Of Swordfights, Conquistadors, and Rescue Missions

Nothing good ever came of Antonio getting drinks with Gilbert and Francis. They were, perhaps, the worst group of friends in existence; none of their personalities really meshed well at all, and they often ended up arguing over stupid things like Eurovison or the plausibility of alien life on Mars (Gilbert was a staunch believer, but Francis was not so sure), and yet somehow, they managed to stay faithfully inseparable in the worst way. Drinking together was simply a bad idea. Gilbert was always drunk, so it really didn't matter much, but if he managed to smash himself even further into intoxication, he was prone to becoming a weepy, depressed, sentimental mess. Francis' hands-on approach to life was only exacerbated with alcohol, and it usually became a betting point between Gilbert and Antonio as to when the lecherous blond would be thrown out of the bar for creeping out too many patrons. Drunk Antonio, on the other hand, was an entirely different can of worms, one Lovino was not too keen on prying open.

He had tried to get Antonio to stay home, he really had. He used every trick in the book from failed seduction to death threats, eventually culminating with him on his knees on the kitchen floor sobbing and gripping Antonio's shirt as if it were a life preserver and he was drowning in a sea of bad alcoholic experiences. Antonio was unflappable. He simply laughed and shook Lovino off, and, kissing him on the forehead, promised to be back before dawn. Then, he disappeared out the front door and into the back of Francis' very stylish red car, leaving Lovino to tick off the hours until he would need to perform a late and reluctant rescue.

The call came five hours later. He was still up, furtively worrying about his damn idiot of a fiancé and washing dishes a little too violently. The instant his cell phone began to buzz, he ripped it from his front pocket and held it to his ear, uttering a simple, "Yeah, what?" to the person on the other side of the line.

It was Gilbert. Wherever he was, it was crowded, and a boisterous bass was pounding, drowning out half of his frantically whispered words. "Uh, Lovino, Antonio is really freaking us out, man."

"What?'

"Antonio is drunk and he's really scary!"

"What?"

"Look, can you just come and pick him up? We don't want to get near him. He keeps trying to claim us as his colonies and it's getting really weird."

"I can't hear what you're trying to say to me, potato-bastard!" roared Lovino, gripping the phone tightly.

"Hold on," grunted Gilbert. There was a long pause, and the noise gradually ebbed away into something of a background cacophony. "Can you hear me now?"

"Yes, what do you want?" Lovino pressed one hand to the countertop and leaned forward, staring intently at the dripping sink faucet.

"Antonio's completely hammered," said Gilbert. "He's freaking us all out, and we're too scared to get near him. Can you come and pick him up?"

Lovino exhaled deeply. This was exactly what he hadn't wanted; his ideal night wasn't one spent babysitting his drunk Spanish fiancé. "Yeah, sure, whatever, just keep him away from the bar and anything sharp. Don't let him out of your sight, you hear me? You've still got custody of him until I get there."

He hung up as Gilbert was still responding and shoved his phone roughly back into his front pocket. It was going to be a very long night. The name and address of the bar where the trio had gone were written on a piece of paper tacked to the refrigerator, and Lovino tore it from the turtle magnet that held it in place on his way to his car. He was going to have such a great time saying, "I told you so" in the morning, but for now, he needed to rescue the bar patrons from a highly intoxicated Antonio.

After an obscenely tedious struggle with the bouncer, who refused to believe that Lovino was old enough to get into the bar until sufficient photo ID was shown, Lovino found Gilbert leaning dangerously far backwards and trying to balance a bottle of beer on his nose in front of a few less-than-impressed girls. He buried his fist in the Prussian's shirt, knocking the bottle to the floor with a dull clunk, and pulled him upright.

"Alright, bastard, where is he?"

"Uh, he's over near the restrooms with Francis," spluttered Gilbert. "Over there." He pointed across the room to two neon blue signs advertising MEN and WOMEN on the wall.

Lovino nodded to him tersely and released his shirt with a shove, sending Gilbert flying backwards. The bottle got caught under his feet, and he tripped and toppled, arms pin-wheeling shakily, straight into the wall. This seemed to amuse the girls, who burst into a chorus of raucous laughter. As Lovino pushed away towards the restrooms, he could hear Gilbert drinking in the attention and crowing, "Ha, you like that, babes?"

Underneath the glowing signs stood Francis, who was leaning heavily on the wall and had cornered some cute little sandy-haired thing, whispering delicately into their ear. Antonio was nowhere to be seen.

"Where the hell is he," demanded Lovino. "The potato-y one said you had him, so where is he?"

Francis' head snapped up to look at Lovino. "Ah, Lovino, mon ami, how are you? What brings you to this fine establishment this night?

"You know very well why I'm here, cheese-breath," growled Lovino, poking a finger into Francis' chest. "Where the hell's Antonio?"

Francis shook his head slightly, mouth hanging partially opened and perfect eyebrows knitted together. "But, I do not know, mon ami. Have you, perhaps, talked to our good friend Gilbert?"

"I was just-a talking to him and he said you were babysitting the dumb bastard, so where the hell is he? Don't tell me you lost him."

"Mon ami, I do not know where he is," insisted Francis, pushing Lovino's finger down gently. "He was creating such a ruckus just a little while ago, but now, he is gone, no? Perhaps try calling his cell phone."

Lovino glared intently at Francis. "Once Antonio is home and safe, you're going to-a pay for being such a fucking idiot, you hear me, crapface?" He raised two fingers and pointed them to his eyes, and then to Francis, backing away slowly.

Retreating to the quieter outdoors, Lovino whipped out his cell phone and punched in Antonio's number. It rang and rang insistently, and the longer he waited, the more certain Lovino was that his fiancé wasn't going to answer. Finally, the ringer cut, and it was replaced by Antonio's cheerful voice.

"Hi! You've reached Antonio Hernandez-Carriedo! I can't come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and number after the beep. Thanks for calling, have a wonderful day!"

Lovino gritted his teeth and shoved the phone back into his pocket. "Shove it up your ass, why don't you!" he snarled, crossing his arms and kicking the base of the building in frustration. If he knew Antonio - and he did, biblically - it would only be a matter of time before he seriously hurt someone. Almost in direct response to his thoughts, a familiar voice drifted through the air and caught Lovino's ears.

"Aw, don't be like that," sneered Antonio, his usual cheerful tone twisted into a dark caricature. "What are you, a wimp? Get the fuck over here and face me like a man."

Lovino followed the sound of his idiot fiancé's voice, leading him to a partially opened side door of the bar and the worrying sight of Antonio wielding a long, thin steel sword, grinning at a very large, very muscular man. The sleeve of Antonio's shirt was torn raggedly at the shoulder, and his normally tame hair stood up in all directions, drenched thoroughly in a layer of sweat.

"I don't want any trouble, man," insisted the man, cracking his fists. "But you got a lotta nerve, you know that? And if you don't put down that fuckin' sword, I'm gonna rip it from your goddamn hands."

Antonio tsk-ed and shook his head. "You've insulted my honor, mi amigo," he growled. "I cannot allow you to get away with that."

"Is that so, lispy?"

"Alright, Antonio, that's enough," interrupted Lovino, stepping in. He placed one hand on Antonio's shoulder and the other on the hilt of the sword, lowering it forcefully. "You're coming with me."

"Not now, Lovi," smiled Antonio through gritted teeth. "Boss's got something he has to do first."

"Yeah, well, Boss is going to have to postpone his little duel indefinitely," said Lovino, wrestling with Antonio for grip on the sword. "It's time you went home."

"Who is this, your boyfriend?" sneered the man, his eyebrows raised in mockingly. Lovino and Antonio continued to grapple for the sword, growling at each other.

"Fiancé, actually," hissed Lovino. "No, give it to me, you big idiot." He finally wrenched the sword away from Antonio. He placed one hand on Antonio's face and stretched out his arm, holding the sword as far away from the drunk Spaniard as possible. "Where the hell did you even get this? Oh, never mind. You're coming with me."

"I do not think that would be a good idea, sweetheart," insisted Antonio darkly.

"Yeah, okay," said Lovino, and he bent down and scooped Antonio up, throwing him over his shoulder. "It's bedtime." He turned to walk away, Antonio beating his back with his fists and yelling in Spanish for Lovino to put him down. "Not on your life," Lovino said, hefting him roughly, which only caused Antonio to hit him more furiously.

"Yeah, that's right," called the man Antonio had been accosting. "Get dragged away by your fuckin' boyfriend, you goddamn fruit. You tuck him into bed nice and gently, princess!"

Lovino stopped. He spun around on his heel, ignoring the steady stream of Spanish profanity directed at the man spilling from Antonio's mouth.

"Lemme down so I can teach that motherfucker a lesson," he howled, flailing wildly. He managed to shove his knee sharply into Lovino's sternum, knocking the wind out of him for a second.

"Antonio, mio bellisimo amore," said Lovino evenly once he had regained his breath. "Shut the fuck up." He walked straight back up to the man, who still stood halfway in the doorway like a coward. "Out of curiosity," said Lovino conversationally, looking at his curled up fingernails disinterestedly, "how much Italian can you understand?"

"What the hell kind of a question is that?" snarled the man. "Zero."

"Ah. Well, let me impart a little phrase onto you, eh? Andare soffoca su tuoi coglioni."

The man scratched his head, scowling. "What the hell does that mean, fag?"

"It means-" Lovino clenched his fist tightly, wound up his arm, and punched the man straight in the face with enough force to send him staggering backwards into the bar, all without dropping Antonio, who cheered drunkenly. The door fell shut behind him with a clang, and his voice could be heard cursing like mad on the other side. "Ya fucking dickbag!" Lovino called after him.

Shaking out his smarting hand, Lovino carried Antonio back to the car. Antonio would not stop gushing about how sexy Lovino was for, "punching that puta right in the kisser, wow!" Lovino tossed the sword into the trunk and wordlessly buckled his idiot fiancé into the seat. He threw the car in reverse, tearing out of that place as fast as he could.

Once they were home, getting Antonio inside was an issue, as Lovino could only carry him for so long, and the Spaniard could barely stand up straight by himself, let alone walk. They eventually managed, Lovino half-supporting, half-dragging Antonio up the path and into the house. He set him down at the kitchen table for a moment to catch his breath.

He was standing with his back to Antonio, staring again at the dripping faucet. Damn, they really needed to get that fixed. Maybe he'd do that tomorrow while Antonio was sleeping off the hangover of the century. Suddenly, he felt strong arms slide around his waist and dry lips press against his neck. Antonio pressed his body against Lovino's, running his mouth hotly along his fiancé's neck, shoulders, and chin. Lovino had predicted this bout of sudden horniness to the minute, and was really not amused.

"Cut it out, bastard, I'm not in the mood," snapped Lovino. Antonio acted as if he hadn't heard, dragging his tongue over the base of Lovino's neck. "Stop it," he protested. Antonio's arms tightened, drawing Lovino in closer, and he grew more frantic, kissing desperately at his jawline. "Antonio, stop," ordered Lovino, his voice cracking. He clenched his teeth, but could not hold back a low moan when Antonio pressed his lips in just the spot Lovino liked it.

He wriggled in Antonio's arms, turning around to face his drunk fiancé. Antonio moved to kiss his lips, but Lovino put up a hand to his fiancé's face, blocking him. This was so typical of drunk Antonio. Normally, he would never ignore Lovino's requests to stop, but when he drank, Antonio turned into the conquistador he used to be. Whatever he wanted, he got. Not tonight, though- Lovino was not putting up with this shit tonight. He'd had enough domestic abuse for one night. Antonio was going to pay like mad the next day.

"I'm not in the fucking mood, shithead," hissed Lovino, trying to pry Antonio's strong arms from around him. Antonio's hand slipped down and around to Lovino's front, groping at a place Lovino would rather he not touch just then. Lovino jumped furiously, red spreading across his face as he almost bit his own tongue off.

"You say that, but you're hard, sweetie," breathed Antonio, trying again to kiss Lovino beneath his chin. Lovino put up his hands again to block him.

"Well, maybe that's because you're fucking molesting me, eh? Get off of me, you're going to bed." Lovino finally tore Antonio's arms from around his waist. "You've got two choices. You can either go to bed now with my help, in which case you keep-a your damn hands to yourself, or you can go to bed now without my help. What'll it be?"

Antonio, to his credit, picked the first option. He allowed himself to be led to the bedroom, where Lovino removed his shoes, shirt, and pants without incident. If Antonio was conscious of how he was acting, he would be heartbroken and ashamed. For as long as Lovino had known his idiot fiancé, the Spaniard had never been more repentant than after a night of drinking. He'd been known to lock himself in a room alone the day after, battling his own inner demons before coming out of his cave to apologize to everyone who came in contact with him the night before. It didn't excuse his actions, but alcohol brought out an alternate personality, one Antonio had no control over. Lovino almost didn't blame him too much for it. Almost.

With a relieved sigh that the horror was nearly over, Lovino lay Antonio down on his side in case he had to throw up, and tucked the covers up around him so tightly that he was unable to move.

"Go the fuck to sleep," he said gently. "I'll kick your ass tomorrow."

"I'll be waiting," smiled Antonio, attempting to sound sexy. It wasn't sexy; the violent, crazy look in his big green eyes was off-putting, and his tousled hair reminded Lovino of a small child who had been running wild in the woods for too long. If anything, his idiot fiancé might have been the cutest thing in the world, if he wasn't so terrifying when drunk.

Lovino chuckled, thinking of how Antonio had acted in the kitchen. He wouldn't sleep with drunk Antonio, but he would be more than happy to screw sober, lovely, respectful Antonio. "Yeah, you will, because after that I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll see stars all day."

"Is that a promise, Lovi?" His lisp – Antonio insisted it was part of his accent, but Lovino had his reasons for not being so sure – was heavier as he was drifting off to sleep. Lovino smiled. Soon this monster would be gone and he would have his Antonio back.

"You bet your ass it is. Now go to sleep."

He placed a kiss on Antonio's forehead and turned out the lights, removing his own clothes until he wore nothing but his underwear and crawling into bed with his love. In these twilight moments, drunk Antonio was almost bearable. It was only as he slipped into a heavy, snoring slumber that he acted anything like his normal self- a big, goofy, cheerful, oblivious, perfect son of a bitch. Lovino was going to have a few choice words with Antonio's friends the next day for making him deal with the nightmare drunk Antonio was. Thankfully, though, no matter how terrible and alien Antonio became when drunk, in the morning, he would always wake up normal and delightful. In the morning, he would again be Lovino's darling idiot fiancé.

"You're such an idiot," Lovino breathed, twirling one of Antonio's curls absentmindedly between two fingers. He could almost hear the sobbed apologies and offers of breakfast and makeup sex. That was the Antonio he loved, the Antonio who loved him. The real Antonio. Lovino closed his eyes, Antonio's hair still tangled around his fingers. "Te quiero."

Lovino was almost certain he heard Antonio mutter between snores, "Ti amo." But Lovino's been wrong before.