fic: Something like hearbreak; Turkey, Greecce
It is five o clock on a day that feels worlds separated from the day before, Herakles is looking at him with those eyes, his body obviously exhausted, but his posture tight and ready for action, his left arm twitching where his old scars (tattoos) are, and Sadiq already feels a headache pounding behind his brows, but he thinks the day might still be salvageable if he drinks until the sun sets. It’s been ages since they’ve done anything together, but Turkey can see every hitch of pain and stiffness of limbs as if the kid had no clothes on. As it is, sitting in this office, it’s unbearable enough; neither have been fighting since the week got out, and thus they’re at least presentably clean, but Greece’s uniform hasn’t been exchanged for a new one, and there’s still a hole in the stomach Sadiq where Sadiq drove his sword, and Sadik’s jacket is singed from mortar fire.
“I want Smyrna, Thrace, and Crete.” Terse, no formalities, just the dirty deed (Herakles’s eyes shine eldritch past his blood-matted hair, and Sadiq wants nothing more than to take the kid to the bath and wash it away). But Turkey supposes they’ve known each other long enough (too long) to have it any other way; in fact, to consider it any other way from Greece is almost laughable, and he finds enough humor in this imagined situation to allow a wry smile on his lips as he sits back. Greece does not change positions from his hard-eyed, gleaming stare. He’s either offended or too appalled at Turkey’s current state to give him too much shit. Turkey can’t say he likes it. France, England, and America had already come by and picked his bones clean, so to speak; Lebanon and Syria had left the house with, virtually, no protest. Sadiq feels an emptiness he can’t say he remembers ever experiencing in his life, and thinks this may, indeed, be a new one. He would have at least like things to be somewhat the same with Greece.
Really, what is he thinking. He smiles again, wider this time, and laughs at the absurdity of it, knowing that he lost Greece long before he’d lost any of the others, really; they’d been together for the longest, and this was just the formalities.
“Take ‘em.” Turkey says, and feels his chest constrict as he does, choking the words and making them higher. The kid takes a breath as if he were the one that couldn’t breathe, and Sadiq allows himself a chuckle.
“Whatsa matter, dontcha want ‘em? Have this, too.” He can’t have reminders. For what he’s about to do next, it’s just too painful. He reaches under his jacket and extracts a long-chained cross (an ancient one, dating back to the 1400s, at least, something a boy gave to him with a trembling kiss, and a plea that Sadiq stay alive; the silver has tarnished from his body oils and remaining on his body all hours of the day), and though it’s not necessary, breaks the chain that holds it to his neck, and slides it across the desk.
For an instant, Herakles’ posture is shaken; he looks horrified, as if Sadiq has just shot him. His sea-green eyes go wide and rim with tears, his lips part and flush, and his nostrils flare and Sadiq knows he’s going to cry and walk, because that’s how he deals with these situations, and is equally horrified when Herakles does not. He quietly reaches forward, regaining his composure, and clamps his hand around the cross, gripping it hard enough for it to bite into his palm, and speaks in a shaking voice.
“Is there anything else you would like to give me?” His eyes are burning now, and Sadiq knows he’s unwittingly crossed a line, and feels repentant and truculent all the same.
“There’s plenty I’d like to give you, kid, just come over here and I’ll show you.” He leers this, as if he were a different person talking to an entirely different person than Greece. Greece doesn’t sneer in distaste, doesn’t cluck his tongue, doesn’t even have a witty repartee. He lets the silence after Turkey’s statement stretch on, making him feel slightly ridiculous.
“I’m not going to forget, Turkey. Ben asla unutmayacağım.” And it feels like a rebuke and a promise all at the same time, and Turkey feels his chest constrict again until he can hardly breathe past the lump in his throat, and doesn’t allow the tears building up to fall, just keeps his eyes wide, teeth bared, and he thinks, maybe, if he does this then Greece will think he’s snarling at the kid, and not grimacing in a pain worse than anything he’s felt in his life.
He knows Greece knows him better than that, so maybe that’s why Herakles’ eyes are over-bright when he rises, finally, his business obviously done with and, as such, no other reason to stick around. He turns, eyes still on the man, and Turkey thinks that it’s that last look (for a long, long time) that will haunt him. He couldn’t have described it then, couldn’t have understood it then. But looking back on it, especially on the colder nights when he was near the Bosphorus, when the sun would set a deep and permeating red, he thought it had been something like heartbreak.
Notes:
A companion piece to “To Never Forget”. I wanted to rewrite it, and here it is!
Written shortly before Turkey becomes a republic.
Aside for territory, Turkey also gives back a good majority of Greece’s Christians in a population exchange.