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“Are we there yet?”
Antonio covers his mouth once more and leans against the wooden edge, screwing his eyes shut in a vain attempt to block out the swaying of the ship. Once again he wonders why he insisted on coming along. His resistance has certainly grown since his first forays into the water, but sailing is still far from being his favourite mode of transport, especially with Portugal at the helm.
It is a deeply held belief of his that trips always take longer if his husband feels like it, that he insists on choosing waters that crash violently against the hull instead of calmer routes which would allow them to glide through peacefully. That must be what is going on, João has to be doing this on purpose, and that alone is proof that he should never be in charge of a ship and that Antonio himself is a fool for wanting to tag along and-
Once again he bends over the oak railing, empties his stomach and silently berates himself for his insistence on being here. The self-flagellation doesn’t last long, however. He could try to ignore it, but the truth is that João’s absences have become longer and more pronounced, that their bed has been empty more often than not, that his husband’s care for Madrid and the king bearing their joint crown seems to be declining with each passing moment.
Portugal doesn’t turn around to face him, instead meticulously amending a rhumb line in the map on the table. “Almost. It shouldn’t take long for the port to come into view.” He says it as someone who’s been here many times before and knows the area like the back of his hand, and Spain thinks that maybe he does.
They are bound for Macau, but at the last minute Portugal changed their course to visit a friend. The way his second-in-command didn’t question it or even look the slightest bit surprised made Antonio think that perhaps it wasn’t a last minute decision at all and that this detour had been part of the original route all along.
His olive-green eyes follow the line of the horizon, wary of focusing on the waves which delight in upsetting his stomach. In the past João would sidle up to him and gently rib him over his seasickness, standing close enough so that only Antonio could hear him and the scent of lavender washed over him soothingly. The lavender is lost in the breeze now, overwhelmed by the smell of saltwater, and Antonio instinctively covers his silver ring from any splashes that might reach it.
Suddenly there’s land, and no sooner does Spain spot it than he hears João’s voice towering over the crew and ordering them to prepare for disembarking. Antonio looks back to see him but his face is obscured by the strong midmorning sun burning behind him, so instead he turns around and throws up the last of his breakfast.
They keep sailing up the river until finally it is time to dock, and the feel of firm land under his boots is met with a silent prayer of gratitude to the heavens above. João takes a few minutes to follow, exchanging words with the quartermaster who keeps glancing warily at Antonio. One reassuring squeeze on the shoulder later, the man turns away to tend to his duties and João walks past the crew, very much looking like someone who knows where he’s headed.
Ignoring the lingering unsteadiness in his legs, Spain tags along and studies their surroundings with interest, tracing his eyes over the light fabrics, the foreign fruit and strong-smelling powders that call to mind the faint scent clinging to his husband whenever he returns from the East. Paying close attention to the market chatter, he finds himself recognising much of the tongue, looks closer at the men around and takes note of the style of the buildings constructed. It’s uncannily familiar.
“You took land?”
“I was given land. A reward for being a good ally.”
‘So you are capable of such a thing?’ is what Antonio wants to say, but somehow he bites his tongue. “So where is he?” Whoever this friend is, Portugal must have him in high regard if he’s putting off the purchase of silks and porcelain to come greet him on a whim.
João actually pauses at the question, looking up at the sun. “At this time of day…” Almost as if he knows this friend’s routine — a preposterous thought that Antonio shoves away — he takes a quick turn to the left, leading them both away from the settlement and towards the city.
And because Antonio is so lucky, the path includes canals.
The emerging crankiness brought on by his indisposition and compounded by the heat is somewhat tempered by the novelty of the architecture. Antonio can’t help but marvel at the carved rock in the distance, the towers rising over the city rooftops, imposing and spiraling towards the blinding sky.
Eventually they make their way away from the center, past a stone passageway and into what appears to be the grounds of a palatial complex. They’re shaded from the sun here, the light streaming from the canopies much more bearable in its isolation. There are people walking around, and by their activities Antonio guesses they’re servants. He stops in his tracks, waiting for Portugal to communicate to them that they’re here and for their master to come greet them, but to his surprise the other man simply keeps strolling by, nodding here and there at the men. Even more surprising, they do not seem to make much of a fuss over the impromptu visitors. Clearly João has done this enough times that they don’t take notice of him in their grounds.
“He’s not coming to meet us?” Spain quickens his step to catch up, still looking around.
João shakes his head. “He’s quite busy, and we don’t want to be the type of guests who impose too much right away.”
Antonio squints at the back of his head, wanting to remind him that despite him also being a busy man, Portugal will sulk and throw jabs at him if he does not come to greet him whenever he shows up in Madrid. He also wants to ask how it is that they can be guests when this was a last-minute decision, but Portugal cuts him off before he can open his mouth.
“Do what I do and don’t say anything stupid. I have some special standing with Siam and I’d rather not lose it over you.”
Spain purses his lips and looks everywhere but at his companion, keeping his words to himself. How curious, from friend he barely ever heard of to some kind of special partner in a matter of hours. He knows Portugal has a lot of connections in Asia, more than he is interested to make in Europe, so it shouldn’t be a shock. And it isn’t, but… it is something Antonio never had to think about back in their own home where he is the one connected to the rest of the mainland, where he is the only one allowed to wrap around Portugal. But here… here he is the isolated one, not his husband.
“Portugal. Welcome.”
Both Iberians stop at the same time, looking ahead to the owner of the voice, whose hands are joined in a gesture reminiscent of prayer and tilting his head elegantly. Spain sees Portugal mimicking the greeting, coarser in nature but smiling just as warmly, and a discrete elbow to the ribs reminds him to take the hint and bow as well.
Siam straightens his back, and Spain finally has a clear view of him. The sunlight kisses his black hair, strands combed away from a handsome face sporting a smile that is warm, welcoming, sunny. A smile so dazzling that it could perhaps surpass even his own were Portugal so inclined to believe. A smile that Antonio can’t help but dislike immediately, not least of all due to whom it’s been directed towards so far. Almost as if reading his mind, Siam’s dark eyes glance at him momentarily before returning to João. “A friend?”
Portugal shrugs and Spain doesn’t like the look of understanding on Siam’s face when he answers, “Of sorts.”
“Husband, actually.” Two pairs of eyes quickly turn to him, clearly annoyed sea-green contrasting with intrigued cinnamon-brown. But Antonio doesn’t back down, and sticks his nose in the air instead. He is his husband (his only one, even), and Portugal should introduce him as such.
Siam raises his eyebrows slightly, shapes his lips into a silent “ah” and nods to Antonio. “It’s a pleasure meeting you…?”
“Spain.” Really, hadn’t Portugal told him anything?
“Spain.” Siam keeps smiling as he leads them down the corridor and turns his full attention back to Portugal, “Your room is free as always, so you can go rest right away if you wish to. These days are particularly hot so you’ll find the lighter clothes you like in the usual place. And if Spain wouldn’t mind waiting, I can have another room ready by sunset. If he would kindly accept my hospitality, of course.”
Portugal nods as they walk to the room, muttering some cheerful apology about imposing on his host, but Spain speaks up before he has the chance to address the offer on his behalf, “That won’t be necessary, we will share.” The younger man adds, olive eyes focused on this new acquaintance, “God approves of spouses sharing the same bed.”
João looks back at him like he wants to murder him, but Siam doesn’t miss a beat, lips still curved in a half moon shape. “As you wish. Please, make yourself comfortable. I’ve heard many times from João how taxing the journey here can be.”
“Was that necessary?” The first thing Portugal does when the door closes is to slip out of his overcoat and drop all weapons on the foot of his bed.
The first thing Spain does when the door closes is step determinedly in his direction and search for his lips with his own. The desired skin moves away, unwilling to be pinned in any sort of embrace, and Antonio’s jaw tenses. “Why didn’t you tell him about me?”
The older man huffs, unbuttoning his doublet and folding it neatly in a way he never does at home. “It’s not relevant. I’m here for business, not to gossip about my life.”
Spain can’t help but snort incredulously. Does Portugal really take him for an idiot? “Business, is that why you have your own room, with the clothes he knows you like? How many detours do you take in your trips?”
“As many as I need to solidify my position here.” His tone leaves no room for arguments. Portugal is unyielding in this, and nothing Antonio says will change how he deals with his affairs. “Siam is important, and I’m lucky that he favours me over the rest. My good standing here is beneficial to you too.”
“So now you care about what benefits me?”
“I don’t have time for this.” The words are final as he rolls back his shirt’s sleeves, exposing the sun-kissed skin before taking a folded letter from his coat pocket.
But Antonio will not be ignored, he will not be talked into silence and most important of all he will not turn a blind eye at the possibility of sharing what was pledged to him. He grabs Portugal’s collar when he passes by him, pulls on the already too uncovering fabric and seethes at the thoughts it might elicit. “Is this what you do for your precious spice trade, then? Whore yourself out like—”
“I do what I must. Be it for spices, trade, or a king.” Those eyes are so harsh, so unforgiving as João grabs his wrist, and Antonio is suddenly all too aware of the glint of the gold ring on Portugal’s finger, of how each of his kisses carry a heavy debt behind them, of how he will never see himself as belonging to him the way Spain believes he does, of how apparently he is no more entitled to him than some godless kingdom at the end of the world.
Antonio resists against the hand on him, pulls his arm back and narrows his eyes. “I will not be made a fool of. I have my rights.”
“And I have my responsibilities. At least one of us has to take care of Lisbon’s interests.” The door closes with a concluding thud (not a slam because a scene would be too damaging for Portugal’s fucking important image around here) and Antonio stands in the middle of the room in silent anger.
He is Spain, and he will remind Portugal of where his sun rises.