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helianskies · 1 year

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They called him the Son of the Devil. 'They', however, did not know what the Devil truly was...

a gift for @needcake! this is just a lil' something hehe, but feliz aniversário e espero que você se divirta! 🌊

[ read the full fic on ao3 or down below! ]

They called him the Son of the Devil.

‘They’ were the Portuguese, God-fearing, almost as much as they were Devil-fearing, evidently. From those unfortunate enough to meet him by land, to those even more unfortunate to meet him at sea, they were his adversaries, his victims, his entertainment.

The Portuguese ships—whether merchant or naval—who clung too close to his territory for too long were taught fast what it really meant to fear. Cannonfire was child’s play. Never did he miss, nor did his men ever hesitate when he made the call. That had bought him his name—a personal ferryman for Davy Jones, delivering souls to their watery graves like the swift turning of the tide.

Meanwhile, those who resided in the areas navigated by his ship did not venture too close whenever they docked. While some were sympathetic to the attacks against the Portuguese, and were kind enough to keep his crew stocked up and sustained with both food and leisure, others were sure to keep their distance when they could. Perhaps that was wise of them. Even the too-curious were at risk. And perhaps being feared like that, too, brought only a greater thrill.

A force to be reckoned with, was what he was. Fierce as the pacific seas he had come to claim as his own. So many ships had been sunken, so many men slain—and it had made Abel a man wealthy not only in riches, but equally in reputation.

At present, Abel and his men were venturing the Coromandel Coast of India. The growing spice trade was teeming with opportunity, markets, clients, and the easterlies made it an easy route to take before swooping back around towards the East Indies. It suited them well. Here, they had been welcomed more openly than they were used to.

To make the most of a final night in their current host town, Abel had been generous and granted the crew an evening to explore and enjoy themselves. For the majority, that had meant a night wandering from tavern to tavern, tankard to tankard, and Abel had gladly joined them.

At least, for most of the evening.

As the moon was approaching its highest point in the sky, however, and as the stars came to shine their brightest, Abel found himself alone at the beginning of a beach. He couldn’t remember how he got there. He couldn’t tell if he had just arrived, or if he had been standing there for an hour. But the sea was calming, the breeze light, and the ‘how’, ‘when’ and ‘why’ were so suddenly, incredibly unimportant.

Abel wandered forth and welcomed the feeling of sand beneath his boots, sturdy yet not, gentle yet not. There was a bottle in his hand, he soon discovered, from which he took a healthy sip of spiced liquor. Life felt perfect.

The sea before him was illuminated by the moon and the stars and the ghosts of his victories. It was his—all his. It was an immense feeling, a sobering tidal wave (well, figuratively sobering, that was).

A younger Abel, who used to quietly watch from the window as his father went out to sea to catch fish before the sun even rose, would not have imagined this future for himself. He used to hate the sea. He used to hate how it stole from him. The day his father had gone out for work and not returned—not that evening, nor the day after, nor even within the next year—he had sworn vengeance.

But now, he was the one who stole, and the sea no longer laughed at him but respected him. It was no longer the enemy, but a friend. If his father had gone out to sea and drowned, then all Abel knew was that his father had simply not been strong enough a man to live…

…he took another swig from the bottle.

What made him do it, he lacked an answer (or at least, answer he was willing to admit, even to himself) but with a mere blink he was sitting down, and with another, sand cradled his body and he stared up at the dark blanketing sky.

Serenity was generally a foreign concept to Abel—otherworldly, even. But there it was, all-encompassing, all-consuming. How… freeing. He closed his eyes and breathed it in and felt that internal reminder why this life was all he needed.

Abel lay there for a while, basking in the swelling night and sea. He could have fallen asleep right then and there—perhaps he even did—but just as all of his senses ebbed and flowed and threatened to leave him in the arms of Morpheus, something distant drifted through the haze. A voice. A chorus.

It was angelic, if he had to try and describe it. A madman would have thought that they were dying and being greeted from on high. But Abel, far from losing his wits, had no other explanation for it.

Sitting up, it was clear that no one else was around on the beach. Even his own footsteps now had been sifted by the wind and cast away. So his head turned back to the sea—could there be a boat? sailors?—but no vessel was there, either, and his confusion remained.

The voice was impossible to pinpoint. It truly seemed to surround him. The more he listened, the more he felt a pull, and the more he listened again, he began to make sense of the words filling the air—words that, at first, had not sounded like words, but which now sung of riches, home, and the sea in a language he knew—a language that was his own.

And then he heard a splash. It had been small, but noticeable, and it drew Abel's gaze towards the South, where rocks trailed from the edge of the coastline and dipped down into the waters.

At first, he wondered if he was, in fact, out of his mind. But he blinked, and peered harder through the night, and found his eyes still did not betray him: there upon the rocks was a figure—the source of the melody, and the object of Abel's fixation. Surely not. But surely, yes.

He was on his feet. He was not sure when or how he had moved, nor why he then proceeded to venture across the sand towards the outcrops, but he did, and he did not fight it. As he neared, the music grew stronger yet softer, more delicate and whimsical, but no less powerful. It called to him. He couldn't fathom why he felt that way, but he did—it was as though the performance was all for him, and he so desperately sought a closer audience.

Before he knew it, the distance that had separated them had shrunk to span only metres. Being so close, he could see the figure somewhat easier—a figure with long hair that they carefully groomed with their own fingers, and legs that appeared to vanish into the water. A midnight swimmer, perhaps? A woman who, like him, had maybe had one drink too many?

Nevertheless, as he stepped onto the rocks themselves in order to get closer still, the beautiful singing, so gentle and smooth, suddenly subsided.

Abel blinked. He stared. Hands dropped away from flowing locks, and a head turned so that two eyes could gaze upon him, and he could gaze upon them in turn.

“I thought it was considered rude to stare.”

The lump in his throat took a few attempts to swallow. “What are you doing out here?” he deflected, gesturing with his bottle (he was amazed he was still holding it) towards the sea. “‘S a bit cold for a swim…”

The other hummed. “Maybe I like the cold,” they—he—could they be a man, with such a frame, and such mystical hair…?—replied. And, just like that, he slipped himself right into the water.

It felt like the other was trying to put distance between them again (Abel did not like that). It also felt like he was trying to prove a point, based on how he did not seem perturbed by the chilly depths. The sailor felt himself shiver just at the thought of the water, but, just as he found himself growing wary of the swimming stranger, he became, once more, the only thing Abel could focus on.

“You seem lost,” the other said, bringing himself to the edge of the rocks, whereupon he rested his arms and held himself against the ledge. “You are not from these lands, are you?”

“No, I am not,” Abel slowly returned as he crouched down, and once more bridged the gap between them. “Though, you hardly seem to be a local yourself. You… barely seem to be of this world, in fact.”

An invisible smile seemed to appear on the other’s face. “Is that a compliment, or an insult?”

“A compliment,” the blonde assured him.

He tried to read the other as he spoke, just as he would read any other person, but all he could think about was how curious this stranger was—how the moon almost seemed to make him glow. And surely it was not his imagination: the other was not only in the sea, but naked, a man who must have had more drink than Abel several times over!

“Do you have a name?” he then asked, hoping to put some pieces of this pretty puzzle together.

To that, the other gave a soft hum. “Everyone has a name,” he replied. “Do you have one?”

“I have a few.”

“Greedy.”

Abel cracked a small smile of his own. “Tell me yours first, and then I will tell you mine.”

The proposal was considered for a moment. A lot of thought seemed to take place—eyes watched closely and the other had to fix his posture—before he finally said, “João.”

His smile suddenly tensed along with several other muscles in his body. “João,” Abel repeated, giving it a taste, letting it dance on his tongue. “Sounds quite… Portuguese.”

“Well,” João responded, “maybe that has something to do with the fact that that is where I come from, no? Now, no distracting yourself,” he went on with ease, “you owe me your name.”

Remaining somewhat wary, but equally as tenacious, the sailor provided what had been requested: “I’m Abel. Though, I must admit, your people tend to use a different name for me…”

It almost felt weird to say so out loud. Perhaps that was the effect of facing someone like João, clouded in mystery, seemingly carefree, Portuguese. What if he already knew of Abel? What if underneath the water was concealed a weapon? What if—?

“'My people', huh? And what name might that be, sailor boy?”

And like that—the very second Abel looked at the other, looked him in the eyes, and was met by a sort of wonder—the care was washed away by the ebbing sea.

“They call me ‘the Son of the Devil’,” he said, “when they are not busy trying to run away.”

The revelation did not quite inspire the fear or wariness he had expected it to, however.

“Seriously?” João reacted instead, as though unimpressed, or unconvinced. “You hardly seem like a demon to me.”

“How would you know?” Abel asked somewhat pointedly, and just as fast as he had spoken before, the other lost his voice.

Abel wondered if he had come across too harsh. Conversely, had that not been the idea? To prove himself? But then, had it been deserved, he had to ask himself. João was one of few people to have ever engaged in a conversation longer than thirty seconds with him. Where others kept their distance, João almost seemed to want to close it between them again.

"Tell me," the sailor said, wanting desperately to amend his prior cruelty, "what has driven you into the water? Not me, I hope."

At that, the other's amusement grew. "Why?" he questioned. "Should I have reason to run from you, too?"

"Or swim away, in your case."

He received a tut. "Well?" the stranger prompted. "Do I?"

"You might," Abel answered in earnest, lowering himself even further by taking a firm seat upon the rocks. "I'm not liked by many people. They prefer to avoid me, if they can."

That, however, only seemed to draw the other in. The gap narrowed even more.

"Does that mean you're dangerous?" he asked.

The word brought Abel, in turn, a small burst of excitement. So much for wanting to make a better impression.

"They have not given me my nickname for no reason."

"Mmm,” João grinned, “that's good. I like danger."

"Oh?"

"Danger can be fun," the other mused. And then, after a short pause—a moment to think—he added, "I can be dangerous, too, you know."

To Abel, it was a laughable notion on the one hand, but equally quite cute that the man in the water did not seem to grasp what danger truly was. Abel had killed, and sometimes just because he could. But this person before him, with their wondrous hair and heavenly voice and gentle eyes (and very naked body), hardly looked capable of anything more sinister than ordinary wit.

Still, he found himself humouring this fantasy. Something about the other made him want to talk more, and enjoy his company.

"How scared should I be of you, then?" Abel asked, to which he received a sort of proud smile.

"No, no. Not scared," João warned him. "Danger is fun, remember."

"Not my kind of danger."

"Only a coward thinks danger is dangerous," however. "So are you dangerous, or scared?"

He couldn't quite work out how they had arrived at such a statement, inflammatory and unnerving. It threatened Abel in so many ways. It was a challenge to his very name, the thing he had spent years of his life carefully constructing . He was hardly going to sit there, and take it.

"I," he said as clearly as possible, "am not scared."

"No?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Very."

"Then get in."

The Dutchman stopped. He blinked. He blinked again. And then, he considered in brief the dark but tranquil sea.

"Come on," the other insisted all the while, gently pushing away from the rock in order to fully embrace the waters around him. "Come in for a dip," he pressed, "and prove to me that you are not scared, sailor boy.”

It was an ask that felt like— No, no— It wasn’t too much—Abel was perfectly capable of getting into the water and going for a swim and had done so many a time—but the bottle in his hand felt heavier than before, and he wondered if perhaps this was all a falla—

A cold hand found his face, held his cheek, and offered a solace that Abel had not requested, but one that… he liked.

“Come,” the other’s voice delicately urged again, “I promise it will be worth it. A quick dip, to prove to me that the Son of the Devil really is as bold and fearsome as he claims…”

Something about the way that João looked at him was utterly magical. He felt awe, he felt hunger, he felt desire. He had not often seen a man and had thoughts of such a nature, but he would allow himself to make an exception.

He got lost in that world for a moment. He could still see and feel João there, reeling him in, but at the same time all Abel could think about was how it would feel to kiss him, to hold him, to have him in bed, to drown in him entirely. Abel wanted it. He wanted him. There was something so suddenly carnal about it—something so imperative, for the sake of his survival.

He was just so… so enchanting. It was impossible to look away, or think of anything—anyone—else. And the nearer João pulled him, the deeper Abel felt ready to—

The water was freezing. It smacked him in the face, merciless and harsh. The moment his body fell into the sea, Abel’s instincts screamed for him to swim, to get back out, to seek warmth and dry land—but as he tried to bob and find air and something to hold onto, all he found was João amongst the bubbles and commotion.

João, who had pulled him right under the surface. João, who smiled at him and held onto him. João, who… did not stop pulling, or holding, or smiling.

It was only when Abel could no longer reach his hands above the water or remember the last few minutes in detail or feel enough air in his lungs that reality, at last, made itself known to him. Too little, too late.

Abel was about to learn what it was like to be condemned to a watery grave of his own.

#hetalia #hws netherlands #hws portugal #nedport #helia writes #happy birthday cake!#i dont know if youll remember but this fic comes from a prompt you sent me so 😇#nothing can go wrong 😇😇

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