Red Seas

I kicked him out. I kicked him out, but I was sorry, most sorry on the day of the red seas. His great armada set out from the ports to take over England (when his boss was the fire-head queen). Antonio could not lose. His ships were large and powerful, and his cannons were ready and primed. I heard of it, and wondered what it would be like to see his great golden-brown hulls bearing down on little England, who had far too much in common with the French bastard.

When I head the next news I was expecting to hear of Spain's victory, and steeled myself for the jealousy, that England now had the privilege of being owned by the tomato-bastard. My own. Instead I heard how his ships were all dashed and sunk and blown away, wood scattered in the waves and pounded to the bottom of the sea. My heart was in my throat. I was on the pier in an instant, not my country but myself, out in the sea near Portugal. In the shallow water where Africa begins, I saw the wreckage, all the boards splintered and waterlogged. In among the boards, there was his body, perfect and unbroken by cannon fire, but scratched and bruised and unconscious, his clothing shredded and full of splinters.

My stomach churning, I pulled him into my boat and smoothed his hair away from his face. The scratches were only shallow. He would recover, but he could not make such an endeavor again. I bent over his peaceful head and whispered in his unlistening ear,

"Ti amo, bastardo. Never again."

Suddenly his eyes opened, smiling and bright. He put his hands on either side of my face, forcing me to stay.

"Te quiero, Lovino," he returned, and pressed a gentle kiss to my nose. I sprang upward, tomato-red.

"Ah! Get off, bastard!"

He laughed.