Lifetimes [1/1]
Title: Lifetimes
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece
Rating: PG
Status: complete
And So... A glance into the lives of an ordinary Greek and an ordinary Turk through seven centuries.
Notes: Herro, fandom, did you miss me? Unfortunately being a grown up means grown up responsibilities and less time for watching cartoons let alone writing silly things. Or... at least being trapped in a grown up job 'OTL I've had this sitting on my computer for months, but finally it's come to completion.
Sadiq’s hair is still damp from the shower when Heracles says it. (He had said, “Get a bath; you stink, old man,” earlier this morning, but that’s not the phrase Sadiq’s mind is stuck on now.) Sadiq is shoveling a bite of breakfast into his mouth when Heracles says it. Casually; like he’s remarking about the weather or a movie or… something that isn’t probably going to turn out to be some of the most important words to ever pass between them:
“What do you think it would have been like if we were human?”
“Hrm?” is the most eloquent response Sadiq has to that, fork still shoved in his mouth.
“If we were just two people.” Heracles gazes at him steadily over his cup of coffee, toying with the rim. “If we had existed in a state more simply than we do.”
So that was why Heracles had been tossing and turning enough last night to elbow Sadiq in the ribs. Slowly, he sets his fork down; he knows when to make a joke out of Heracles’ stupid pontifications, when to humor the half-decent ones, and when to actually consider those that could change shit faster than a maelstrom on the sea. “In what lifetime?”
A half shrug. “All of them.”
“Six hundred some years is a lotta lifetimes, dontcha think?”
“I have all morning.” Heracles takes a sip of coffee. “And so do you.”
They stare at one another for a moment--it’s a stare they don’t use for anyone else, Heracles’ deeper than the ocean and Sadiq’s glassier than a mirror. It’s the stare they use when they’re about to dwell on the past and all that lies within it.
Sadiq leans back into his chair, lets his legs slide out before him--just far enough to brush at Heracles’ bare toes--and loses his appetite.
145x
There was a child staring at him from behind a barrel, eyes filled with a mix of hatred and hunger--far more hatred than a carpenter could possibly deserve, Sadiq thought, and too much of it not to move him. “Whatcha lookin’ at, brat?” He dusted off his hands, sawdust and dirt falling to the ground.
“What are you building?”
Sadiq was almost taken aback by strength in the small, thin voice. “It’s a bazaar. Well, it’s going to be a bazaar.” A grin broke across his face; he wasn’t nearly the highest of rank, but Sadiq still had pride in his work. “See these hands?” Sadiq spread them wide. “They’re gonna build one of the most important places in this city, isn’t that neat?”
The boy stalked forward after a moment of hesitation--no, it‘s contemplation, Sadiq decided--and came before him. Slowly, he placed his palm up to Sadiq’s; it was slightly more than half the size of his own.
“Hands like these destroyed my house.”
Sadiq could feel the hatred in that palm, suddenly understanding the orphan. He could explain that he hadn’t been there, hadn’t been old enough to join the army that took Constantinople, but that green gaze told him it wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t a good enough excuse.
Sadiq licks his lips, takes a deep breath, then smiles as best he can. “I am much more of a builder.”
It was difficult to gauge if the brat accepted such a fact; his stare had hardly changed. “You should prove it.” And he dropped his hand, turned, and darted back from whatever back alley he’d crawled out of.
It was only as the foreman started to yell that Sadiq bent down once more to lay his beams of wood.
152x
“Honestly, do you have to stop and dig up every bush you see?” Heracles didn’t bother hiding the sneer from his commanding officer; they were alone in the town to scout, away from decorum and the niceties of an imperial army in camp. “We could be done with this in half the time if you didn’t have such a fetish for flowers.”
“Did you hear something, little bush?” Sadiq cocked his head to the side, peering at the plant he was delicately digging up. “A noise, just now? Surely it was the wind.”
Heracles scowled down.
“But, no, you’re right--the wind isn’t nearly so annoying as that sound we just heard--”
“I am going to skewer you and join ranks with the Hungarians, I swear to all that is holy and good.”
A snort. “You say that every other week. Gimme the bag, brat.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Heracles did as he was told, holding the satchel open for Sadiq. Gently, he deposited his new bush usurped from the garden of some noble who’d fled house and home as the Ottoman Army approached. “Sometimes I think you love plants more than people.”
“Pretty and smart; how did I get so lucky to have you as a vice captain?” Sadiq grinned, dusting off his hands. He took the time to poke at the tattoo on Heracles’ arm--a scimitar crossed with a tulip--that marked him as an Ottoman soldier in Sadiq’s squadron.
“Every day I ask myself the same thing,” he muttered, hoisting the bag to his shoulder. He would deposit it in the caravan that followed the army, then watch as Sadiq planted the flowering bush beside his others at the barracks in Istanbul. That had been their routine for as long as Heracles could remember knowing his captain.
“You’d be stuck in some backwater town if you hadn’t been selected for the Janissary, brat. No books to shove your nose in out in the sticks, eh?”
Heracles ignored that statement since it was frankly true and he hated how often Sadiq was right. “We should keep moving through the town.” He reached into a pocket of his armor and produced a white mask, Sadiq’s fingers brushing his to take it.
“Yeah, yeah--who’s the captain here anyway?” Sadiq secured his mask, the mass of scar tissue and burn marks disappearing behind it. “We’ll get back to camp before dark, don’t worry about it.” He picked his sword up from the ground and headed down the street, Heracles hesitating behind him.
His fist clenched, a familiar knot winding in his stomach at the sight of the mask covering old scars. “Captain, I’m--”
“Sorry, grateful, in my debt, a dumb kid…” Sadiq didn’t bother to turn around, just waved his hand over a shoulder. “I get it; now let’s go, I wanna get back in time for dinner, dammit.”
That fist clenched harder, Heracles’ nails biting little moons into his skin. Sadiq would never let him say it--never let him apologize, at the very least, or say thank you--even when they were alone. He’d just done what any good captain would have done, protecting a subordinate, even if it meant at the expense of his own face.
(Sadiq had always been a man of good looks--at least the women in Istanbul said as much--but after that battle, he looked even more wonderful to Heracles. Maybe one day he could at least tell him that much.)
“Yes, Captain.” Heracles followed, resigned for the moment.
16xx
“What are you writing?” The maid peeked over his shoulder as she changed the lamp oil, delicately illuminating the table. “A love letter?”
Honestly, weren’t maids supposed to be, be demure and speak when spoken to and all that crap? Sadiq shielded his handwriting from prying eyes. “None of your business!”
She snatched one of the completed pages. “Oh! It’s another poem!”
“Damnit, Elizav--”
“Don’t be embarrassed! Your poems are so good,” she laughed, ducking away from his snatching hands. “I think the last set was your best yet.”
“You--you read those!?”
“Of course I did.”
“They were in a sealed envelope!”
“So?”
“That you were supposed to deliver to--” Sadiq let his head hit the table in an exasperated sigh. “Damnit, Elizaveta…”
“Oh it’s not like I was prying,” she murmured, eyes flickering over the new prose. “He read them to me out loud.”
Sadiq flinched. “What.”
“Out loud, on the docks before his ship left for Venice last week.”
“What.”
“He leaned against crates of tobacco while I sat on a barrel,” she smiled, skimming through the poem. “I think he really likes them.”
“…he said so?”
“No, but,” Elizavita soothed, patting her employer’s shoulders, “it’s more the way his face lights up when he takes the envelope from me, how his voice sounds when he reads them. You should really give them to him yourself so you can hear it.”
“Absolutely not,” Sadiq muttered, rolling a pen back and forth on the table. “He’d probably throw himself off the dock if he knew it was me.”
A roll of the eyes. “Sailors are supposed to hate dock masters just as cats hate dogs, honestly. I doubt there’s any true hostility towards you.”
“Hmph.”
“Don’t sulk.”
“I’m not,” Sadiq sulked.
“Your Grecian sailor keeps asking me who it is that sends me to deliver these,” Elizaveta sighed, waving the paper at him. “I’ve kept my mouth shut for the most part, but--”
“For the most part? Dammit, Eliza--”
“Oh I did you a favor,” she snapped. “The first day he didn’t even open it, he merely said to return it to my mistress with his apologies.” Elizaveta’s eyebrow arched at Sadiq’s blank stare. “I did you a favor, sir.”
“Well. Thanks. But knock it off.”
“Honestly… How is this so difficult when in all the time I’ve worked for your family you’ve simply marched out and taken whatever it was you wanted?”
“This is different.”
“How so?” Elizaveta sighed when Sadiq could not supply an answer. Leaning forward, she took his face in her hands: “Give this next batch to him yourself, you stubborn fool.” And she kissed his forehead, setting the page of poetry back to the desk before leaving the room.
“…stupid woman.” Sadiq’s forehead tingled where she’d kissed him, and he wondered what it would feel like if the Grecian sailor did the same.
172x
Another piece of neatly tied paper sat on Heracles’ desk, not belaying for a moment the messy scrawl of handwriting that was inside. Honestly, if he was going to write letters, that man should at least hire a scribe. The first time there’d been a letter, Heracles had wondered if a ten-year-old had written it.
Sighing, Heracles let his stack of legers fall to the desk, plopping down to pour through them, studying facts and figures for the export of his family’s olives to Istanbul. It took him an hour of furtive glances at the paper before he finally gave in, grabbed it, and readied himself for another one of Sadiq’s memos followed by a post script of thinly veiled flirting.
It had started years ago, ever since Sadiq all but strolled into town and bought olives by the ton for his own family’s store in Istanbul. At first, Heracles had been confused, then found it humorous. Then he found out Sadiq was completely serious and it changed to a feeling of horror mixed with flattery and finally--five years later--acceptance that the oaf wasn’t going to stop any time soon. Heracles’ mother had only made fun of him when he’d told her, and said he could do a lot worse than a rich Turk from the city. After all, he wasn’t getting any younger and the girls in the town had already married other men who hadn’t wasted their youth studying philosophy and astronomy.
(Heracles suspected Sadiq had paid his mother off on one visit, he just couldn’t pinpoint which.)
I’ll probably be in town by the time you get this--
“Who does he think he is,” Heracles muttered. “No greeting even, like we’re such close friends; bastard…”
--so I’ll drop in early. Make me ashure.
Heracles grit his teeth.
Maybe we can go take a walk by the river or something, since this will be my last time here. I gotta stay in the city after this and run the store, it’s come into my hands now so I can’t be going out of town for too long. I gotta friend--Gupta--who’ll be coming for the olives from now on. I told him to bring his dog so those fuckin’ cats of yours know who’s boss finally hahaha. Make me ashure. Wait, I already wrote that. Well, make double.
-Sadiq
“You gonna miss me?”
Heracles all but jumped out of his skin, the letter fluttering to the desk. “Bastard! Knock before you come into my study--”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sadiq said with a flippant wave. He was dressed plainly--easier to travel, he’d always said, attracted less bandits too--with a sword at his hip. “You finished reading it?”
“I did.” Turning back to his desk, Heracles folded the paper neatly. There was a knot stuck in his throat for some reason. “I didn’t make ashure, though.”
“It can wait.”
“Or you can make it your damned self,” Heracles snapped.
A bark of laughter, and suddenly Sadiq was too close behind him. “So. Will you miss me?”
“Of course not.”
“Aw, don’t be like that. Your ma keeps dropping hints I should bring a dowry of lambs and silk.”
“She does not.” Even though she probably was, in all honesty. “Anyway,” Heracles grumbled, pushing up from his desk, “I thought you wanted to go for a walk by the river. We should, we should go before it gets dark out,” he said, mostly to himself, and snatched his walking stick from the wall. “Aren’t you coming?”
There was a moment that Sadiq just stared, face looking relaxed and less roguish for once. It passed quickly, the gleam returning to his eyes: “You know, after all these years of coming out here to see you, the least you could do is come to Istanbul and return the favor.”
“…I’ll think about it.”
“Hmn.” Sadiq sauntered over, threw his arm about rigid shoulders and grinned. “And you can make me ashure there.”
Heracles hit him with his walking stick.
182x
Heracles was out of bullets, out of stamina, out of enough energy to even fear for his life. His right eye wasn’t focusing like it should be--he’d worry about that later, if there was a later--so the man at the end of the alley came through in a partial blur. Even so, the glint of moon made the gun in his hand shine clear enough to knot Heracles’ stomach up something tight and think about all the times his mother had begged him not to join the fray.
He was going to die in an alley, a heap of garbage his final bed. The last things he’d hear would be the sounds of distant gunfire, the final scent in his nostrils one of smoke and mortar. He was going to die in an alley, killed by a man in a green coat with mud all over his boots and a blank look in his eyes. Heracles was going to die in an alley. The man just stared at him, unmoved if he heard any of Heracles’ private thoughts.
He pulled the trigger; it clicked.
Empty.
Heracles tried not to vomit.
Slowly, the man lowered the gun, staggered forward--his leg was messed up badly, and years of medical school told Heracles he might never move without a limp. Even so he walked with a determined lurch, brushed past Heracles--their shoulders barely touching, some of his exhaustion transferring to Heracles in that slightest moment--and left the alley.
Suddenly, Heracles remembered how to breathe.
194x
“Do you think this’ll be enough?”
Heracles surveyed the boxes of rations with a sleepy eye. “It’s never enough. But I’ll make due.”
“Hn. Smoke?”
“That’s bad for you.”
“No worse for me than if I get caught by some Germans.” Sadiq pocketed the cigarettes, lighting one for himself. “So. This looks like the first time we’re not going to be running for our lives. Can I ask you a question while we wait for the others?”
Heracles regarded the man carefully. He’d known Sadiq for some time now, but one could never be too cautious these days. “I suppose.”
“How’s a philosophy professor get tied up in a crazy, shitty war resistance like this one?”
“And how does a fisherman become a smuggler for said war resistance?” Wisps of white tobacco floated through the salty air; Heracles waved them away. “I’m certain there is a philosophical reason behind--”
“Or just chalk it up to dumb luck and spare me the headache.”
“But I like giving you headaches.” Heracles smiled for, he reflected, perhaps the first time in weeks. “You make interesting faces.”
“Shaddap.”
“There; just now, I saw the signal light.” Heracles peered out into the dark, watching until there were two flashes back-to-back. “It’s safe; I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Hey.” Sadiq caught his wrist, pressing it earnestly. “Be careful.”
“…I will.”
“Not just now. I mean. Like. In general.” Sadiq dropped his wrist. “You know.”
“Are you getting another headache, Sadiq?”
“Huh?”
“You’re making an interesting face.” Heracles felt his lips twitch into another smile. Two in one day; how interesting. “Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.” He jumped to the dock, not waiting--not wanting--to see the look of concern Sadiq was sure to give him.
2010
There was a man on the train that Sadiq--for the life of him--could not stop staring at. He was with a friend, someone with a Nikon and little guidebook that appeared to be written in Japanese. They didn’t seem to be anything more than friends--roommates at university, perhaps?--which was good: Sadiq couldn’t take his eyes off the man who looked like he’d just woken up from a nap.
“What are you staring at?”
Sadiq had taken enough Greek in college and high school to understand every clipped word. He grinned, replying in perfect--albeit a little accented--Greek: “It’s pretty obvious I’m staring at you.”
The man frowned, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
A shrug. Besides the an old lady at the end of the car, the train was empty. “You’re gorgeous. How can I not stare?”
“Were you raised in the countryside? Honestly, don‘t say such bold things in public.” There was a flush on his neck and a click of his tongue. Both were intriguing to Sadiq.
“I was actually raised in Ankara, but it’s nice to visit Istanbul once in a while. Obviously you think so too or else you wouldn’t be here.”
“We’re only here for the new mall.”
“Ah, gotcha.” Sadiq glanced over to the man’s friend who was looking back and forth between them with a bemused expression. “Konnichiwa. Boku no namae wa Sadiq. Hajimemashite.”
The other man’s face positively lit up in delight. “Honda Kiku desu. Hajimemashite. Heracles wa watashi no sempai desu.”
And the Grecian--Heracles--just scowled a little harder--prettier--at Sadiq. “You speak Japanese too?”
“A bit.” Sadiq shrugged. “How’s your Turkish?” A glare in response; perfect. “You two might want a guide for the mall, hm?” He repeated the same in Japanese, Kiku practically agreeing with him before he even finished the sentence. “There! It’s settled; I‘ll show you both around.”
“Is there any language you don’t know so I can tell him what a smug bastard you are?”
“How’s your Russian?”
“Terrible.” There was just the hint of a bemused smile at that.
“Then I think you’re stuck. Come on,” Sadiq said, shouldering his bag. “This next stop is ours.”
Kiku was already up, Nikon clasped in his hands excitedly. But Heracles just glanced between them warily. “You really don’t have to do this. I’m sure you have things to do today.”
“I think I’d rather skip a few classes and spend my time with you both,” Sadiq shrugged. He offered his hand as the train slowed. “Coming?”
“…do you ever grow tired of getting your own way?”
Sadiq grinned, somewhat flattered for no real reason. “Am I so easy to read?”
Heracles stared at the hand and considered it for a moment before reaching out, clasping it firmly. “Perhaps not.”
“It’s interesting how we’re never actually together in any of those scenarios.”
“Seems like it’s always one step forward with you, brat, and a fucking flying leap back. ’Sides,” Sadiq shrugs. “We’re together now.”
Heracles lifts an eyebrow at that.
“Today, I mean. This morning.”
“Hm. It’s afternoon now.” The sun had moved over the kitchen table since breakfast, food now abandoned and cold. “But I suppose I could stay.”
“Do you miss it?” Sadiq lets his hand settle on his fist. “Us being together.”
“Do you?”
“You know I do.” Once, after the earthquakes, Heracles had declared that nothing said would ever leave their houses; their bedrooms, their kitchens, their gardens. “I’m asking you.”
“I do not miss what being together meant, for me.” Heracles glances up, placating; no insult intended. “But some days I miss… having someone to share my burdens with. Someone who knows me so intimately.” He rubs the bottom of his lip, gaze slipping back to an icy cup of coffee. “Your shoulders were so broad,” he murmurs. “I always liked that; it made me feel safe for some reason.”
Sadiq studies his guest for a minute before slowly reaching out to take a hand--the fingers, wandering over chapped lips--gently in his own. And as he lifts it to kiss worn knuckles, Heracles finally glances up, something gone soft in his eyes. Sadiq misses it; he is staring at his thumb, running hesitantly over Heracles’ fingers. “Come on; let’s do the dishes.”
Heracles nods, but neither of them move from the table until the sun drips off of it, onto the floor.
145x: The Grand Bazaar is built shortly after the conquest of Constantinople in 1453. It started off as just two warehouses and a couple of inns and, after many years, expanded to the labyrinth it is today.
1521-26: Ottomans enter Hungary, annex it after Battle of Mohacs. The Janissary were the special elite fighting corps of the sultan; most of the soldiers in their rank--all of them, really--were usurped non-muslim children from out in conquered lands. Technically Heracles’ name would have been changed to something Islamic upon his draft into the Janissary, but bear with me here.
1718-30: Peaceful Tulip Era in the Ottoman Empire
1820s: War of Greek Independence
1940s: WWII, as I hope the date indicated fairly obviously. Although Turkey stayed out of the fray for the most part, humanitarian aid was sent to Greece.
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece
Rating: PG
Status: complete
And So... A glance into the lives of an ordinary Greek and an ordinary Turk through seven centuries.
Notes: Herro, fandom, did you miss me? Unfortunately being a grown up means grown up responsibilities and less time for watching cartoons let alone writing silly things. Or... at least being trapped in a grown up job 'OTL I've had this sitting on my computer for months, but finally it's come to completion.
Sadiq’s hair is still damp from the shower when Heracles says it. (He had said, “Get a bath; you stink, old man,” earlier this morning, but that’s not the phrase Sadiq’s mind is stuck on now.) Sadiq is shoveling a bite of breakfast into his mouth when Heracles says it. Casually; like he’s remarking about the weather or a movie or… something that isn’t probably going to turn out to be some of the most important words to ever pass between them:
“What do you think it would have been like if we were human?”
“Hrm?” is the most eloquent response Sadiq has to that, fork still shoved in his mouth.
“If we were just two people.” Heracles gazes at him steadily over his cup of coffee, toying with the rim. “If we had existed in a state more simply than we do.”
So that was why Heracles had been tossing and turning enough last night to elbow Sadiq in the ribs. Slowly, he sets his fork down; he knows when to make a joke out of Heracles’ stupid pontifications, when to humor the half-decent ones, and when to actually consider those that could change shit faster than a maelstrom on the sea. “In what lifetime?”
A half shrug. “All of them.”
“Six hundred some years is a lotta lifetimes, dontcha think?”
“I have all morning.” Heracles takes a sip of coffee. “And so do you.”
They stare at one another for a moment--it’s a stare they don’t use for anyone else, Heracles’ deeper than the ocean and Sadiq’s glassier than a mirror. It’s the stare they use when they’re about to dwell on the past and all that lies within it.
Sadiq leans back into his chair, lets his legs slide out before him--just far enough to brush at Heracles’ bare toes--and loses his appetite.
145x
There was a child staring at him from behind a barrel, eyes filled with a mix of hatred and hunger--far more hatred than a carpenter could possibly deserve, Sadiq thought, and too much of it not to move him. “Whatcha lookin’ at, brat?” He dusted off his hands, sawdust and dirt falling to the ground.
“What are you building?”
Sadiq was almost taken aback by strength in the small, thin voice. “It’s a bazaar. Well, it’s going to be a bazaar.” A grin broke across his face; he wasn’t nearly the highest of rank, but Sadiq still had pride in his work. “See these hands?” Sadiq spread them wide. “They’re gonna build one of the most important places in this city, isn’t that neat?”
The boy stalked forward after a moment of hesitation--no, it‘s contemplation, Sadiq decided--and came before him. Slowly, he placed his palm up to Sadiq’s; it was slightly more than half the size of his own.
“Hands like these destroyed my house.”
Sadiq could feel the hatred in that palm, suddenly understanding the orphan. He could explain that he hadn’t been there, hadn’t been old enough to join the army that took Constantinople, but that green gaze told him it wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t a good enough excuse.
Sadiq licks his lips, takes a deep breath, then smiles as best he can. “I am much more of a builder.”
It was difficult to gauge if the brat accepted such a fact; his stare had hardly changed. “You should prove it.” And he dropped his hand, turned, and darted back from whatever back alley he’d crawled out of.
It was only as the foreman started to yell that Sadiq bent down once more to lay his beams of wood.
152x
“Honestly, do you have to stop and dig up every bush you see?” Heracles didn’t bother hiding the sneer from his commanding officer; they were alone in the town to scout, away from decorum and the niceties of an imperial army in camp. “We could be done with this in half the time if you didn’t have such a fetish for flowers.”
“Did you hear something, little bush?” Sadiq cocked his head to the side, peering at the plant he was delicately digging up. “A noise, just now? Surely it was the wind.”
Heracles scowled down.
“But, no, you’re right--the wind isn’t nearly so annoying as that sound we just heard--”
“I am going to skewer you and join ranks with the Hungarians, I swear to all that is holy and good.”
A snort. “You say that every other week. Gimme the bag, brat.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Heracles did as he was told, holding the satchel open for Sadiq. Gently, he deposited his new bush usurped from the garden of some noble who’d fled house and home as the Ottoman Army approached. “Sometimes I think you love plants more than people.”
“Pretty and smart; how did I get so lucky to have you as a vice captain?” Sadiq grinned, dusting off his hands. He took the time to poke at the tattoo on Heracles’ arm--a scimitar crossed with a tulip--that marked him as an Ottoman soldier in Sadiq’s squadron.
“Every day I ask myself the same thing,” he muttered, hoisting the bag to his shoulder. He would deposit it in the caravan that followed the army, then watch as Sadiq planted the flowering bush beside his others at the barracks in Istanbul. That had been their routine for as long as Heracles could remember knowing his captain.
“You’d be stuck in some backwater town if you hadn’t been selected for the Janissary, brat. No books to shove your nose in out in the sticks, eh?”
Heracles ignored that statement since it was frankly true and he hated how often Sadiq was right. “We should keep moving through the town.” He reached into a pocket of his armor and produced a white mask, Sadiq’s fingers brushing his to take it.
“Yeah, yeah--who’s the captain here anyway?” Sadiq secured his mask, the mass of scar tissue and burn marks disappearing behind it. “We’ll get back to camp before dark, don’t worry about it.” He picked his sword up from the ground and headed down the street, Heracles hesitating behind him.
His fist clenched, a familiar knot winding in his stomach at the sight of the mask covering old scars. “Captain, I’m--”
“Sorry, grateful, in my debt, a dumb kid…” Sadiq didn’t bother to turn around, just waved his hand over a shoulder. “I get it; now let’s go, I wanna get back in time for dinner, dammit.”
That fist clenched harder, Heracles’ nails biting little moons into his skin. Sadiq would never let him say it--never let him apologize, at the very least, or say thank you--even when they were alone. He’d just done what any good captain would have done, protecting a subordinate, even if it meant at the expense of his own face.
(Sadiq had always been a man of good looks--at least the women in Istanbul said as much--but after that battle, he looked even more wonderful to Heracles. Maybe one day he could at least tell him that much.)
“Yes, Captain.” Heracles followed, resigned for the moment.
16xx
“What are you writing?” The maid peeked over his shoulder as she changed the lamp oil, delicately illuminating the table. “A love letter?”
Honestly, weren’t maids supposed to be, be demure and speak when spoken to and all that crap? Sadiq shielded his handwriting from prying eyes. “None of your business!”
She snatched one of the completed pages. “Oh! It’s another poem!”
“Damnit, Elizav--”
“Don’t be embarrassed! Your poems are so good,” she laughed, ducking away from his snatching hands. “I think the last set was your best yet.”
“You--you read those!?”
“Of course I did.”
“They were in a sealed envelope!”
“So?”
“That you were supposed to deliver to--” Sadiq let his head hit the table in an exasperated sigh. “Damnit, Elizaveta…”
“Oh it’s not like I was prying,” she murmured, eyes flickering over the new prose. “He read them to me out loud.”
Sadiq flinched. “What.”
“Out loud, on the docks before his ship left for Venice last week.”
“What.”
“He leaned against crates of tobacco while I sat on a barrel,” she smiled, skimming through the poem. “I think he really likes them.”
“…he said so?”
“No, but,” Elizavita soothed, patting her employer’s shoulders, “it’s more the way his face lights up when he takes the envelope from me, how his voice sounds when he reads them. You should really give them to him yourself so you can hear it.”
“Absolutely not,” Sadiq muttered, rolling a pen back and forth on the table. “He’d probably throw himself off the dock if he knew it was me.”
A roll of the eyes. “Sailors are supposed to hate dock masters just as cats hate dogs, honestly. I doubt there’s any true hostility towards you.”
“Hmph.”
“Don’t sulk.”
“I’m not,” Sadiq sulked.
“Your Grecian sailor keeps asking me who it is that sends me to deliver these,” Elizaveta sighed, waving the paper at him. “I’ve kept my mouth shut for the most part, but--”
“For the most part? Dammit, Eliza--”
“Oh I did you a favor,” she snapped. “The first day he didn’t even open it, he merely said to return it to my mistress with his apologies.” Elizaveta’s eyebrow arched at Sadiq’s blank stare. “I did you a favor, sir.”
“Well. Thanks. But knock it off.”
“Honestly… How is this so difficult when in all the time I’ve worked for your family you’ve simply marched out and taken whatever it was you wanted?”
“This is different.”
“How so?” Elizaveta sighed when Sadiq could not supply an answer. Leaning forward, she took his face in her hands: “Give this next batch to him yourself, you stubborn fool.” And she kissed his forehead, setting the page of poetry back to the desk before leaving the room.
“…stupid woman.” Sadiq’s forehead tingled where she’d kissed him, and he wondered what it would feel like if the Grecian sailor did the same.
172x
Another piece of neatly tied paper sat on Heracles’ desk, not belaying for a moment the messy scrawl of handwriting that was inside. Honestly, if he was going to write letters, that man should at least hire a scribe. The first time there’d been a letter, Heracles had wondered if a ten-year-old had written it.
Sighing, Heracles let his stack of legers fall to the desk, plopping down to pour through them, studying facts and figures for the export of his family’s olives to Istanbul. It took him an hour of furtive glances at the paper before he finally gave in, grabbed it, and readied himself for another one of Sadiq’s memos followed by a post script of thinly veiled flirting.
It had started years ago, ever since Sadiq all but strolled into town and bought olives by the ton for his own family’s store in Istanbul. At first, Heracles had been confused, then found it humorous. Then he found out Sadiq was completely serious and it changed to a feeling of horror mixed with flattery and finally--five years later--acceptance that the oaf wasn’t going to stop any time soon. Heracles’ mother had only made fun of him when he’d told her, and said he could do a lot worse than a rich Turk from the city. After all, he wasn’t getting any younger and the girls in the town had already married other men who hadn’t wasted their youth studying philosophy and astronomy.
(Heracles suspected Sadiq had paid his mother off on one visit, he just couldn’t pinpoint which.)
I’ll probably be in town by the time you get this--
“Who does he think he is,” Heracles muttered. “No greeting even, like we’re such close friends; bastard…”
--so I’ll drop in early. Make me ashure.
Heracles grit his teeth.
Maybe we can go take a walk by the river or something, since this will be my last time here. I gotta stay in the city after this and run the store, it’s come into my hands now so I can’t be going out of town for too long. I gotta friend--Gupta--who’ll be coming for the olives from now on. I told him to bring his dog so those fuckin’ cats of yours know who’s boss finally hahaha. Make me ashure. Wait, I already wrote that. Well, make double.
-Sadiq
“You gonna miss me?”
Heracles all but jumped out of his skin, the letter fluttering to the desk. “Bastard! Knock before you come into my study--”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sadiq said with a flippant wave. He was dressed plainly--easier to travel, he’d always said, attracted less bandits too--with a sword at his hip. “You finished reading it?”
“I did.” Turning back to his desk, Heracles folded the paper neatly. There was a knot stuck in his throat for some reason. “I didn’t make ashure, though.”
“It can wait.”
“Or you can make it your damned self,” Heracles snapped.
A bark of laughter, and suddenly Sadiq was too close behind him. “So. Will you miss me?”
“Of course not.”
“Aw, don’t be like that. Your ma keeps dropping hints I should bring a dowry of lambs and silk.”
“She does not.” Even though she probably was, in all honesty. “Anyway,” Heracles grumbled, pushing up from his desk, “I thought you wanted to go for a walk by the river. We should, we should go before it gets dark out,” he said, mostly to himself, and snatched his walking stick from the wall. “Aren’t you coming?”
There was a moment that Sadiq just stared, face looking relaxed and less roguish for once. It passed quickly, the gleam returning to his eyes: “You know, after all these years of coming out here to see you, the least you could do is come to Istanbul and return the favor.”
“…I’ll think about it.”
“Hmn.” Sadiq sauntered over, threw his arm about rigid shoulders and grinned. “And you can make me ashure there.”
Heracles hit him with his walking stick.
182x
Heracles was out of bullets, out of stamina, out of enough energy to even fear for his life. His right eye wasn’t focusing like it should be--he’d worry about that later, if there was a later--so the man at the end of the alley came through in a partial blur. Even so, the glint of moon made the gun in his hand shine clear enough to knot Heracles’ stomach up something tight and think about all the times his mother had begged him not to join the fray.
He was going to die in an alley, a heap of garbage his final bed. The last things he’d hear would be the sounds of distant gunfire, the final scent in his nostrils one of smoke and mortar. He was going to die in an alley, killed by a man in a green coat with mud all over his boots and a blank look in his eyes. Heracles was going to die in an alley. The man just stared at him, unmoved if he heard any of Heracles’ private thoughts.
He pulled the trigger; it clicked.
Empty.
Heracles tried not to vomit.
Slowly, the man lowered the gun, staggered forward--his leg was messed up badly, and years of medical school told Heracles he might never move without a limp. Even so he walked with a determined lurch, brushed past Heracles--their shoulders barely touching, some of his exhaustion transferring to Heracles in that slightest moment--and left the alley.
Suddenly, Heracles remembered how to breathe.
194x
“Do you think this’ll be enough?”
Heracles surveyed the boxes of rations with a sleepy eye. “It’s never enough. But I’ll make due.”
“Hn. Smoke?”
“That’s bad for you.”
“No worse for me than if I get caught by some Germans.” Sadiq pocketed the cigarettes, lighting one for himself. “So. This looks like the first time we’re not going to be running for our lives. Can I ask you a question while we wait for the others?”
Heracles regarded the man carefully. He’d known Sadiq for some time now, but one could never be too cautious these days. “I suppose.”
“How’s a philosophy professor get tied up in a crazy, shitty war resistance like this one?”
“And how does a fisherman become a smuggler for said war resistance?” Wisps of white tobacco floated through the salty air; Heracles waved them away. “I’m certain there is a philosophical reason behind--”
“Or just chalk it up to dumb luck and spare me the headache.”
“But I like giving you headaches.” Heracles smiled for, he reflected, perhaps the first time in weeks. “You make interesting faces.”
“Shaddap.”
“There; just now, I saw the signal light.” Heracles peered out into the dark, watching until there were two flashes back-to-back. “It’s safe; I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Hey.” Sadiq caught his wrist, pressing it earnestly. “Be careful.”
“…I will.”
“Not just now. I mean. Like. In general.” Sadiq dropped his wrist. “You know.”
“Are you getting another headache, Sadiq?”
“Huh?”
“You’re making an interesting face.” Heracles felt his lips twitch into another smile. Two in one day; how interesting. “Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine.” He jumped to the dock, not waiting--not wanting--to see the look of concern Sadiq was sure to give him.
2010
There was a man on the train that Sadiq--for the life of him--could not stop staring at. He was with a friend, someone with a Nikon and little guidebook that appeared to be written in Japanese. They didn’t seem to be anything more than friends--roommates at university, perhaps?--which was good: Sadiq couldn’t take his eyes off the man who looked like he’d just woken up from a nap.
“What are you staring at?”
Sadiq had taken enough Greek in college and high school to understand every clipped word. He grinned, replying in perfect--albeit a little accented--Greek: “It’s pretty obvious I’m staring at you.”
The man frowned, eyes narrowing. “Why?”
A shrug. Besides the an old lady at the end of the car, the train was empty. “You’re gorgeous. How can I not stare?”
“Were you raised in the countryside? Honestly, don‘t say such bold things in public.” There was a flush on his neck and a click of his tongue. Both were intriguing to Sadiq.
“I was actually raised in Ankara, but it’s nice to visit Istanbul once in a while. Obviously you think so too or else you wouldn’t be here.”
“We’re only here for the new mall.”
“Ah, gotcha.” Sadiq glanced over to the man’s friend who was looking back and forth between them with a bemused expression. “Konnichiwa. Boku no namae wa Sadiq. Hajimemashite.”
The other man’s face positively lit up in delight. “Honda Kiku desu. Hajimemashite. Heracles wa watashi no sempai desu.”
And the Grecian--Heracles--just scowled a little harder--prettier--at Sadiq. “You speak Japanese too?”
“A bit.” Sadiq shrugged. “How’s your Turkish?” A glare in response; perfect. “You two might want a guide for the mall, hm?” He repeated the same in Japanese, Kiku practically agreeing with him before he even finished the sentence. “There! It’s settled; I‘ll show you both around.”
“Is there any language you don’t know so I can tell him what a smug bastard you are?”
“How’s your Russian?”
“Terrible.” There was just the hint of a bemused smile at that.
“Then I think you’re stuck. Come on,” Sadiq said, shouldering his bag. “This next stop is ours.”
Kiku was already up, Nikon clasped in his hands excitedly. But Heracles just glanced between them warily. “You really don’t have to do this. I’m sure you have things to do today.”
“I think I’d rather skip a few classes and spend my time with you both,” Sadiq shrugged. He offered his hand as the train slowed. “Coming?”
“…do you ever grow tired of getting your own way?”
Sadiq grinned, somewhat flattered for no real reason. “Am I so easy to read?”
Heracles stared at the hand and considered it for a moment before reaching out, clasping it firmly. “Perhaps not.”
“It’s interesting how we’re never actually together in any of those scenarios.”
“Seems like it’s always one step forward with you, brat, and a fucking flying leap back. ’Sides,” Sadiq shrugs. “We’re together now.”
Heracles lifts an eyebrow at that.
“Today, I mean. This morning.”
“Hm. It’s afternoon now.” The sun had moved over the kitchen table since breakfast, food now abandoned and cold. “But I suppose I could stay.”
“Do you miss it?” Sadiq lets his hand settle on his fist. “Us being together.”
“Do you?”
“You know I do.” Once, after the earthquakes, Heracles had declared that nothing said would ever leave their houses; their bedrooms, their kitchens, their gardens. “I’m asking you.”
“I do not miss what being together meant, for me.” Heracles glances up, placating; no insult intended. “But some days I miss… having someone to share my burdens with. Someone who knows me so intimately.” He rubs the bottom of his lip, gaze slipping back to an icy cup of coffee. “Your shoulders were so broad,” he murmurs. “I always liked that; it made me feel safe for some reason.”
Sadiq studies his guest for a minute before slowly reaching out to take a hand--the fingers, wandering over chapped lips--gently in his own. And as he lifts it to kiss worn knuckles, Heracles finally glances up, something gone soft in his eyes. Sadiq misses it; he is staring at his thumb, running hesitantly over Heracles’ fingers. “Come on; let’s do the dishes.”
Heracles nods, but neither of them move from the table until the sun drips off of it, onto the floor.
145x: The Grand Bazaar is built shortly after the conquest of Constantinople in 1453. It started off as just two warehouses and a couple of inns and, after many years, expanded to the labyrinth it is today.
1521-26: Ottomans enter Hungary, annex it after Battle of Mohacs. The Janissary were the special elite fighting corps of the sultan; most of the soldiers in their rank--all of them, really--were usurped non-muslim children from out in conquered lands. Technically Heracles’ name would have been changed to something Islamic upon his draft into the Janissary, but bear with me here.
1718-30: Peaceful Tulip Era in the Ottoman Empire
1820s: War of Greek Independence
1940s: WWII, as I hope the date indicated fairly obviously. Although Turkey stayed out of the fray for the most part, humanitarian aid was sent to Greece.