flywoman: The Foreign War
Author: kitty69lover
Recipient: flywoman
Title: The Foreign War
Rating: R for theme
Word Count: 4419 words
Pairings/Character(s): Cristiano Ronaldo / Lionel Messi
Warnings: star-crossed lovers
Summary: Caught in the middle of the Spanish Civil War, two souls find each other
Beta'ed by: devioussoul10
Standing note: the Nationalists will be referred to as the Rebels and the Republicans as the Loyalists.
It was a particularly cold January night, but at least it wasn't raining. Lionel had spent the the whole of winter mostly outside, braving the cold, but tonight was different. Tonight he was wandering the still smoking ruins of Barcelona all by himself. The fires brought some warmth, even if they did make for an extremely depressing sight.
Pedro had died last, that very morning, prompting Lionel to leave the city center, to finally attempt to disentangle himself from the war. Being with his friend in his last minutes had been Lionel's final act of bravery, as now he was trying hardest to keep himself together.
Still carrying his regulatory shotgun and all the supplies he could cram in his backpack, he had started afoot, trying to become invisible. With a lot of hard work, he had managed to pass through the more populated parts of the once beautiful city and by the end of the day, he had reached the outskirts.
It went a lot easier from there, as people were in hiding and the Rebels were busy looting the remains of Barcelona. After a long and perilous walk, with trying to steer clear from danger, finding the empty pub in one piece was nothing short of a miracle. He needed shelter, for his body and mind alike and the bar would serve that purpose well.
*
From outside, the pub looked untouched. Cristiano looked around in amazement. Every other building up and down the street was damaged in a certain degree, the one on the farthest corner still fuming, but the nameless pub was in perfect state. Checking it out, he decided to go in, partly wanting to see if it was in the same condition on the inside too and partly in hope of finding some liquor.
Cristiano could use a drink or five, the recent events having shaken him profoundly. He could use some time off as well, to think things through and in particular how they influenced the never ending war. With little hope of finding some spare booze, he pushed the door and arming his gun as a safety precaution ingrained in his mind after so many years of carrying one, he entered the building.
The door creaked open and within a second, Cristiano found himself to be target practice for the man behind the bar. With his gun ready to fire himself, he stared in disbelief at the short man aiming at him, a Loyalist by all appearances.
“Well,” he uttered.
*
Lionel had been busy trying to find something to drink in the mess of broken bottles behind the bar, but he could not help but hear that someone was about to enter. And when the door had opened, he was ready to fire at whomever made it inside.
Having a gun pointed at him was not easy on his nerves, but the tall man didn't look like too much trouble, not with the way he was staring back at him.
“Well,” the stranger uttered nervously.
The two looked at each other deeply, trying to assess each other, uneasiness taking over them both.
*
From the very first moment of catching sight of the man behind the bar, with his gun and his grim face, Cristiano realised there was no way out. They were stuck in that moment, in that position, with no way of advancing or of retreating without getting shot at. The distance between the pub’s front door and the bar was of a mere 10 meters and from that distance, he wasn’t keen on testing the man’s marksmanship.
Lionel observed the man with a set jaw. He was hyper aware that he could not move, as the slightest attempt of taking cover behind the bar could easily be met with a bullet. He himself had been taught to shoot lower than the opponent’s head, so that in case they ducked, he could still hit flesh and cause some sort of injury. He had no guarantees the other man had not benefitted from the same kind of training.
Cristiano spoke first, as any newcomer would. Even if they were at war and the other was, by all means, an opponent, he had still been there first, and it was he who had come in uninvited, so the necessary courtesy was due.
The heavily accented Spanish gave the taller man away on the spot, Lionel thought as if his darker complexion had not already achieved that. The man was Portuguese, a Viriato and he was training a loaded gun on him as well as his dark, burning eyes. However, he was soft spoken and his voice was deep, in a way that was soothing for his ears used to the shrill shouts of dying men and women. Without budging an inch, he spoke up, answering the question in the most polite manner.
The shorter man's gun was fierce and his accent sweet, Cristiano thought as he listened to the very foreign twang, an accent he simply could not place.
Clarifications in place, the two remained silent, both judging the situation they were trapped in. Asking to be allowed to leave - in Cristiano’s situation - or to be left to their own devices - in Lionel’s case - was deemed as a sign of weakness, so even if both of them knew they’d probably do as requested, they knew better.
Even in that awkward situation, they remained enemies.
“By all means, it seems we have entered an impossible situation,” Lionel spoke after the minutes’ long silence.
He was always keen on setting the record straight and make things as clear as possible.
“Indeed we are,” Cristiano replied, a small smile flourishing on his lips.
“What are we going to do?”
It wasn’t deviousness that urged Cristiano to ask the question that would open up the ball, but a genuine interest in the other, in the short man with the gun, the unprecedented enemy in this god forsaken country.
“Tell me about yourself, if you wish.”
Ever since the war had broken, Lionel had shut himself down, stashing away all emotions, feelings and the like. He had wanted to be able to survive the gruesome conflict with his sentiments intact and still able to feel, so he had tried to care less and less about his friends and comrades dying, about the massive destruction and loss of lives and the terrible outcome that could be always glimpsed should Franco and his men win. So now, faced with such a direct question from the tall stranger, an enemy and a vile one, as he wasn’t even a Spaniard, he felt something inside of him break.
The walls of his soul shattered as Cristiano looked at him with those devilish dark eyes and he knew that he needed to tell him all about himself, he needed it in order to stay alive, in order to still be able to breathe and still call himself human. Gripping the gun just to make sure he still had control over the situation, to hold onto something real as he submerged into what seemed like a dream, Lionel began his story, revealing truths and ideas he had suppressed for over 3 years.
“I came here to work, a while ago. I'd say it was nearly two years before the war started. I worked on the docks, made good money, made a lot of friends - all of them locals - and i could send money to my family back in Argentina.”
“Ah!” Cristiano exclaimed, interrupting Lionel.
“What?”
“Argentina, that's why your Spanish sounds so ... sweet.”
Lionel could feel his cheeks heating up and with no little shock he could tell the other man was rather blushing himself. It was all the more awkward as each of them still had their guns pointed at the other, well ready to shoot.
“Thank you,” he emitted a barely audible response. “It was all right, before the war, I mean. It wasn't great, because I missed my family, my country, but it was certainly an acceptable arrangement. I had so many good friends, people who cared for me and helped me through the days, that sometimes I could even say I was happy. I was happy being here.”
Cristiano recognized the look of longing on the other man's face. It was something he could definitely relate to, he too having been away from his family for so long, trapped in the war. He could tell that the Argentine was vulnerable right now and that if he wanted, he could initiate a retreat. After all, it would be taking a single step back, outside the line of fire. He would be free, as free as a soldier could ever be.
But something stopped him. There was something so compelling in the other man's face, in his brown eyes and his mournful look that kept Cristiano rooted to the spot. He needed to hear the foreigner's story, so that he could share his.
“Then the war came, and all my friends went to battle. All of them were Catalan, they obviously had to go, for them it was the chance to be free, independent, at last. I had no reason to go, really, I wasn't as vested in Catalan politics as most other foreigners were, but I wanted to be with them, in their time of need.”
Stopping, he sighed, looking back at the tall Portuguese man, still standing there, despite the obvious numerous chances to leave. And right that moment, he knew the other would never leave, that this man with his unsettling eyes and sharply chiseled face was going to listen to him to the very end and take the weight of incredible loss off his feeble shoulders.
“So, you enrolled anyway.”
“They didn't want me to, but they needed my aid. It was obvious. They had been there for me when I had just arrived in Barcelona, when I cried myself to sleep and all I could think of was how to raise enough money to return as soon as possible, they had helped me when I needed it most and I - despite my size - I was never a coward. I could fight alongside them, even for a country that was not my own, and so I did.”
Cristiano sighed and felt a wave of sympathy course him. The smaller man reminded him of himself in so many ways that he now felt the Argentine's story was his story and hearing it out like that exposed and absolved him of all his crimes and shortcomings.
“But I never liked the war. I never liked what we were doing, nor what the other party was doing. And then, little by little, as the war caught momentum and grew bigger than anything I've ever seen, I began to realise I had made a mistake, that I had allowed myself to become part of something gruesome and ugly. My friends started dying, our band was soon torn apart, and the war raged on, like a fire no-one can put out anymore.”
“Yes, that's surely how it felt, it felt like it had been going on forever and with every small victory, every taken city, we were all far closer to death than to the final conquest.”
“But there it is now, the final conquest. Barcelona.”
Cristiano suddenly looked ashamed. He hadn't meant to interrupt Lionel's story with his own memoirs of battle, they were enemies after all. They stood in silence for a little while longer, eyes searching for the connection each of them had thought they'd seen in the other, gazing desperately at the other.
Finally, Lionel spoke again, this time his voice a mere whisper.
“I remember all their deaths. Every single one, and they'll never leave me.”
For the first time since Cristiano had walked in, he felt the other as a real enemy. The joke was over and he could tell that the shorter man behind the counter was holding him responsible. He couldn't have that, it wasn't right.
“My father was an officer. He was a military man and he loved battles and fighting. He sent me to war, he asked me to go fight for the right cause, he asked me to do this for him on his death bed. I had no choice but to volunteer, even if I never imagined what war could really be like.”
Caution aside, he shifted to the side, leaning on the wall for support. He noticed his movement being carefully watched and tried not to draw attention to how tightly he was still gripping his gun.
“I came to Spain with my friends, people I knew forever. We didn't really come for Franco or for the Rebels, we came as a band of brothers, thinking this might be a way to beat boredom. We were all so foolish. We were all so young and cocksure. We thought we were invincible and the war mere child-play, a way to exercise our manliness. How wrong were we! How wrong was I!”
Lionel watched as the tall, strong man before him was on the verge of crumbling down. And the anger he had felt just minutes before vanished, replaced by sympathy and something else, a sorrow that made him want to reach out.
He couldn't. Cristiano was the enemy, he was a Viriato, and men like him had chased and killed his own friends. He shouldn't even care that the Portuguese was suffering, he should be glad for it and try to shoot him when he was this exposed and vulnerable.
But he couldn't do that either. This wasn't his war, even if he was part of it. And it wasn't the other man's war either, and by the look of his sad eyes, he was regretting ever coming to Spain.
“My best friend died first,” Cristiano spoke up again, composing himself and looking straight at Lionel again. “He was shot in an ambush and we couldn't even take his body with us because we had to retreat quickly.”
“It is what war does to people, turns them into machines. Or at least it tries, it bludgeons you with all this horror and sadness, until you cannot feel a thing. Then, then you can kill anyone.”
“Have you reached that point?”
The question left Cristiano's lips without him thinking through. The shock in Lionel's eyes mirrored his own as he realised the meaning behind his words.
“I thought I had, when I found myself alone this morning, the last of my companions dead from his many wounds sustained in the siege. I thought I was finally free of all feelings and emotions. At first, I was bewildered by all this apathy, by all this coldness in my heart, but then I realised I could use this to my advantage. I wanted to find a way to remove myself from this war, even if I had to kill every man that came my way, and now I could finally do it.”
There was a pause, during which Lionel looked away from Cristiano's face, his gaze following the Portuguese man's gun, then his slender legs, stopping at his boot-clad feet.
“But then you came in through the door.”
Their eyes met again, and for the longest time, they both just looked at one another intensely, without uttering a sound. It was that very moment that they knew words were no longer necessary and they could just share the meaningful silence forever.
*
If it wasn't for the rifles each man still had a hold of, the bar scene would've been a regular, every day one. Lionel sat perched on a stool behind the counter, one hand on the gun of course, the glass in the other. Cristiano was still by the door, sitting cross-legged on the floor with the wall as backrest, the gun firmly placed on his lap and aimed at Lionel.
But they were chatting amicably, having shared a few rounds of laughter and some moments of stillness and remembrance. They had both lost friends and comrades, trusted companions and loved ones. They were both away from home, fighting in the foreign war with no conviction of their own.
Talking through the night lead to daydreaming, each of them feeling the other closer than anyone in their respective lives. Lionel saw in Cristiano his pillar of strength, the man who would be there for him no matter what, standing besides him for good and for worse. He saw Cristiano's brashness as the cure to his own shyness and the Portuguese man's loquaciousness as the antidote to his trademark quietness. He had looked inside himself and he had seen the mechanics of his heart, his basic needs and had found that the other man was just the right answer.
Ignoring for a moment or two that - as a Loyalist - the danger still engulfed him, he could tell that the man before him, with his silly grin and perfect teeth, with the slightly curling hair and intense dark eyes was everything he had always dreamed of. And regardless of the horrid war, he could not deny himself the emotions he was feeling. Swelling in his chest like a river in spring, the passion arose inside him, making him disregard everything else the other man was: his enemy, his conqueror, his possible killer.
He looked at the other and - if he thought about it, he had never seen the rival in him, not even in that very first moment when he had walked in, with his rifle and his surprised face. Even then, Lionel had known the man before him wasn't someone to be afraid of. But even more so, he knew he could not underestimate him, he could not let himself be fooled by appearances and relax. But he had done just that and in under 3 hours, they had not only shared their entire life stories, but they had connected on a deeper level.
The man by the door, Cristiano, was both enemy and the one he wanted, so a great part of Lionel's heart was trembling at the thought of their very near future.
Cristiano saw the Argentine as the only person understanding what it was like to have to live up to certain expectations, to have to behave impeccably so one wouldn't be a let down. For him, Lionel was the missing person from his life, the one to call him out on his bullshit yet support him when things didn't go according to plan. They had talked about almost everything and he had confided his deepest fears, his most despicable moments and his happiest as well. The trauma of the foreign war had brought them together, aiding them in bonding like he had never done before, not even with his best mates, while obviously keeping them apart.
He was hyper aware that he could've never trusted his darkest secrets, his worst moments to someone who knew him, someone who expected differently of him. Meeting an enemy had given him the shiny opportunity to unburden himself, to share his horrifying experiences and to be understood rather than mocked for it. But at the same time, Lionel was the other party, not a local, but he too could be resentful, spiteful and ready to avenge the death of his friends. As little vested as Lionel seemed to be in the whole thing, he had had his share of grief, so in those few pauses, Cristiano felt the shiver of great, impending doom.
And yet, all he wanted was to be able to cross the room and touch Lionel's fuzzy cheek. Just that, weapon left behind.
Then there came the moment when they both realised what had happened. It was a moment of terror, when they stopped talking and in the silence enclosing them, they could hear their heartbeats, drumming away the emotion and the fear each felt.
They could easily imagine a future for them both, in a peaceful Spain, or maybe France, living happily together. They could close their eyes and - away from the city center as they were - hear only the sound of silence, as if the city was not ablaze with a million fires of the victors. But then again, the war went on, and even if the bombs had stopped, the hunt for Loyalists was in full throttle. And so, they could just as easily picture death, the untimely end taking them both, because that was what war did, it ruined lives and friendships and lovers, and they were none of that.
As long as they kept talking, they were safe. As long as they kept the distance, they could pretend harm couldn't get to them, they could imagine the bar was their little oyster, the safe haven.
So they did just that, hours passing alarmingly quickly as they became more and more aware of the emotions rising up between them. But as the levels of trust grew, so did the night wane out, the first signs of dawn cracking through the window.
And no matter how wonderful and liberating the night had been, they knew it had to end, that the finish line was approaching fast and that they had to make a decision.
“I have never thought a night like this could happen to me, I never believed in soul-mates before tonight.”
“Neither had I, I had never imagined I could ever live such a magical encounter during this dreadful war.”
A different kind of silence set in, both pondering what to say next. They knew they had already confessed to their feelings, and that it wasn't needed to say it out loud, but the daylight was spreading into the room, corrupting their peace of mind, so they had to hurry.
“We cannot escape our fate, no matter how much we'd try. We could hide here, but they'd find us. And kill us. I don't want to die like that.”
“We could run away, but something tells me that'd be worse. They'd torture us once caught and they'd destroy us before killing us. I know what they do to prisoners...”
The flicker of reality hit them both with Cristiano's words. Lionel understood once again that the man he had found his peace in was one of them. Different in intent and clearly more compassionate, but one of them still. And in the end, not even that fact could save them, neither of them.
“We cannot escape the world we live in, we cannot outsmart the war and its rigours. Spain will claim out souls even if we fight against it.”
“Perhaps even more so if we do.”
It was clear that no matter which side found them, one of them would have to die. And the one left behind would have to live with this, either as a conqueror or as a prisoner. This gloomy future ahead of them was nothing they desired as the ending of their astonighing night together.
“We were made to be enemies by our initial choice of congregation. Our respective backgrounds saw us on different sides of this war we cannot even call our own. But throughout this night, enemies is the last thing we've been. This is why I think we should end this incredible, unimaginable event as enemies. We should do what we should've done from the beginning.”
Lionel gulped at the proposal. Cristiano needn't say more, because one glance at the Argentine as he got up was enough to know he was already on board.
“It is the only thing we could do, salvage what we had and not let it be tainted by the cruel, forbidding outside.”
Cristiano got up, backing up against the wall as he couldn't use his hands in the process. His butt was sore, but his soul was soaring. Lionel got off the stool and rounded the bar. He wanted no boundaries between him and Cristiano.
The 10 meters between them had seemed like such a long distance during the night, but now it felt like a couple of steps away. They could, they really could close the gap and touch each other. They looked at each other, contemplating what to do next, how to proceed.
Without lowering their guns, they both took a step forward, a small step, but a clear sign they were soon to meet halfway through and seal their togetherness in a more tangible way. The sound of heavy boots filling the street outside stopped them dead in their tracks.
“We must hurry!”
Their hearts beating faster than ever, harder than during the most intense battles, they knew their time was up. There was nothing else to do but shoot. There were no tears and no unnecessary words, they took aim and holding their breaths, counted down from 3.
The twin shots reverberated through the small chamber and they collapsed, their hearts pierced as if by Cupid himself. Once on the floor, all conventions fell apart, blown to smithereens by their ultimate sacrifice. Looking at each other, they knew their moment had finally come and so they made the final effort to crawl towards one another.
Their hands touched, fingers curling against fingers and they both smiled. Death was coming, but in a twisted way, they had had their happiness.
“I love you,” the whisper left Lionel's chapped lips, his eyes growing darker with the shroud of physical demise.
“I love you too,” Cristiano chimed with a smile, the soft words leaving his lips together with his last breath.
Notes:
events occurring on January 28, 1939, 2 days after the Rebels took Barcelona; the war ended shortly afterwards, on April 1st.
primarily based on the Tavern Mexican Standoff scene in Inglourious Basterds, I moved the setting to a regular pub, as I had no way of constructing a functional Mexican Standoff without a 3rd party had I used the underground tavern
star-crossed lovers motif based on the imaginable love story between Shoshanna Dreyfus and Pvt. Fredrick Zoller in Inglorious Basterds (see their last scene together)
historical facts: 20000 Portuguese fighters were sent to fight alongside the Rebels, they were called Viriatos; wiki mentions nothing of Argentinians, so Lionel's war effort is made up
Recipient: flywoman
Title: The Foreign War
Rating: R for theme
Word Count: 4419 words
Pairings/Character(s): Cristiano Ronaldo / Lionel Messi
Warnings: star-crossed lovers
Summary: Caught in the middle of the Spanish Civil War, two souls find each other
Beta'ed by: devioussoul10
Standing note: the Nationalists will be referred to as the Rebels and the Republicans as the Loyalists.
It was a particularly cold January night, but at least it wasn't raining. Lionel had spent the the whole of winter mostly outside, braving the cold, but tonight was different. Tonight he was wandering the still smoking ruins of Barcelona all by himself. The fires brought some warmth, even if they did make for an extremely depressing sight.
Pedro had died last, that very morning, prompting Lionel to leave the city center, to finally attempt to disentangle himself from the war. Being with his friend in his last minutes had been Lionel's final act of bravery, as now he was trying hardest to keep himself together.
Still carrying his regulatory shotgun and all the supplies he could cram in his backpack, he had started afoot, trying to become invisible. With a lot of hard work, he had managed to pass through the more populated parts of the once beautiful city and by the end of the day, he had reached the outskirts.
It went a lot easier from there, as people were in hiding and the Rebels were busy looting the remains of Barcelona. After a long and perilous walk, with trying to steer clear from danger, finding the empty pub in one piece was nothing short of a miracle. He needed shelter, for his body and mind alike and the bar would serve that purpose well.
*
From outside, the pub looked untouched. Cristiano looked around in amazement. Every other building up and down the street was damaged in a certain degree, the one on the farthest corner still fuming, but the nameless pub was in perfect state. Checking it out, he decided to go in, partly wanting to see if it was in the same condition on the inside too and partly in hope of finding some liquor.
Cristiano could use a drink or five, the recent events having shaken him profoundly. He could use some time off as well, to think things through and in particular how they influenced the never ending war. With little hope of finding some spare booze, he pushed the door and arming his gun as a safety precaution ingrained in his mind after so many years of carrying one, he entered the building.
The door creaked open and within a second, Cristiano found himself to be target practice for the man behind the bar. With his gun ready to fire himself, he stared in disbelief at the short man aiming at him, a Loyalist by all appearances.
“Well,” he uttered.
*
Lionel had been busy trying to find something to drink in the mess of broken bottles behind the bar, but he could not help but hear that someone was about to enter. And when the door had opened, he was ready to fire at whomever made it inside.
Having a gun pointed at him was not easy on his nerves, but the tall man didn't look like too much trouble, not with the way he was staring back at him.
“Well,” the stranger uttered nervously.
The two looked at each other deeply, trying to assess each other, uneasiness taking over them both.
*
From the very first moment of catching sight of the man behind the bar, with his gun and his grim face, Cristiano realised there was no way out. They were stuck in that moment, in that position, with no way of advancing or of retreating without getting shot at. The distance between the pub’s front door and the bar was of a mere 10 meters and from that distance, he wasn’t keen on testing the man’s marksmanship.
Lionel observed the man with a set jaw. He was hyper aware that he could not move, as the slightest attempt of taking cover behind the bar could easily be met with a bullet. He himself had been taught to shoot lower than the opponent’s head, so that in case they ducked, he could still hit flesh and cause some sort of injury. He had no guarantees the other man had not benefitted from the same kind of training.
Cristiano spoke first, as any newcomer would. Even if they were at war and the other was, by all means, an opponent, he had still been there first, and it was he who had come in uninvited, so the necessary courtesy was due.
The heavily accented Spanish gave the taller man away on the spot, Lionel thought as if his darker complexion had not already achieved that. The man was Portuguese, a Viriato and he was training a loaded gun on him as well as his dark, burning eyes. However, he was soft spoken and his voice was deep, in a way that was soothing for his ears used to the shrill shouts of dying men and women. Without budging an inch, he spoke up, answering the question in the most polite manner.
The shorter man's gun was fierce and his accent sweet, Cristiano thought as he listened to the very foreign twang, an accent he simply could not place.
Clarifications in place, the two remained silent, both judging the situation they were trapped in. Asking to be allowed to leave - in Cristiano’s situation - or to be left to their own devices - in Lionel’s case - was deemed as a sign of weakness, so even if both of them knew they’d probably do as requested, they knew better.
Even in that awkward situation, they remained enemies.
“By all means, it seems we have entered an impossible situation,” Lionel spoke after the minutes’ long silence.
He was always keen on setting the record straight and make things as clear as possible.
“Indeed we are,” Cristiano replied, a small smile flourishing on his lips.
“What are we going to do?”
It wasn’t deviousness that urged Cristiano to ask the question that would open up the ball, but a genuine interest in the other, in the short man with the gun, the unprecedented enemy in this god forsaken country.
“Tell me about yourself, if you wish.”
Ever since the war had broken, Lionel had shut himself down, stashing away all emotions, feelings and the like. He had wanted to be able to survive the gruesome conflict with his sentiments intact and still able to feel, so he had tried to care less and less about his friends and comrades dying, about the massive destruction and loss of lives and the terrible outcome that could be always glimpsed should Franco and his men win. So now, faced with such a direct question from the tall stranger, an enemy and a vile one, as he wasn’t even a Spaniard, he felt something inside of him break.
The walls of his soul shattered as Cristiano looked at him with those devilish dark eyes and he knew that he needed to tell him all about himself, he needed it in order to stay alive, in order to still be able to breathe and still call himself human. Gripping the gun just to make sure he still had control over the situation, to hold onto something real as he submerged into what seemed like a dream, Lionel began his story, revealing truths and ideas he had suppressed for over 3 years.
“I came here to work, a while ago. I'd say it was nearly two years before the war started. I worked on the docks, made good money, made a lot of friends - all of them locals - and i could send money to my family back in Argentina.”
“Ah!” Cristiano exclaimed, interrupting Lionel.
“What?”
“Argentina, that's why your Spanish sounds so ... sweet.”
Lionel could feel his cheeks heating up and with no little shock he could tell the other man was rather blushing himself. It was all the more awkward as each of them still had their guns pointed at the other, well ready to shoot.
“Thank you,” he emitted a barely audible response. “It was all right, before the war, I mean. It wasn't great, because I missed my family, my country, but it was certainly an acceptable arrangement. I had so many good friends, people who cared for me and helped me through the days, that sometimes I could even say I was happy. I was happy being here.”
Cristiano recognized the look of longing on the other man's face. It was something he could definitely relate to, he too having been away from his family for so long, trapped in the war. He could tell that the Argentine was vulnerable right now and that if he wanted, he could initiate a retreat. After all, it would be taking a single step back, outside the line of fire. He would be free, as free as a soldier could ever be.
But something stopped him. There was something so compelling in the other man's face, in his brown eyes and his mournful look that kept Cristiano rooted to the spot. He needed to hear the foreigner's story, so that he could share his.
“Then the war came, and all my friends went to battle. All of them were Catalan, they obviously had to go, for them it was the chance to be free, independent, at last. I had no reason to go, really, I wasn't as vested in Catalan politics as most other foreigners were, but I wanted to be with them, in their time of need.”
Stopping, he sighed, looking back at the tall Portuguese man, still standing there, despite the obvious numerous chances to leave. And right that moment, he knew the other would never leave, that this man with his unsettling eyes and sharply chiseled face was going to listen to him to the very end and take the weight of incredible loss off his feeble shoulders.
“So, you enrolled anyway.”
“They didn't want me to, but they needed my aid. It was obvious. They had been there for me when I had just arrived in Barcelona, when I cried myself to sleep and all I could think of was how to raise enough money to return as soon as possible, they had helped me when I needed it most and I - despite my size - I was never a coward. I could fight alongside them, even for a country that was not my own, and so I did.”
Cristiano sighed and felt a wave of sympathy course him. The smaller man reminded him of himself in so many ways that he now felt the Argentine's story was his story and hearing it out like that exposed and absolved him of all his crimes and shortcomings.
“But I never liked the war. I never liked what we were doing, nor what the other party was doing. And then, little by little, as the war caught momentum and grew bigger than anything I've ever seen, I began to realise I had made a mistake, that I had allowed myself to become part of something gruesome and ugly. My friends started dying, our band was soon torn apart, and the war raged on, like a fire no-one can put out anymore.”
“Yes, that's surely how it felt, it felt like it had been going on forever and with every small victory, every taken city, we were all far closer to death than to the final conquest.”
“But there it is now, the final conquest. Barcelona.”
Cristiano suddenly looked ashamed. He hadn't meant to interrupt Lionel's story with his own memoirs of battle, they were enemies after all. They stood in silence for a little while longer, eyes searching for the connection each of them had thought they'd seen in the other, gazing desperately at the other.
Finally, Lionel spoke again, this time his voice a mere whisper.
“I remember all their deaths. Every single one, and they'll never leave me.”
For the first time since Cristiano had walked in, he felt the other as a real enemy. The joke was over and he could tell that the shorter man behind the counter was holding him responsible. He couldn't have that, it wasn't right.
“My father was an officer. He was a military man and he loved battles and fighting. He sent me to war, he asked me to go fight for the right cause, he asked me to do this for him on his death bed. I had no choice but to volunteer, even if I never imagined what war could really be like.”
Caution aside, he shifted to the side, leaning on the wall for support. He noticed his movement being carefully watched and tried not to draw attention to how tightly he was still gripping his gun.
“I came to Spain with my friends, people I knew forever. We didn't really come for Franco or for the Rebels, we came as a band of brothers, thinking this might be a way to beat boredom. We were all so foolish. We were all so young and cocksure. We thought we were invincible and the war mere child-play, a way to exercise our manliness. How wrong were we! How wrong was I!”
Lionel watched as the tall, strong man before him was on the verge of crumbling down. And the anger he had felt just minutes before vanished, replaced by sympathy and something else, a sorrow that made him want to reach out.
He couldn't. Cristiano was the enemy, he was a Viriato, and men like him had chased and killed his own friends. He shouldn't even care that the Portuguese was suffering, he should be glad for it and try to shoot him when he was this exposed and vulnerable.
But he couldn't do that either. This wasn't his war, even if he was part of it. And it wasn't the other man's war either, and by the look of his sad eyes, he was regretting ever coming to Spain.
“My best friend died first,” Cristiano spoke up again, composing himself and looking straight at Lionel again. “He was shot in an ambush and we couldn't even take his body with us because we had to retreat quickly.”
“It is what war does to people, turns them into machines. Or at least it tries, it bludgeons you with all this horror and sadness, until you cannot feel a thing. Then, then you can kill anyone.”
“Have you reached that point?”
The question left Cristiano's lips without him thinking through. The shock in Lionel's eyes mirrored his own as he realised the meaning behind his words.
“I thought I had, when I found myself alone this morning, the last of my companions dead from his many wounds sustained in the siege. I thought I was finally free of all feelings and emotions. At first, I was bewildered by all this apathy, by all this coldness in my heart, but then I realised I could use this to my advantage. I wanted to find a way to remove myself from this war, even if I had to kill every man that came my way, and now I could finally do it.”
There was a pause, during which Lionel looked away from Cristiano's face, his gaze following the Portuguese man's gun, then his slender legs, stopping at his boot-clad feet.
“But then you came in through the door.”
Their eyes met again, and for the longest time, they both just looked at one another intensely, without uttering a sound. It was that very moment that they knew words were no longer necessary and they could just share the meaningful silence forever.
*
If it wasn't for the rifles each man still had a hold of, the bar scene would've been a regular, every day one. Lionel sat perched on a stool behind the counter, one hand on the gun of course, the glass in the other. Cristiano was still by the door, sitting cross-legged on the floor with the wall as backrest, the gun firmly placed on his lap and aimed at Lionel.
But they were chatting amicably, having shared a few rounds of laughter and some moments of stillness and remembrance. They had both lost friends and comrades, trusted companions and loved ones. They were both away from home, fighting in the foreign war with no conviction of their own.
Talking through the night lead to daydreaming, each of them feeling the other closer than anyone in their respective lives. Lionel saw in Cristiano his pillar of strength, the man who would be there for him no matter what, standing besides him for good and for worse. He saw Cristiano's brashness as the cure to his own shyness and the Portuguese man's loquaciousness as the antidote to his trademark quietness. He had looked inside himself and he had seen the mechanics of his heart, his basic needs and had found that the other man was just the right answer.
Ignoring for a moment or two that - as a Loyalist - the danger still engulfed him, he could tell that the man before him, with his silly grin and perfect teeth, with the slightly curling hair and intense dark eyes was everything he had always dreamed of. And regardless of the horrid war, he could not deny himself the emotions he was feeling. Swelling in his chest like a river in spring, the passion arose inside him, making him disregard everything else the other man was: his enemy, his conqueror, his possible killer.
He looked at the other and - if he thought about it, he had never seen the rival in him, not even in that very first moment when he had walked in, with his rifle and his surprised face. Even then, Lionel had known the man before him wasn't someone to be afraid of. But even more so, he knew he could not underestimate him, he could not let himself be fooled by appearances and relax. But he had done just that and in under 3 hours, they had not only shared their entire life stories, but they had connected on a deeper level.
The man by the door, Cristiano, was both enemy and the one he wanted, so a great part of Lionel's heart was trembling at the thought of their very near future.
Cristiano saw the Argentine as the only person understanding what it was like to have to live up to certain expectations, to have to behave impeccably so one wouldn't be a let down. For him, Lionel was the missing person from his life, the one to call him out on his bullshit yet support him when things didn't go according to plan. They had talked about almost everything and he had confided his deepest fears, his most despicable moments and his happiest as well. The trauma of the foreign war had brought them together, aiding them in bonding like he had never done before, not even with his best mates, while obviously keeping them apart.
He was hyper aware that he could've never trusted his darkest secrets, his worst moments to someone who knew him, someone who expected differently of him. Meeting an enemy had given him the shiny opportunity to unburden himself, to share his horrifying experiences and to be understood rather than mocked for it. But at the same time, Lionel was the other party, not a local, but he too could be resentful, spiteful and ready to avenge the death of his friends. As little vested as Lionel seemed to be in the whole thing, he had had his share of grief, so in those few pauses, Cristiano felt the shiver of great, impending doom.
And yet, all he wanted was to be able to cross the room and touch Lionel's fuzzy cheek. Just that, weapon left behind.
Then there came the moment when they both realised what had happened. It was a moment of terror, when they stopped talking and in the silence enclosing them, they could hear their heartbeats, drumming away the emotion and the fear each felt.
They could easily imagine a future for them both, in a peaceful Spain, or maybe France, living happily together. They could close their eyes and - away from the city center as they were - hear only the sound of silence, as if the city was not ablaze with a million fires of the victors. But then again, the war went on, and even if the bombs had stopped, the hunt for Loyalists was in full throttle. And so, they could just as easily picture death, the untimely end taking them both, because that was what war did, it ruined lives and friendships and lovers, and they were none of that.
As long as they kept talking, they were safe. As long as they kept the distance, they could pretend harm couldn't get to them, they could imagine the bar was their little oyster, the safe haven.
So they did just that, hours passing alarmingly quickly as they became more and more aware of the emotions rising up between them. But as the levels of trust grew, so did the night wane out, the first signs of dawn cracking through the window.
And no matter how wonderful and liberating the night had been, they knew it had to end, that the finish line was approaching fast and that they had to make a decision.
“I have never thought a night like this could happen to me, I never believed in soul-mates before tonight.”
“Neither had I, I had never imagined I could ever live such a magical encounter during this dreadful war.”
A different kind of silence set in, both pondering what to say next. They knew they had already confessed to their feelings, and that it wasn't needed to say it out loud, but the daylight was spreading into the room, corrupting their peace of mind, so they had to hurry.
“We cannot escape our fate, no matter how much we'd try. We could hide here, but they'd find us. And kill us. I don't want to die like that.”
“We could run away, but something tells me that'd be worse. They'd torture us once caught and they'd destroy us before killing us. I know what they do to prisoners...”
The flicker of reality hit them both with Cristiano's words. Lionel understood once again that the man he had found his peace in was one of them. Different in intent and clearly more compassionate, but one of them still. And in the end, not even that fact could save them, neither of them.
“We cannot escape the world we live in, we cannot outsmart the war and its rigours. Spain will claim out souls even if we fight against it.”
“Perhaps even more so if we do.”
It was clear that no matter which side found them, one of them would have to die. And the one left behind would have to live with this, either as a conqueror or as a prisoner. This gloomy future ahead of them was nothing they desired as the ending of their astonighing night together.
“We were made to be enemies by our initial choice of congregation. Our respective backgrounds saw us on different sides of this war we cannot even call our own. But throughout this night, enemies is the last thing we've been. This is why I think we should end this incredible, unimaginable event as enemies. We should do what we should've done from the beginning.”
Lionel gulped at the proposal. Cristiano needn't say more, because one glance at the Argentine as he got up was enough to know he was already on board.
“It is the only thing we could do, salvage what we had and not let it be tainted by the cruel, forbidding outside.”
Cristiano got up, backing up against the wall as he couldn't use his hands in the process. His butt was sore, but his soul was soaring. Lionel got off the stool and rounded the bar. He wanted no boundaries between him and Cristiano.
The 10 meters between them had seemed like such a long distance during the night, but now it felt like a couple of steps away. They could, they really could close the gap and touch each other. They looked at each other, contemplating what to do next, how to proceed.
Without lowering their guns, they both took a step forward, a small step, but a clear sign they were soon to meet halfway through and seal their togetherness in a more tangible way. The sound of heavy boots filling the street outside stopped them dead in their tracks.
“We must hurry!”
Their hearts beating faster than ever, harder than during the most intense battles, they knew their time was up. There was nothing else to do but shoot. There were no tears and no unnecessary words, they took aim and holding their breaths, counted down from 3.
The twin shots reverberated through the small chamber and they collapsed, their hearts pierced as if by Cupid himself. Once on the floor, all conventions fell apart, blown to smithereens by their ultimate sacrifice. Looking at each other, they knew their moment had finally come and so they made the final effort to crawl towards one another.
Their hands touched, fingers curling against fingers and they both smiled. Death was coming, but in a twisted way, they had had their happiness.
“I love you,” the whisper left Lionel's chapped lips, his eyes growing darker with the shroud of physical demise.
“I love you too,” Cristiano chimed with a smile, the soft words leaving his lips together with his last breath.
Notes:
events occurring on January 28, 1939, 2 days after the Rebels took Barcelona; the war ended shortly afterwards, on April 1st.
primarily based on the Tavern Mexican Standoff scene in Inglourious Basterds, I moved the setting to a regular pub, as I had no way of constructing a functional Mexican Standoff without a 3rd party had I used the underground tavern
star-crossed lovers motif based on the imaginable love story between Shoshanna Dreyfus and Pvt. Fredrick Zoller in Inglorious Basterds (see their last scene together)
historical facts: 20000 Portuguese fighters were sent to fight alongside the Rebels, they were called Viriatos; wiki mentions nothing of Argentinians, so Lionel's war effort is made up