he winced, gasped, felt his shoulders bang against the door. "I'm the only one who really acknowledges you at all."
Escape. It was just beyond the door. But his nerves were singing with the press to sensitive areas, and his legs were closing obediently around Spain's own. Finally he let his hand scrabble along the door until it found the knob, trying to open it even with the two bodies leaning against it and keeping it shut. "Stop... stop it." The voice was weak from his throat for some reason, and he wanted him, almost wanted to thank him because he was right - nobody else would have done this for him. Nobody else cared. But if... if he were independent, then...
"But you don't want me to stop... do you?" Antonio's breath danced along his skin and Pablo was almost arching into the touches, the hands palming along his front to get at his coat, and he was growling, almost clawing at him but instead he clawed against the door. Needed it open - needed freedom.
He shoved at him, panic flaring behind his eyelids in white spots. "Stop- stop, stop it, stop!" Pablo shoved at him, yelling, but the other just relentlessly pinned him against the door and took a fistful of his curly hair so hard that his head slammed back into the wood. Without the use of much else, he tried to force his legs closed, but the one between them made such an action impossible. "I don't- I don't want it, stop!"
Consent wasn't the issue here, at least it didn't appear to be for his Empire. "But you do, don't you?" Antonio asked, almost purring in the way the words rolled off his tongue, seemingly delighted in the reactions he was getting. Sick bastard. Pablo was helpless at the moment and felt a flare of adrenalin as one of Spain's hand slid further down his front, the other hand releasing his hair but getting a tight hold around his throat.
He gave me the option. He told me what would happen if I didn't comply. He's only following through.
Air cut off, and with Antonio digging harder at that spot between his legs, the sharp edge of a hipbone through thick Inquisition clothing. He choked on a nonsensical word and finally, his hand snapped down to unhook the dagger from his thigh.
His arm jabbed forward so that the knife slid through the clothing and straight into the Spaniard's abdomen with a stomach-turning noise, and he felt the blade puncture something, hopefully something vital, but no time to check. Spain's hold on him finally relinquished; he dropped to the ground again, green eyes narrowed in mistrust and an attempt to mask his fear, and he landed a hard kick right between Antonio's legs, sending the other bent double in surprise.
Dirty pool - Mexicans were good at that.
The doorknob was like heaven itself under his fingers as he wrenched the door open hard enough to smack Antonio straight in the face with the hard corner of it, and tripped over the threshold a bit as he stumbled out into the hallway in sheer blind panic.
His twiggy legs carried him almost as far as the stairs before he heard the thundering footsteps behind him of whoever was guarding the door, and then felt that same someone slam into his back and send him flying to the floor. He hit the carpet with enough force to make his teeth bite clean through his lip and part of his tongue, searing pain flaring along the nerves there and blood suddenly flooding his mouth and staining his normally white teeth.
"Cabron!" Pablo hissed through his torn lips, flailing out an arm behind him to beat at his captor's face. To no avail - they gripped his arm, slammed it down on the carpet, much stronger and far more powerful than himself, the southern half of a country that wasn't even a country, not yet. Though in all honesty, Pablo couldn't see how this could possibly wind up in his favor anymore.
"Usted es un chico sucio," he heard Antonio gasping, and the conquistador came forward to take up a handful of that curly hair again, yanking Pablo's face up toward his own. "Filthy, dirty child. Never as... as important as your sister..."
Covered Pablo's mouth and nose to effectively stop his breathing, Pablo's eyes widening and body starting to jerk to get free - useless. He was still held down by both wrists, with a body crushing his own and now Antonio gripping him, hard - even with Antonio's clothes now starting to drip crimson from the fresh wound.
"Never as loved as your sister..."
He was starting to black out. Tiny black spots exploded in his vision.
"And never as useful to me."
And Spain hit him hard with a fist in the back of the head; Pablo felt a blinding pain and a strange lull before his vision went dark.
- - - - - - - - - -
Historical Notes:
After a defeat at the Battle of Calderon Bridge, the Mexican rebels moved north toward the border. It was an invitation from the Kingdom of Leon to have the army stay in a secure location to trade weapons and restock provisions; Americans promised the Mexican army protection against the Spanish. However, upon arriving, the army was ambushed and taken in by the Inquisition. They were later taken to the city of Chihuahua where they were brutally tortured, mutilated, and eventually beheaded. The head of their lead general was put on display as a warning to the other rebels.
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Omg, poor Pablo... But I have to admit that I love your Spain! He's TOO insanely sexy (nosebleed). I like this version of him better than the 'happy-go-lucky' one... Nothing in Spain's history is happy-go-lucky, but oh well! :)
Things are going to get better for Pablo, that's for sure... Also, I really envy you! You're awesome when you write about Spain (it's something I cannot do properly despite being spanish, maybe becuase I'm biased).
Keep the great work! :D
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