everybody's wearing a disguise, to hide what they've got left behind their eyes;
title: Ulysses & the Sea
pairing/characters: Turkey/Greece; mini-cameos by Egypt, England, France, Russia, and Japan
rating: PG-15, about
summary: The Ottoman Empire is crumbling, and Greece- neither against his will nor in the rapid flow of conscience- comes to an ailing Turkey's aid. [gift for absynthess at the myths_n_legends Secret Santa exchange]
time frame: takes place mostly in the year 1853; intro takes place during the Greek War of Independence, 1821 - ca. 1830; a skip-forward ending in 1957
☆ULYSSES & THE SEA
It had been coming a long time, this particular storm: it was the amalgam of bad history, resentment and anger and other darker things tumbling together like lucky lightning. It was untrue, the whole thing- all the pomp and circumstance. Turkey had been playing a game for years now, and it bewildered Greece that he could keep pretending that nothing was wrong. No amount of ink could save him now, Greece knew that.
Greece- who was normally calm, who was normally steady as things turned and changed around him- poured all of his energy and all of his mentality toward one goal. It erupted- so sudden and with such a wild energy that revolution bloomed as quick as a rash across his whole body. Turkey seemed surprised by this- like it was really something to be surprised about.
It was true that Greece, in the endeavor of war, was sloppy, amateurish, even; but the things that made up for it were his native eyes and the intensity of his feeling- folding into himself, angry as an ocean, rocking like an ocean does, consuming as one. Turkey- against practicality- bit teeth to the wind, like saying, "Fine, then, you little shit, it’s a war you’ll get." It was not by any stretch of the imagination merely a political war- this seemed to be a war of two chasms, a war of two perceptions, colliding into black. Greece beat up Turkey; Turkey beat up Greece; things came to a standstill, Greece enlisted the help of imaginary allies; Turkey called in Egypt, who seemed to stand like a bird ready to fly at any time, like he didn’t care either way; Egypt beat up Greece. The blood was cyclical- everything was a goddamn blur, everything dissolved back and back into violence, into a blindness of feeling. Greece petitioned for help from people whom he perceived to be sympathetic to his cause- England, France, Russia, those Great Powers...England had at first been bewildered; France smiled a smile you could tell hid a snake tongue; and Russia was pretty ecstatic because he liked it when people owed him things. After a lot of bitching and weighing of the scales, the three joined on Greece’s side.
On the day of the turning point, the whole sea had purred. You could feel the change in the sudden direction of the salt, the stray electricity in the air. That fateful morning when Turkey had lost his entire grin to progress he couldn’t beat; when Greece had sat deeply resonating in the afterchime of a bell, looking to understand the hollowness of victory; when England counted, impassively, meticulously, because the one with a heavy hand was always the real winner.
After that the game had pretty much been called shut. Egypt shrugged it off and with gold luck eyes wished him (both Turkey and Greece) the best. The treaty had been drawn in a large room almost laughing with its sterility, its officiality. Greece had sat at one end of the long table across from Turkey, the two of them were still banged-up- still covered raw with new wounds and fresh blood. It was a lot of wordy garbage to draw violence to a conclusion.
The only things that really stuck out, Greece later recalled, was the deep gray grimness of Turkey’s frown, with all the pressing weight, all the fearful implications, of shadow, and the way he had taken the pen- sharp, violent- his hand shaking as he signed. Turkey said goodbye like it was an oath and fucking stalked out of that place, feeling as heavy as he looked (he kept swearing: "I was just distracted; I’ll fucking, I’ll just fucking..."). After that, France, England, and Russia had installed a new German king (there seemed to be plenty of those to go around) and given Greece an account of debt that seemed strangely like a noose. But it didn’t matter much to Greece, it didn’t effect him, because-
Because he was left with a breath of something new- felt that, although he was now at the edge of the last and newest cliff facing the sea, at least he could rest- at least he could have some peace, now. What darknesses had faced him before, those were over now. On the first afternoon of freedom, in the silence of his ravaged house, he had washed sticky scarlet blood off his palms. Red glistened then slipped, the water turned a light, nauseous brown- there. There was no more need to think of it; away; that was enough.
It was Russia who informed Greece- well, the whole world, pretty much- that Turkey was sick. Greece asked him what he meant. "Hm, he doesn’t look well lately," Russia said, slipping light through his fingers, "He may as well be dead, wouldn’t you say?"
Greece looked at him with all the unscalable depth of a cat. "Maybe," he answered.
"Hm," Russia laughed. Russia had always talked like an old friend, and at this point maybe Greece was in the danger of considering him one; whatever that meant, though, was lost on static clouds.
-It didn’t matter much. It was just some catchy thing to put in a newspaper, something to catch somebody’s eye, to trick them into expression. (It was just some cruelty to mark a beast with.) Greece was steady with himself, and didn’t seek to rock the boat too much- there’d be no point in that, he was still new and didn’t have enough to spare. He didn’t want to be caught up in delusion, spun up and fooled like everybody else.
Although, as he left that conversation, there was an image that hung out in a corner of his thoughts- dark and sleazy, jarred his bones, his teeth, as he moved. That house, heavy as honey with useless pride, always dark in the shadows of the morning; and the man inside it- alone- his darkflower grin and his heart with its uneven beat, trying to keep it all together. Greece tried to keep it at bay (it was fine; it didn’t matter, that was the way things went). It called up great sadnesses of splendor passed; the personal tragedy of the actor when the stage is dismantled and he’s left with nothing but himself- more than a character and less than a man: stuck in a white noise limbo between the mask and reality.
(He hated that bastard so fucking much.)
It wasn’t against his will or in the rapid flow of conscience that he went back; rather, it was more out of curiosity that he decided to see Turkey. He knew for sure that he wouldn’t be in Topkapi, but there was another place in Istanbul where he knew he’d find him. A bright place by the sea, shady and cool in the daylight hours. It was a small house that you could reach by means of a long road that obscured it from the noise and observance of the everyday. A good place for a wounded thing to hide, a prime place to lay low. When Greece went he didn’t have much on him, no type of pride or resentment or belligerence. He was sure he’d find more than enough of that stuff to go around.
The air was too clear. There was nothing but the sun and the sea; the heavy electric wind pushing off the waves almost clouded Greece’s senses. He wasn’t surprised to find the door open (that bastard was even too arrogant to keep it locked); the room was empty, silent, full of the roar of the waves beyond the walls. The first thing that met him were the stories of furniture placement, the useless decor. He passed through the small hall; the leaves of a potted palm whispered against his skin, and he walked as though resurrected, hypnotized, by the rhythm of the sea.
This appeared empty, too, but- he looked around, and there he was- still, unmoving, facing up to the ceiling. The whole place was dark abandoned gray, except for the window above the divan where white light was pulsing through. Greece paused, as though expecting Turkey to bolt up and start yelling and cursing in his direction. But that moment never came, so he moved toward the divan to observe him closer.
His first instinct was to hit him (the thought flashed into his blood, traveled and spiked in his wrist) but he quelled it with the calm the sea had sung him. Turkey was definitely sleeping. It was a kind of sleep that was unfamiliar to Greece, who had no trouble taking a nap whenever he wanted to; the kind someone falls into when they’re trying, not to sleep, but to lose consciousness- fitful and shallow, stormed by thoughts and fears. His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, and though he couldn’t hear his breathing, Greece was surprised that he could feel it. The expression on his face was not one of pain, but struggle. It looked uncomfortable, the way his arms were splayed haphazardly. In the long moment that Greece was watching over him he muttered things in Turkish under his breath- something nonsensical about Egypt and snails, about all those bastards...at one point he said, almost comically, "Man, fuck the printing press!" Cold sweat gleamed pale at his neck and he clenched and unclenched his fists, like grabbing at something, like trying to move against cruel flow. His head was covered by neither fez nor turban; the mask was still on though, because, as Greece figured, Turkey had to courage to try and change at this point but not to take it off.
-Suddenly, as though realizing himself or shot through time, Greece turned himself away from Turkey and the savage pattern of his sleep, looked back to the empty room. Nothing spoke back to him, and now there was a ringing in his chest- to the beat of the unsympathetic sun. Head was suddenly swimming, a mix of feelings and ideas that surfaced from all points in time, were confused together. He didn’t know what the next step was, or even what he’d come here to confirm. He figured, though, that he would wait to make a decision.
So Greece settled himself on the couch on opposite Turkey and fell into thought. Sometimes he just watched Turkey, sometimes he looked around the house. All his thoughts ripped him back and forth, tore his tongue from his mind. The wait was full of torment. Full of noisy clocks that told him that he shouldn’t be here, no way; full of memories of feelings and desires and prophecies that told him that this was exactly where he had always been bound to wind up. Different histories, sides of the coin, were falling and rising, trying to outprove each other. His expression grew dour as the minutes passed, but he stayed still- he wanted to wait for a moment that was influenced not by emotion but by truth. The gray in the room deepened; by turns the sea’s heart was full of chaos or calm. He even dozed off for about ten minutes, but wasn’t able to really sleep full through it because it wasn’t the time to be napping.
Sooner or later, or between the two, Turkey woke up. He turned over, and Greece’s eyes flickered over to him almost immediately. A readying pause. Behind the mask, his eyes opened- and there was the moment of decision- he stared up at the ceiling, and Greece knew what to do. Turkey let out a sigh, heavy, sharp, agitated. He pushed himself up on his arm with such difficulty that Greece’s mind halted in shock; he was shaking, you could see the tone of damage in every movement. But he got himself up in a couple of moments, and held himself pretty steady- paused to look at the white shoreline out the window with the grimace of the cursed.
Obviously, he still thought he was alone; the intimacy of thoughtless silence only strengthened the decision, desire. The moment of peace broke though when Turkey looked away from the window, and to the room- and saw that bastard sitting on one of his couches. Teeth shone, sudden and sharp like a dog’s, feral moon and bone, quick on blood and dirt- his posture tensed so quickly that he almost stumbled. "Shit!" he barked, "Bastard!- The Hell-" He was interrupted by a fit of coughing, heavy as cold medicine and tearing; while he coughed he looked around the room wildly, probably for either for a gun or for something to throw at Greece.
Greece rolled his eyes and sighed, but he listened close- ah, he could hear his breathing now: chipped and thin to the beat of his voice. Turkey’s tirade only stopped when he noticed that Greece hadn’t made a move. A last string of curses ebbed out, and there Greece was- arms folded, a placid, asking look on his face. Turkey’s mouth straightened into a line.
"What’re you- fuck," he let out, and tried to laugh his way through another series of coughs.
Greece waited for the assault of noise to stop; then he asked Turkey, looking at him as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening, "Do you have kritharáki?"
Turkey was about to say something, but he paused in confusion; and then, on realizing, he said, "Şehriye."
"Orzo," Greece decided.
It happened, on that day, that Turkey did have orzo in his house, so Greece got up and made a small pot of avgolemono, silent, calm, and annoyed- moving as though not to disturb his logic. Turkey, to his credit, asked Greece a couple of times what the fuck he was doing back here in his house, but receiving no answer, he fell back on his first instinct, which was to just be quiet. When Greece came back into the room with a bowl of soup, he thought that Turkey was asleep. He wasn’t, though- he opened his eyes, sent Greece a dark look, and ate like he was being served in prison.
Most of the following days, Turkey was silent- his expression was constantly gloomy, brooding- when he was like this, Greece could see in the weight of his mouth all that Near East opulence, the thirst and hypnosis. Greece knew that Turkey was a sure stupid bastard, hated to sit around and think, not able to do anything. Most of the time Greece didn’t really feel like talking to him. Instead he pored over the books he found lying around, first books related to politics and administration he found around Turkey like tombstones- but Turkey seemed to flinch whenever he touched one of them, and one day yelled at him to "Stop fuckin’ touching shit don’t belong to you," so he moved on to the study where books lay under months-thick dust. Turkey didn’t have the patience for anything longer than poetry, so that was where Greece found himself: Since with witchcraft thou hast whetted keen the lancet of thy glance,/ All my veins are bleeding inward through my longing and dismay. But it was all too much of a reminder- all these poems by Sultans, by lawyers, poems by The Lover himself- and it had nothing to do with the reality of the present, so it just weighed sad and bored.
Between sleeping and eating, Turkey was mostly stubborn and disagreeable. He insisted on working (hunched like a ghost over paperwork- "reforms"- what a joke) even though he could hardly lift himself up from sleep without a struggle; when he wasn’t in a mood he was always laughing, and the sick part of it was that you could hear the rattle from inside- sicker still, that he didn’t care. Greece told him one day, very relaxed, "Take it easy." To which Turkey responded, "Take what easy? You know somethin’ I don’t?"
"Fine," Greece had answered, with a shrug, and the undertones of his words had ocean knowledge, deep sting- the subtle tone of "kill yourself if you want to." Greece had left the room and gone to the kitchen, body buzzing, feeling angry poison threaten violence. The day, for Turkey, was completely done in by those words, and he destroyed what he was working on with a useless brutality that only left him wheezing and lacking one bottle of ink.
That was one of the bad times; most of the time they got along well enough because they didn’t say much to each other. The worst incident by far happened on an abnormally bright day, when the sun was like metal through the window. Turkey was coughing- one of those days his angles were all off- and he laughed and said, "I know what yer thinkin’."
Greece frowned. "Fine then, moron. What am I thinking?"
"Yer thinkin’- I’m done for," Turkey said; "Yer thinkin’ I’m fucked." His laughter turned into a grin that tried to hide his bitterness, grin that matched the shade of white the sun was under. "Tell me I’m right."
Greece paused, for a long, thinking moment- and just looked at Turkey with that look of a chasm that had always made Turkey panic, angry in the thought that he’d missed something. "No...," Greece answered, "I was thinking...I was wondering what to make for lunch."
Turkey paused; he scoffed. "Fine, then, ya fucking smartass- good fuckin’ play," he said, bitterly. Greece just shrugged, mind wandering again to what he’d cook for lunch and if things can fall without breaking; before he turned away,
Turkey caught him by the back of the shirt, pulled him back toward him. Greece set his eyes on Turkey steadily; Turkey’s fingers grasped the fabric, almost threatening him- he bit his lip, eyes shadowed behind the mask. "I- ain’t- in good shape," he said, as though every word drove a nail into his brain, "But how the Hell would you know that?"
Greece wondered, for a moment, if Turkey really thought nobody noticed; he pushed the thought away. "Hm," he answered, but that wasn’t really sufficient. He leaned forward- and, knowing exactly what he was doing (Greece always knew exactly what he was doing when it came to things like this), and knowing the implications it’d have, he placed his palm flat over Turkey’s chest- over his heart. Turkey’s eyes narrowed. They could both, then, feel the beat, too quick, too shallow- dark red and ruining the tunnels, shadow like stars.
Greece took his hand away; then Turkey had just laughed, like it was his victory, and Greece realized how deep his pride went.
Another day. Turkey was sitting at the table, having dark coffee in midday, and Greece was on the divan, reading- O Zeyneb, woman’s love of earthly show leave thou behind;/ Go manly forth, with single heart, forsake adornment gay! Turkey sighed, impatient, bored, the sigh a tiger must give in a too-small cage. "Why the shit’re y’always reading for?" he asked, irritated.
Greece couldn’t keep the combative spark out of his eyes- "You’re right," he answered, closing the book, "Turkish poetry’s not good anyway."
"Hey!- Watch your mouth," Turkey snapped, tossing a napkin at Greece, who rolled his eyes and tossed it back on the table. Turkey leaned forward. "Who’re you readin’, anyway?"
Greece shrugged. "Someone named Zeyneb."
"Zeyneb’s-" Turkey started, but paused to let out a hacking cough- then continued, "Zeyneb’s good. Read Fuzuli, tho’."
"How about Nef’i?" Greece said, not realizing what he was saying, "Wasn’t he strangled for speaking against your government?"
Turkey’s eyes were level- stone-dark- "Yeah," he said, "I guess he was," and Greece noticed that his fist curled on the table. Greece watched his hands; the fist was taut, threatened to snap- but then his fingers unfurled and he shook off his hand like he’d been burned. Greece looked him in the eyes, or as much as you can look into somebody’s eyes when they’re behind a mask, and he just turned back to his book.
Moments passed. Sun was heavy as charcoal. Turkey stared out the window for a long moment, and then he made a sharp sound behind his teeth, finished off his coffee. "Hey Aristotle," he said, asking a ghost, a prisoner, a lover in jail, "Ya think a man can be forgiven?"
Greece looked back at him- feeling nothing, his expression communicating that. Eyes dark and rough and blue as the damned sea outside. "I don’t know," he said, "It can’t be proven..." He didn’t spare Turkey another glance. "Have you ever forgiven somebody?"
Turkey didn’t answer him. Why was it always day in this house? Greece paused, reflected on that point, and for some reason he remembered that Egypt had once described
someone as- as- He’s cursed. He’s cursed his own fate. Self-affliction deserves no pity.
"I don’t give a shit," Turkey said, rolling the coffee cup lazily onto its side and watching as the darkness pooled on the tiles, "I don’t even know what redemption is. There’s no such thing as sin. There’s such a thing as- goin’ forward and- damn, but who cares? I ain’t never seen a sinner but I- seen a bad man kill." Greece watched him like a cat; Turkey was pausing because he was short, thin, of breath- the hand that was still on the table was shaking, and sweat was like a haze over his face. His eyes turned to the table, to the window, never to the only thing in the room that might see him back. "I seen a person keep going- once, a widow- enough," he said, waving his hand sharply, as though dismissing a servant, "Some good things come outta fire. Who cares?"
Greece swallowed and the most prominent thought in his mind was that right now- right now, as the sun was sailing steady on the rocking sea and as the air outside was too thick and grainy- he could break Turkey’s nose, or his ribs, or beat him till he blacked out, or until his was blue behind the eyes, and, or something, or anything. But he didn’t.
"What am I saying," Turkey said, breathing labored, leaning against the table with something that was a cross between a laugh and a cough, "I’m fucking- I’m goin’ fuckin’ crazy. I’m hungry. Shit."
Greece nodded, taking that as the cue to make lunch. He wasn’t slow to get up- did things on his own time, but he didn’t waste time. He rounded by the table and in a faltering moment, hesitated in picking up the coffee cup. He did, and he took it to the kitchen. The logical part of his mind was buzzing and alive, and his body was too- and his irrational heart wanted him to kick himself, because back there at that moment, he had wanted so much to touch Turkey. With violence, but not any violence he’d ever felt for Turkey before- not any violence that he knew how to give him.
Shit, but he didn’t want to admit it. These days, he was just lying around- just waiting- a thousand different thoughts streamed through his mind and he couldn’t even tell which ones were true. He felt tired and felt tried. It was like his blood had been sucked out of him, slow and steady- nah, that wasn’t it at all. His blood felt like it had been exchanged for a loud curse. How long had it been like this?
Things had been dismantling real slow. Maybe- maybe it was just the- world had changed? (Between two consciousness- because this tormented sleep was never really all black- he could taste the hollow light of the sea.) Maybe it was a misstep somewhere?- why were his hands bound? A man could always resurface; in some ways, drowning is a very hard thing to do.
Maybe it was punishment for pride. (That was sickening- when he coughed into his hand, what came up was black.) And, hey sky, why this brat? He opened his eyes and watched Greece darkly; Greece seemed to return the sentiment, those blue sparks turning his eyes teal and a petulant frown shadowing his face. Well, Turkey guessed everybody needed to serve their time. He almost laughed to himself as he drifted back to sleep.
(Greece was frowning because he’d noticed- as Turkey lay there- that in his limbs, the turn of his body, he still retained the impossible grace of the conqueror.)
He was above sickness, he was too good to die; he could always, always keep rising, and he could always change. Fuck the outside world, the things that people called "progress." Fuck Syria and Bulgaria and Hungary and even Egypt (at this point he even had the gall to curse Egypt), and all his other former colonies (they were only colonies now), and the Great Powers, and- he could meet the level, if there was a flood he could come at it straight. No fear. Islam; there is no "nationalism" in Islam. Nations are built on faith- this is the kingdom of God- who is king of the Ottoman Empire?
He was supposed to be sleeping but he was shaking instead; the bastard was stubborn- always thought he had it in him to get up, uneven and breaking on the inside. For a week or so the two were skirting around each other- two foreign animals perched upon darkness, not really any way to go except forward or back.
One day, though, it was finally night; lights on, room bare and everything coursing with such an overwhelming energy from the sea and moon that it seemed almost happy in the room. It was a moment of weakness by the feminine side of twenty-four hours that finally pushed them together. Greece handed a plate of food to Turkey; Turkey ate it willingly, not seeming to...mind the help, not seeming to resent his position. It was odd; it put a strange thought in Greece’s mind, but he didn’t make any mention of it.
They were talking about the poet Ashqi when finally the first glimmer of truth shone wet as a star in blackness. "Shit," Turkey coughed, with a short laugh hurtling blood, "The whole world used t’ be mine."
Greece paused; in a moment, it seemed that Turkey’s debt was cleared, that memory would no longer hound him. There was something tender about the light that came between them; Turkey tapped an idle beat onto the sofa cushion.
"What used to be yours?" -Words burned past the skin and down to weak white- eyes judging by dark (judging, by not judging at all). "You didn’t own the whole world...you only owned yours." Stillness; Turkey’s breathing ragged and tense- oh let’s not go through this, just leave me the Hell alone. "If anybody...Spain’s owned the world; England owns the world now. Your world was yours...now you don’t even own that. Delusional old man."
"God al-mighty, you jerk," Turkey answered, asking Greece- almost against his will- to humor him. There was a short pause whose sweetness could have lasted for decades, there was light that could have broken a lemon. Next words, like a sigh- "Cruel- s’what you are." Greece didn’t think that was true, not in the slightest; the only cruelty was the quiet as it resumed- the only cruelty was the ragged cat grace in Turkey’s movements as he reached up, edges of long fingers whisping like a blade across the back of Greece’s neck. "You’ve always been such a damn brat."
Greece couldn’t help the frown that shadowed his mouth or the winter bite of electricity in his eyes. "Only to you...stop it."
"C’mon," Turkey said, under the dark coffee edge of a laugh.
Greece bit his tongue- looked down at Turkey, with cold in his mind and all kinds of extremities tearing into his stomach. He wondered if he wanted this, or didn’t want this; but then, there some things you just had to allow a man in Turkey’s condition, it was just the way it went. He traveled through silence like silence was a storm, storm of rose; their lips met, everything came across the wires, clear and muddled, static headache of feeling.
When their tongues crossed and when teeth hit against teeth, the taste had the feel of static, that thin scattered energy of sickness; had the rhythm of prayer. Mostly, it tasted like compassion- burning with its saintly sting.
The reason that Greece gave in was- well, there were lots of things between them, to strange to fathom...but no, it was mostly the way Turkey moved- for somebody so uncouth he’d always been elegant- his arms, his hands, the same electric blue force when he was kissing him like this, when they had fought- he was as graceful in love as he was in war. Even when he was torn, he was graceful, his sickness sealed the deal. Only dangerous animals are so subliminally lithe on any given occasion.
Turkey’s grin, behind it only the memory of sin and luck to be repaid; his heart hiding behind the apparent strength of his skin; his humor hiding all the darkness storming past muscle and tendon.
It wasn’t any good. It was almost entirely his fault this had happened. His lack of foresight, the carriage of his arrogance, his stubbornness- but it wasn’t any good. No matter how bad it got, he’d just get up again- his vanity would tell him that it wasn’t over, that he could put the pieces back together. That was fine- every time he put them back together, the finished picture was more haggard, less sure on its own feet, jackal’s shadow behind the idol. The silhouette of an empire was the foundation for this imaginary nation. It was ramshackle, hardly put-together. Abandoned by anyone who had any sense.
It got harder and harder to let it be. Greece kissed him with a fever he’d always concealed; kissed him (down, down like only a gun goes down) to show him that resilience is not always such a good thing; that sometimes people are just fakers. Maybe this was the Ottoman Empire’s last conquest- capture something free and then laugh about it.
That was something to think about. In the meantime, Turkey was fine; smiling more than coughing, even though he was a prick about it. As long as he could keep going on some lane, it appeared he would be happy. But- Greece knew- that for this to continue would only be worse. Their fates needed each other; and if Turkey stayed this way, punishment would only find him, his people, his land.
"A part of me- hates ya," Turkey said one day, grabbing Greece as though to embrace him but with a hard frown crossing his face, "Real bad.- Nothing- nothing affects you."
"Everything’s the same," Greece yawned, slipping away from his grasp (it was true, sometimes he felt like he was being pulled into the water).
"Nah," Turkey answered; he cleared his throat. "Everything changes, all the fuckin’ time."
"Then why are you always the same?" Greece asked.
With every passing day in love war was hardening within Greece’s heart; not against Turkey, in particular- but against this whole sham, this whole illusion.
So that peace snapped because it had to, it was day again- this time, whiter than antimony on blue; the sea outside had returned to its purring rhythm of crazy saints and long journeys. They were talking; Greece was cleaning some things up, and Turkey was lounging on his side on one of the couches- in a worse mood than he’d been this whole time- breathing through his mouth, hard and labored, sweating more than the heat warranted.
"I’m- I’m gonna try a tax reform," Turkey finally said, with a heavy exhalation, looking out the window with ill-concealed nervousness ticking in his movements.
Greece didn’t offer any emotion. "Okay."
Turkey shifted; his expression was dark, focused inward as a demon’s might be. The pulse of his wrist seemed to beat heavier than usual. He gritted his teeth- said nothing, for a moment, and then tried again- "An’ get all these goddamn Christians some other help, they can get Christian countries to help their asses."
"Fine."
"-The Muslim population is what matters," Turkey seemed to decide, "They’re the core."
"-Why are you telling me?"
"Let me finish-"
"Some things," Greece said, again with that far-off look, again with centuries on his tongue- centuries much longer than he’d lived on the earth, much longer than Turkey had seen- "have to die."
Turkey paused; his breathing hitched.
"Everything has its end," Greece went on, "Sometimes...you can’t just return to something...you have to make something new."
Turkey laughed- well, he managed a laugh- he was shaking now, his blood hammering against his skin, against his bones; it seemed to rain inside his mind. "Ya want me t’ die after all the progress we made here?"
Greece wasn’t looking at him, didn’t see his expression, and so he took it as just another jab in their routine exchange of insults. "Yeah," Greece answered, "Then you can go to Hell."
The next sound to hit Greece’s ears was the sudden flash and shatter of pottery- whizzing past him and colliding into the wall. The sound erupted like lightning, and Greece whipped around, wondering what the Hell-
"Fuck you!" Turkey yelled. He was- standing, at a bad angle, like a man without a crutch, gasping for air- "You can go fuck yourself! The fuck y’think you are, anyway, what makes you think I want your fucking help?"
He whirled around, madly, apparently looking for something else to throw- he managed to find what he was looking for in a cup on the table- this time the shatter sounded like diamonds. Panic shot like a diamond through Greece- breaking things, the sound of Turkey’s voice, rasping, reaching, yelling with such a fury and violence that it couldn’t be possible that he was yelling at Greece alone. Greece managed to stand straight- to wait for a moment that was influenced not by emotion but by truth-
"Y’wanna be a fucking missionary? Do ya? I have enough fucking Christians here," Turkey spat. The energy in his body coiled- the rituals of a snake- "Ya wanna be a doctor?" He laughed, the sound was like acid in Greece’s ears. "Want somethin’ ta heal? Wanna help me? Huh?"
Turkey didn’t move closer, because he obviously knew he couldn’t, not without some struggle. Greece felt the urge to hit him come on strong, felt his cloud up his throat and felt its red streak across his eyes- felt its violence like music- he felt
Turkey’s life like it had been hurled at him, like it had kicked his brain in- come on, another, right and left, there we go, and-
"Fuck you," Turkey said again, this time spitting on the ground between them,- and then, again, (like he’d only started to believe it) with the wild belief that sick men are wont to have- "Fuck you!" He moved to Greece- Greece waited- he moved with all the grace that had made him a great empire, but it was ragged, it was the grace of a hyena. He was close; close enough to kiss; he grabbed Greece by the collar, by another part of his shirt, and he started to walk- to drag him, past the small hall and the whispering potted palm. He was mostly able to drag Greece like that because Greece was willing; had he fought him, he wouldn’t stand a chance. But as it stood- this was good.
"The fuck outta my house, you little brat," he said, and pushed Greece away, toward the door. Greece stumbled on a tile, but caught his balance easily; without delaying, he reached forward, twisted the knob, and the first step out of that house cloudy with sickness and antique poetry and too much soup and stifling pride was the first breath after a long, long confinement. The first step into spring.
Greece was stumbling forward, his shoulders still straight even though this sudden strength of will had knocked him into a panic like bad poison. He heard something crash behind him, and he turned around- Turkey had thrown that potted plant after him, but hadn’t managed to throw it very far.
Then Turkey leaned against the doorframe, catching onto himself, holding himself above the water. "Don’t you ever fuckin’ pity me!" he yelled after Greece, like the last sinner before the storm.
Greece shook his thoughts away and moved, moved down the road. He only looked back once more, and saw Turkey in a heap, still leaning against the doorframe: collapsed. One foot fell in front of the other, seamless, like breathing.
The words clung to him like honey; the rage he couldn’t shake, buzzing through his bones, moving wild through his mind. There was this acute blue strike across his thoughts; he walked back from that house of ragged splendor, walked back to the sea and the salt sky- burning blue, blue as flame...He stopped, looked out to the sky; again he felt like Lazarus at the side, the call, of the ocean. That stupid bastard, it was all he thought, ringing through his teeth.
He thought about it, quick and hard. It was good. At least his anger was human- was something other than sickness or madness or dark vanity...at least he was alive; Greece felt his blood beat like a drum.
-He could feel Turkey’s ragged breathing: as his own- as a blood and lightning beat in his heart. All that useless anger behind that faulty mask, yet somethin’ about it had been soft- been full- Greece let the sun and the heat burn rhythm into his mind- in a couple of short calm breaths, hated and loved Turkey more than he had in his entire life.
Just like that, things passed like they always did in history. Two wars passed in a world of radio static and deceived hearts. Everything, for Greece, was like Thucydides had written it; and the world didn’t change. There was profound sadness, that was the only thing that rattled him. He observed one political, politic era swept out with the rudeness of royalty, and another, more mysterious era slip in.
There was nothing to search for and nothing to get over. The year 1957 found Greece chewing thoughtfully on french fries and still vaguely mystified by television and generally taking things easy; helping here and there, but mostly thinking. Now he was on foreign shores, and the waves were dark blue- waves like a soft tongue describing the night.
("That’s fascinating," Japan murmured, leaning close to Turkey- Greece felt the vague urge to tell Japan that this dark sheep was a wolf in disguise; "Your eyes, they’re lighter now." And Turkey, quick-tongued- "Heh, yeah, that’s the beauty of seein’ new.")
Hm, nothing had probably changed on this shore. It had probably remained this way for centuries, Greece figured. Even if it hadn’t- you could imagine it was so.
"Aw shit," Turkey sighed nearby, "My luck blows- one night off and here you are. So tell me, pipsqueak, what’re ya doin’ in Antalya?"
"Why do you need to know?"
"It’s my house, duh."
Since the blue was deepening- like it was burning- the winds that chopped off the sea were brisk and dark with salt, and tousled Greece’s hair. He looked back at Turkey, standing on a rock- appearing to have recently come from work, all white shirt and tie and everything. The tie blew over his shoulder, vaguely like a noose.
Did he ever feel the pain? He used to be so old, Greece thought as Turkey hopped off his rock and strode over to meet Greece (he still had that long official way of walking); he sat down next to him in the sand, "accidentally" shoving Greece as he settled down.
"Stop it, asshole," Greece said, shoving him back.
Turkey sort of laughed- edged himself next to Greece like a gun. "Been to Hadrian’s Gate?" he asked, not really to Greece or to anybody in particular but the scene before them.
"The Queen of Sheba went through it," Greece observed mildly.
"Right," Turkey nodded.
Then he sort of- well, didn’t put his arm around Greece so much as he settled it on one of Greece’s shoulders- looking out at the sea with the vague stamp of a grin, a blade over his features. Aw, it was just like Turkey had said back then- nothing to be forgiven- it was just a mistake, just a bump in a long road. Damn but he’d been scared shitless back then.
"Damn I’m tired," Turkey said, lowering himself easy so that he was stretched, lying down on the sand.
History was a weird mistress to keep around. The wind was rough like guitar flight. Greece didn’t know how he’d done it (maybe it was- the sudden light of a lemon, the sudden hand of a father- or maybe something else: the full circle of that will to keep going that he’d shown back on that day, much stronger than love could be- maybe he had left it all behind like Ulysses left Nausicaa), but somehow this bastard hadn’t drowned. He hadn’t stayed in the darkness under the surface. Maybe it was that, surfacing, breaking the darkness once, he’d screamed "Help!" at exactly the right volume, exactly the right time.
NOTES;;
1] The Greek War of Independence went somethin like this: Ottoman Turkey (+ Egypt, later) VS Greece (+ England, France, Russia, later). "The turning point" I talked about was the Battle of Navarino, in which the present Turkish-Egyptian fleet was fucking destroyed. After that, there was another decisive battle, and Turkey finally relented after ten years. Like I sed, they installed a Bavarian king called Otto and drew up an account of debt for Greece because somebody has to pay for these things. Main source was this article on Wikipedia.
2] "The Sick Man of Europe" is what Tsar Nicholas I of Russia reportedly called the Ottoman Empire in 1853, referring to the fucking mess state of decline the Ottoman Empire was undergoing. Other sources say that he called the Ottoman Empire a dying bear, etc., but "The Sick Man" has stuck heaviest in the modern mind. This article on Wikipedia splains it all better than I just did.
3] The decline of the Ottoman Empire is a really, really tricky thing to map out. It was a combination of factors: competing markets, the inability to keep up with the modern power mentalities, incapable rulers, strained resources covering too much diversity and too much land, the disease of nationalism...what stood out most to me was the strange sort of pride that seems present throughout its decline- the idea of Islamic superiority over infidels, a haughtiness with regards to progress, and the stubborn will to keep on going and going. During the time of the fic I believe that Ottoman Turkey was going through a reform-phase that I noted here. I'm not going to link to the Wikipedia article cuz to tell you the truth it's not that well-written, but I will say the best resource I used was The Columbia History of the World, apparently published in 1989. I could tell the year because it had leopard print leggings on, ka-pow.
4] "Fuck the printing press!" - sez The Columbia History of the World: "Through most of the century, however, these attempts produced few significant reforms. The main alterations were still purely technological in nature. The Turkish printing press finally authorized in 1726 was shut down in 1742 after producing fewer than twenty books." FAIL
5] kritharáki = Greek word for "orzo"
şehriye = Turkish word for "orzo"
/obvious, anyway, orzo is a type of rice-shaped + rice-sized pasta that's used in the Greek soup "avgolemono" (egg-lemon). IT'S ONE OF THE BEST SOUPS EVER TRY IT
6] The first poem was by...some...uhm...Sultan Mohammed II? *fails* Anyway "The Lover" is Ashqi- "Ashqi" means "Lover," yah yah.
7] I chose the year 1957 for absolutely no reason.
8] the sudden hand of a father - reference to Ataturk
maybe he had left it all behind like Ulysses left Nausicaa - reference to the Nietzsche quote from Beyond Good and Evil: "One should part from life as Ulysses parted from Nausicaa--- blessing it rather than in love with it."
MY GOD SO MANY NOTES. orz i feel like this was overdramatic at some points and underdramatic at others. /too srs
Thanks for reading! :D Happy holidays absynthess and hope you enjoyed!
pairing/characters: Turkey/Greece; mini-cameos by Egypt, England, France, Russia, and Japan
rating: PG-15, about
summary: The Ottoman Empire is crumbling, and Greece- neither against his will nor in the rapid flow of conscience- comes to an ailing Turkey's aid. [gift for absynthess at the myths_n_legends Secret Santa exchange]
time frame: takes place mostly in the year 1853; intro takes place during the Greek War of Independence, 1821 - ca. 1830; a skip-forward ending in 1957
☆ULYSSES & THE SEA
It had been coming a long time, this particular storm: it was the amalgam of bad history, resentment and anger and other darker things tumbling together like lucky lightning. It was untrue, the whole thing- all the pomp and circumstance. Turkey had been playing a game for years now, and it bewildered Greece that he could keep pretending that nothing was wrong. No amount of ink could save him now, Greece knew that.
Greece- who was normally calm, who was normally steady as things turned and changed around him- poured all of his energy and all of his mentality toward one goal. It erupted- so sudden and with such a wild energy that revolution bloomed as quick as a rash across his whole body. Turkey seemed surprised by this- like it was really something to be surprised about.
It was true that Greece, in the endeavor of war, was sloppy, amateurish, even; but the things that made up for it were his native eyes and the intensity of his feeling- folding into himself, angry as an ocean, rocking like an ocean does, consuming as one. Turkey- against practicality- bit teeth to the wind, like saying, "Fine, then, you little shit, it’s a war you’ll get." It was not by any stretch of the imagination merely a political war- this seemed to be a war of two chasms, a war of two perceptions, colliding into black. Greece beat up Turkey; Turkey beat up Greece; things came to a standstill, Greece enlisted the help of imaginary allies; Turkey called in Egypt, who seemed to stand like a bird ready to fly at any time, like he didn’t care either way; Egypt beat up Greece. The blood was cyclical- everything was a goddamn blur, everything dissolved back and back into violence, into a blindness of feeling. Greece petitioned for help from people whom he perceived to be sympathetic to his cause- England, France, Russia, those Great Powers...England had at first been bewildered; France smiled a smile you could tell hid a snake tongue; and Russia was pretty ecstatic because he liked it when people owed him things. After a lot of bitching and weighing of the scales, the three joined on Greece’s side.
On the day of the turning point, the whole sea had purred. You could feel the change in the sudden direction of the salt, the stray electricity in the air. That fateful morning when Turkey had lost his entire grin to progress he couldn’t beat; when Greece had sat deeply resonating in the afterchime of a bell, looking to understand the hollowness of victory; when England counted, impassively, meticulously, because the one with a heavy hand was always the real winner.
After that the game had pretty much been called shut. Egypt shrugged it off and with gold luck eyes wished him (both Turkey and Greece) the best. The treaty had been drawn in a large room almost laughing with its sterility, its officiality. Greece had sat at one end of the long table across from Turkey, the two of them were still banged-up- still covered raw with new wounds and fresh blood. It was a lot of wordy garbage to draw violence to a conclusion.
The only things that really stuck out, Greece later recalled, was the deep gray grimness of Turkey’s frown, with all the pressing weight, all the fearful implications, of shadow, and the way he had taken the pen- sharp, violent- his hand shaking as he signed. Turkey said goodbye like it was an oath and fucking stalked out of that place, feeling as heavy as he looked (he kept swearing: "I was just distracted; I’ll fucking, I’ll just fucking..."). After that, France, England, and Russia had installed a new German king (there seemed to be plenty of those to go around) and given Greece an account of debt that seemed strangely like a noose. But it didn’t matter much to Greece, it didn’t effect him, because-
Because he was left with a breath of something new- felt that, although he was now at the edge of the last and newest cliff facing the sea, at least he could rest- at least he could have some peace, now. What darknesses had faced him before, those were over now. On the first afternoon of freedom, in the silence of his ravaged house, he had washed sticky scarlet blood off his palms. Red glistened then slipped, the water turned a light, nauseous brown- there. There was no more need to think of it; away; that was enough.
It was Russia who informed Greece- well, the whole world, pretty much- that Turkey was sick. Greece asked him what he meant. "Hm, he doesn’t look well lately," Russia said, slipping light through his fingers, "He may as well be dead, wouldn’t you say?"
Greece looked at him with all the unscalable depth of a cat. "Maybe," he answered.
"Hm," Russia laughed. Russia had always talked like an old friend, and at this point maybe Greece was in the danger of considering him one; whatever that meant, though, was lost on static clouds.
-It didn’t matter much. It was just some catchy thing to put in a newspaper, something to catch somebody’s eye, to trick them into expression. (It was just some cruelty to mark a beast with.) Greece was steady with himself, and didn’t seek to rock the boat too much- there’d be no point in that, he was still new and didn’t have enough to spare. He didn’t want to be caught up in delusion, spun up and fooled like everybody else.
Although, as he left that conversation, there was an image that hung out in a corner of his thoughts- dark and sleazy, jarred his bones, his teeth, as he moved. That house, heavy as honey with useless pride, always dark in the shadows of the morning; and the man inside it- alone- his darkflower grin and his heart with its uneven beat, trying to keep it all together. Greece tried to keep it at bay (it was fine; it didn’t matter, that was the way things went). It called up great sadnesses of splendor passed; the personal tragedy of the actor when the stage is dismantled and he’s left with nothing but himself- more than a character and less than a man: stuck in a white noise limbo between the mask and reality.
(He hated that bastard so fucking much.)
It wasn’t against his will or in the rapid flow of conscience that he went back; rather, it was more out of curiosity that he decided to see Turkey. He knew for sure that he wouldn’t be in Topkapi, but there was another place in Istanbul where he knew he’d find him. A bright place by the sea, shady and cool in the daylight hours. It was a small house that you could reach by means of a long road that obscured it from the noise and observance of the everyday. A good place for a wounded thing to hide, a prime place to lay low. When Greece went he didn’t have much on him, no type of pride or resentment or belligerence. He was sure he’d find more than enough of that stuff to go around.
The air was too clear. There was nothing but the sun and the sea; the heavy electric wind pushing off the waves almost clouded Greece’s senses. He wasn’t surprised to find the door open (that bastard was even too arrogant to keep it locked); the room was empty, silent, full of the roar of the waves beyond the walls. The first thing that met him were the stories of furniture placement, the useless decor. He passed through the small hall; the leaves of a potted palm whispered against his skin, and he walked as though resurrected, hypnotized, by the rhythm of the sea.
This appeared empty, too, but- he looked around, and there he was- still, unmoving, facing up to the ceiling. The whole place was dark abandoned gray, except for the window above the divan where white light was pulsing through. Greece paused, as though expecting Turkey to bolt up and start yelling and cursing in his direction. But that moment never came, so he moved toward the divan to observe him closer.
His first instinct was to hit him (the thought flashed into his blood, traveled and spiked in his wrist) but he quelled it with the calm the sea had sung him. Turkey was definitely sleeping. It was a kind of sleep that was unfamiliar to Greece, who had no trouble taking a nap whenever he wanted to; the kind someone falls into when they’re trying, not to sleep, but to lose consciousness- fitful and shallow, stormed by thoughts and fears. His chest rose and fell in uneven beats, and though he couldn’t hear his breathing, Greece was surprised that he could feel it. The expression on his face was not one of pain, but struggle. It looked uncomfortable, the way his arms were splayed haphazardly. In the long moment that Greece was watching over him he muttered things in Turkish under his breath- something nonsensical about Egypt and snails, about all those bastards...at one point he said, almost comically, "Man, fuck the printing press!" Cold sweat gleamed pale at his neck and he clenched and unclenched his fists, like grabbing at something, like trying to move against cruel flow. His head was covered by neither fez nor turban; the mask was still on though, because, as Greece figured, Turkey had to courage to try and change at this point but not to take it off.
-Suddenly, as though realizing himself or shot through time, Greece turned himself away from Turkey and the savage pattern of his sleep, looked back to the empty room. Nothing spoke back to him, and now there was a ringing in his chest- to the beat of the unsympathetic sun. Head was suddenly swimming, a mix of feelings and ideas that surfaced from all points in time, were confused together. He didn’t know what the next step was, or even what he’d come here to confirm. He figured, though, that he would wait to make a decision.
So Greece settled himself on the couch on opposite Turkey and fell into thought. Sometimes he just watched Turkey, sometimes he looked around the house. All his thoughts ripped him back and forth, tore his tongue from his mind. The wait was full of torment. Full of noisy clocks that told him that he shouldn’t be here, no way; full of memories of feelings and desires and prophecies that told him that this was exactly where he had always been bound to wind up. Different histories, sides of the coin, were falling and rising, trying to outprove each other. His expression grew dour as the minutes passed, but he stayed still- he wanted to wait for a moment that was influenced not by emotion but by truth. The gray in the room deepened; by turns the sea’s heart was full of chaos or calm. He even dozed off for about ten minutes, but wasn’t able to really sleep full through it because it wasn’t the time to be napping.
Sooner or later, or between the two, Turkey woke up. He turned over, and Greece’s eyes flickered over to him almost immediately. A readying pause. Behind the mask, his eyes opened- and there was the moment of decision- he stared up at the ceiling, and Greece knew what to do. Turkey let out a sigh, heavy, sharp, agitated. He pushed himself up on his arm with such difficulty that Greece’s mind halted in shock; he was shaking, you could see the tone of damage in every movement. But he got himself up in a couple of moments, and held himself pretty steady- paused to look at the white shoreline out the window with the grimace of the cursed.
Obviously, he still thought he was alone; the intimacy of thoughtless silence only strengthened the decision, desire. The moment of peace broke though when Turkey looked away from the window, and to the room- and saw that bastard sitting on one of his couches. Teeth shone, sudden and sharp like a dog’s, feral moon and bone, quick on blood and dirt- his posture tensed so quickly that he almost stumbled. "Shit!" he barked, "Bastard!- The Hell-" He was interrupted by a fit of coughing, heavy as cold medicine and tearing; while he coughed he looked around the room wildly, probably for either for a gun or for something to throw at Greece.
Greece rolled his eyes and sighed, but he listened close- ah, he could hear his breathing now: chipped and thin to the beat of his voice. Turkey’s tirade only stopped when he noticed that Greece hadn’t made a move. A last string of curses ebbed out, and there Greece was- arms folded, a placid, asking look on his face. Turkey’s mouth straightened into a line.
"What’re you- fuck," he let out, and tried to laugh his way through another series of coughs.
Greece waited for the assault of noise to stop; then he asked Turkey, looking at him as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening, "Do you have kritharáki?"
Turkey was about to say something, but he paused in confusion; and then, on realizing, he said, "Şehriye."
"Orzo," Greece decided.
It happened, on that day, that Turkey did have orzo in his house, so Greece got up and made a small pot of avgolemono, silent, calm, and annoyed- moving as though not to disturb his logic. Turkey, to his credit, asked Greece a couple of times what the fuck he was doing back here in his house, but receiving no answer, he fell back on his first instinct, which was to just be quiet. When Greece came back into the room with a bowl of soup, he thought that Turkey was asleep. He wasn’t, though- he opened his eyes, sent Greece a dark look, and ate like he was being served in prison.
Most of the following days, Turkey was silent- his expression was constantly gloomy, brooding- when he was like this, Greece could see in the weight of his mouth all that Near East opulence, the thirst and hypnosis. Greece knew that Turkey was a sure stupid bastard, hated to sit around and think, not able to do anything. Most of the time Greece didn’t really feel like talking to him. Instead he pored over the books he found lying around, first books related to politics and administration he found around Turkey like tombstones- but Turkey seemed to flinch whenever he touched one of them, and one day yelled at him to "Stop fuckin’ touching shit don’t belong to you," so he moved on to the study where books lay under months-thick dust. Turkey didn’t have the patience for anything longer than poetry, so that was where Greece found himself: Since with witchcraft thou hast whetted keen the lancet of thy glance,/ All my veins are bleeding inward through my longing and dismay. But it was all too much of a reminder- all these poems by Sultans, by lawyers, poems by The Lover himself- and it had nothing to do with the reality of the present, so it just weighed sad and bored.
Between sleeping and eating, Turkey was mostly stubborn and disagreeable. He insisted on working (hunched like a ghost over paperwork- "reforms"- what a joke) even though he could hardly lift himself up from sleep without a struggle; when he wasn’t in a mood he was always laughing, and the sick part of it was that you could hear the rattle from inside- sicker still, that he didn’t care. Greece told him one day, very relaxed, "Take it easy." To which Turkey responded, "Take what easy? You know somethin’ I don’t?"
"Fine," Greece had answered, with a shrug, and the undertones of his words had ocean knowledge, deep sting- the subtle tone of "kill yourself if you want to." Greece had left the room and gone to the kitchen, body buzzing, feeling angry poison threaten violence. The day, for Turkey, was completely done in by those words, and he destroyed what he was working on with a useless brutality that only left him wheezing and lacking one bottle of ink.
That was one of the bad times; most of the time they got along well enough because they didn’t say much to each other. The worst incident by far happened on an abnormally bright day, when the sun was like metal through the window. Turkey was coughing- one of those days his angles were all off- and he laughed and said, "I know what yer thinkin’."
Greece frowned. "Fine then, moron. What am I thinking?"
"Yer thinkin’- I’m done for," Turkey said; "Yer thinkin’ I’m fucked." His laughter turned into a grin that tried to hide his bitterness, grin that matched the shade of white the sun was under. "Tell me I’m right."
Greece paused, for a long, thinking moment- and just looked at Turkey with that look of a chasm that had always made Turkey panic, angry in the thought that he’d missed something. "No...," Greece answered, "I was thinking...I was wondering what to make for lunch."
Turkey paused; he scoffed. "Fine, then, ya fucking smartass- good fuckin’ play," he said, bitterly. Greece just shrugged, mind wandering again to what he’d cook for lunch and if things can fall without breaking; before he turned away,
Turkey caught him by the back of the shirt, pulled him back toward him. Greece set his eyes on Turkey steadily; Turkey’s fingers grasped the fabric, almost threatening him- he bit his lip, eyes shadowed behind the mask. "I- ain’t- in good shape," he said, as though every word drove a nail into his brain, "But how the Hell would you know that?"
Greece wondered, for a moment, if Turkey really thought nobody noticed; he pushed the thought away. "Hm," he answered, but that wasn’t really sufficient. He leaned forward- and, knowing exactly what he was doing (Greece always knew exactly what he was doing when it came to things like this), and knowing the implications it’d have, he placed his palm flat over Turkey’s chest- over his heart. Turkey’s eyes narrowed. They could both, then, feel the beat, too quick, too shallow- dark red and ruining the tunnels, shadow like stars.
Greece took his hand away; then Turkey had just laughed, like it was his victory, and Greece realized how deep his pride went.
Another day. Turkey was sitting at the table, having dark coffee in midday, and Greece was on the divan, reading- O Zeyneb, woman’s love of earthly show leave thou behind;/ Go manly forth, with single heart, forsake adornment gay! Turkey sighed, impatient, bored, the sigh a tiger must give in a too-small cage. "Why the shit’re y’always reading for?" he asked, irritated.
Greece couldn’t keep the combative spark out of his eyes- "You’re right," he answered, closing the book, "Turkish poetry’s not good anyway."
"Hey!- Watch your mouth," Turkey snapped, tossing a napkin at Greece, who rolled his eyes and tossed it back on the table. Turkey leaned forward. "Who’re you readin’, anyway?"
Greece shrugged. "Someone named Zeyneb."
"Zeyneb’s-" Turkey started, but paused to let out a hacking cough- then continued, "Zeyneb’s good. Read Fuzuli, tho’."
"How about Nef’i?" Greece said, not realizing what he was saying, "Wasn’t he strangled for speaking against your government?"
Turkey’s eyes were level- stone-dark- "Yeah," he said, "I guess he was," and Greece noticed that his fist curled on the table. Greece watched his hands; the fist was taut, threatened to snap- but then his fingers unfurled and he shook off his hand like he’d been burned. Greece looked him in the eyes, or as much as you can look into somebody’s eyes when they’re behind a mask, and he just turned back to his book.
Moments passed. Sun was heavy as charcoal. Turkey stared out the window for a long moment, and then he made a sharp sound behind his teeth, finished off his coffee. "Hey Aristotle," he said, asking a ghost, a prisoner, a lover in jail, "Ya think a man can be forgiven?"
Greece looked back at him- feeling nothing, his expression communicating that. Eyes dark and rough and blue as the damned sea outside. "I don’t know," he said, "It can’t be proven..." He didn’t spare Turkey another glance. "Have you ever forgiven somebody?"
Turkey didn’t answer him. Why was it always day in this house? Greece paused, reflected on that point, and for some reason he remembered that Egypt had once described
someone as- as- He’s cursed. He’s cursed his own fate. Self-affliction deserves no pity.
"I don’t give a shit," Turkey said, rolling the coffee cup lazily onto its side and watching as the darkness pooled on the tiles, "I don’t even know what redemption is. There’s no such thing as sin. There’s such a thing as- goin’ forward and- damn, but who cares? I ain’t never seen a sinner but I- seen a bad man kill." Greece watched him like a cat; Turkey was pausing because he was short, thin, of breath- the hand that was still on the table was shaking, and sweat was like a haze over his face. His eyes turned to the table, to the window, never to the only thing in the room that might see him back. "I seen a person keep going- once, a widow- enough," he said, waving his hand sharply, as though dismissing a servant, "Some good things come outta fire. Who cares?"
Greece swallowed and the most prominent thought in his mind was that right now- right now, as the sun was sailing steady on the rocking sea and as the air outside was too thick and grainy- he could break Turkey’s nose, or his ribs, or beat him till he blacked out, or until his was blue behind the eyes, and, or something, or anything. But he didn’t.
"What am I saying," Turkey said, breathing labored, leaning against the table with something that was a cross between a laugh and a cough, "I’m fucking- I’m goin’ fuckin’ crazy. I’m hungry. Shit."
Greece nodded, taking that as the cue to make lunch. He wasn’t slow to get up- did things on his own time, but he didn’t waste time. He rounded by the table and in a faltering moment, hesitated in picking up the coffee cup. He did, and he took it to the kitchen. The logical part of his mind was buzzing and alive, and his body was too- and his irrational heart wanted him to kick himself, because back there at that moment, he had wanted so much to touch Turkey. With violence, but not any violence he’d ever felt for Turkey before- not any violence that he knew how to give him.
Shit, but he didn’t want to admit it. These days, he was just lying around- just waiting- a thousand different thoughts streamed through his mind and he couldn’t even tell which ones were true. He felt tired and felt tried. It was like his blood had been sucked out of him, slow and steady- nah, that wasn’t it at all. His blood felt like it had been exchanged for a loud curse. How long had it been like this?
Things had been dismantling real slow. Maybe- maybe it was just the- world had changed? (Between two consciousness- because this tormented sleep was never really all black- he could taste the hollow light of the sea.) Maybe it was a misstep somewhere?- why were his hands bound? A man could always resurface; in some ways, drowning is a very hard thing to do.
Maybe it was punishment for pride. (That was sickening- when he coughed into his hand, what came up was black.) And, hey sky, why this brat? He opened his eyes and watched Greece darkly; Greece seemed to return the sentiment, those blue sparks turning his eyes teal and a petulant frown shadowing his face. Well, Turkey guessed everybody needed to serve their time. He almost laughed to himself as he drifted back to sleep.
(Greece was frowning because he’d noticed- as Turkey lay there- that in his limbs, the turn of his body, he still retained the impossible grace of the conqueror.)
He was above sickness, he was too good to die; he could always, always keep rising, and he could always change. Fuck the outside world, the things that people called "progress." Fuck Syria and Bulgaria and Hungary and even Egypt (at this point he even had the gall to curse Egypt), and all his other former colonies (they were only colonies now), and the Great Powers, and- he could meet the level, if there was a flood he could come at it straight. No fear. Islam; there is no "nationalism" in Islam. Nations are built on faith- this is the kingdom of God- who is king of the Ottoman Empire?
He was supposed to be sleeping but he was shaking instead; the bastard was stubborn- always thought he had it in him to get up, uneven and breaking on the inside. For a week or so the two were skirting around each other- two foreign animals perched upon darkness, not really any way to go except forward or back.
One day, though, it was finally night; lights on, room bare and everything coursing with such an overwhelming energy from the sea and moon that it seemed almost happy in the room. It was a moment of weakness by the feminine side of twenty-four hours that finally pushed them together. Greece handed a plate of food to Turkey; Turkey ate it willingly, not seeming to...mind the help, not seeming to resent his position. It was odd; it put a strange thought in Greece’s mind, but he didn’t make any mention of it.
They were talking about the poet Ashqi when finally the first glimmer of truth shone wet as a star in blackness. "Shit," Turkey coughed, with a short laugh hurtling blood, "The whole world used t’ be mine."
Greece paused; in a moment, it seemed that Turkey’s debt was cleared, that memory would no longer hound him. There was something tender about the light that came between them; Turkey tapped an idle beat onto the sofa cushion.
"What used to be yours?" -Words burned past the skin and down to weak white- eyes judging by dark (judging, by not judging at all). "You didn’t own the whole world...you only owned yours." Stillness; Turkey’s breathing ragged and tense- oh let’s not go through this, just leave me the Hell alone. "If anybody...Spain’s owned the world; England owns the world now. Your world was yours...now you don’t even own that. Delusional old man."
"God al-mighty, you jerk," Turkey answered, asking Greece- almost against his will- to humor him. There was a short pause whose sweetness could have lasted for decades, there was light that could have broken a lemon. Next words, like a sigh- "Cruel- s’what you are." Greece didn’t think that was true, not in the slightest; the only cruelty was the quiet as it resumed- the only cruelty was the ragged cat grace in Turkey’s movements as he reached up, edges of long fingers whisping like a blade across the back of Greece’s neck. "You’ve always been such a damn brat."
Greece couldn’t help the frown that shadowed his mouth or the winter bite of electricity in his eyes. "Only to you...stop it."
"C’mon," Turkey said, under the dark coffee edge of a laugh.
Greece bit his tongue- looked down at Turkey, with cold in his mind and all kinds of extremities tearing into his stomach. He wondered if he wanted this, or didn’t want this; but then, there some things you just had to allow a man in Turkey’s condition, it was just the way it went. He traveled through silence like silence was a storm, storm of rose; their lips met, everything came across the wires, clear and muddled, static headache of feeling.
When their tongues crossed and when teeth hit against teeth, the taste had the feel of static, that thin scattered energy of sickness; had the rhythm of prayer. Mostly, it tasted like compassion- burning with its saintly sting.
The reason that Greece gave in was- well, there were lots of things between them, to strange to fathom...but no, it was mostly the way Turkey moved- for somebody so uncouth he’d always been elegant- his arms, his hands, the same electric blue force when he was kissing him like this, when they had fought- he was as graceful in love as he was in war. Even when he was torn, he was graceful, his sickness sealed the deal. Only dangerous animals are so subliminally lithe on any given occasion.
Turkey’s grin, behind it only the memory of sin and luck to be repaid; his heart hiding behind the apparent strength of his skin; his humor hiding all the darkness storming past muscle and tendon.
It wasn’t any good. It was almost entirely his fault this had happened. His lack of foresight, the carriage of his arrogance, his stubbornness- but it wasn’t any good. No matter how bad it got, he’d just get up again- his vanity would tell him that it wasn’t over, that he could put the pieces back together. That was fine- every time he put them back together, the finished picture was more haggard, less sure on its own feet, jackal’s shadow behind the idol. The silhouette of an empire was the foundation for this imaginary nation. It was ramshackle, hardly put-together. Abandoned by anyone who had any sense.
It got harder and harder to let it be. Greece kissed him with a fever he’d always concealed; kissed him (down, down like only a gun goes down) to show him that resilience is not always such a good thing; that sometimes people are just fakers. Maybe this was the Ottoman Empire’s last conquest- capture something free and then laugh about it.
That was something to think about. In the meantime, Turkey was fine; smiling more than coughing, even though he was a prick about it. As long as he could keep going on some lane, it appeared he would be happy. But- Greece knew- that for this to continue would only be worse. Their fates needed each other; and if Turkey stayed this way, punishment would only find him, his people, his land.
"A part of me- hates ya," Turkey said one day, grabbing Greece as though to embrace him but with a hard frown crossing his face, "Real bad.- Nothing- nothing affects you."
"Everything’s the same," Greece yawned, slipping away from his grasp (it was true, sometimes he felt like he was being pulled into the water).
"Nah," Turkey answered; he cleared his throat. "Everything changes, all the fuckin’ time."
"Then why are you always the same?" Greece asked.
With every passing day in love war was hardening within Greece’s heart; not against Turkey, in particular- but against this whole sham, this whole illusion.
So that peace snapped because it had to, it was day again- this time, whiter than antimony on blue; the sea outside had returned to its purring rhythm of crazy saints and long journeys. They were talking; Greece was cleaning some things up, and Turkey was lounging on his side on one of the couches- in a worse mood than he’d been this whole time- breathing through his mouth, hard and labored, sweating more than the heat warranted.
"I’m- I’m gonna try a tax reform," Turkey finally said, with a heavy exhalation, looking out the window with ill-concealed nervousness ticking in his movements.
Greece didn’t offer any emotion. "Okay."
Turkey shifted; his expression was dark, focused inward as a demon’s might be. The pulse of his wrist seemed to beat heavier than usual. He gritted his teeth- said nothing, for a moment, and then tried again- "An’ get all these goddamn Christians some other help, they can get Christian countries to help their asses."
"Fine."
"-The Muslim population is what matters," Turkey seemed to decide, "They’re the core."
"-Why are you telling me?"
"Let me finish-"
"Some things," Greece said, again with that far-off look, again with centuries on his tongue- centuries much longer than he’d lived on the earth, much longer than Turkey had seen- "have to die."
Turkey paused; his breathing hitched.
"Everything has its end," Greece went on, "Sometimes...you can’t just return to something...you have to make something new."
Turkey laughed- well, he managed a laugh- he was shaking now, his blood hammering against his skin, against his bones; it seemed to rain inside his mind. "Ya want me t’ die after all the progress we made here?"
Greece wasn’t looking at him, didn’t see his expression, and so he took it as just another jab in their routine exchange of insults. "Yeah," Greece answered, "Then you can go to Hell."
The next sound to hit Greece’s ears was the sudden flash and shatter of pottery- whizzing past him and colliding into the wall. The sound erupted like lightning, and Greece whipped around, wondering what the Hell-
"Fuck you!" Turkey yelled. He was- standing, at a bad angle, like a man without a crutch, gasping for air- "You can go fuck yourself! The fuck y’think you are, anyway, what makes you think I want your fucking help?"
He whirled around, madly, apparently looking for something else to throw- he managed to find what he was looking for in a cup on the table- this time the shatter sounded like diamonds. Panic shot like a diamond through Greece- breaking things, the sound of Turkey’s voice, rasping, reaching, yelling with such a fury and violence that it couldn’t be possible that he was yelling at Greece alone. Greece managed to stand straight- to wait for a moment that was influenced not by emotion but by truth-
"Y’wanna be a fucking missionary? Do ya? I have enough fucking Christians here," Turkey spat. The energy in his body coiled- the rituals of a snake- "Ya wanna be a doctor?" He laughed, the sound was like acid in Greece’s ears. "Want somethin’ ta heal? Wanna help me? Huh?"
Turkey didn’t move closer, because he obviously knew he couldn’t, not without some struggle. Greece felt the urge to hit him come on strong, felt his cloud up his throat and felt its red streak across his eyes- felt its violence like music- he felt
Turkey’s life like it had been hurled at him, like it had kicked his brain in- come on, another, right and left, there we go, and-
"Fuck you," Turkey said again, this time spitting on the ground between them,- and then, again, (like he’d only started to believe it) with the wild belief that sick men are wont to have- "Fuck you!" He moved to Greece- Greece waited- he moved with all the grace that had made him a great empire, but it was ragged, it was the grace of a hyena. He was close; close enough to kiss; he grabbed Greece by the collar, by another part of his shirt, and he started to walk- to drag him, past the small hall and the whispering potted palm. He was mostly able to drag Greece like that because Greece was willing; had he fought him, he wouldn’t stand a chance. But as it stood- this was good.
"The fuck outta my house, you little brat," he said, and pushed Greece away, toward the door. Greece stumbled on a tile, but caught his balance easily; without delaying, he reached forward, twisted the knob, and the first step out of that house cloudy with sickness and antique poetry and too much soup and stifling pride was the first breath after a long, long confinement. The first step into spring.
Greece was stumbling forward, his shoulders still straight even though this sudden strength of will had knocked him into a panic like bad poison. He heard something crash behind him, and he turned around- Turkey had thrown that potted plant after him, but hadn’t managed to throw it very far.
Then Turkey leaned against the doorframe, catching onto himself, holding himself above the water. "Don’t you ever fuckin’ pity me!" he yelled after Greece, like the last sinner before the storm.
Greece shook his thoughts away and moved, moved down the road. He only looked back once more, and saw Turkey in a heap, still leaning against the doorframe: collapsed. One foot fell in front of the other, seamless, like breathing.
The words clung to him like honey; the rage he couldn’t shake, buzzing through his bones, moving wild through his mind. There was this acute blue strike across his thoughts; he walked back from that house of ragged splendor, walked back to the sea and the salt sky- burning blue, blue as flame...He stopped, looked out to the sky; again he felt like Lazarus at the side, the call, of the ocean. That stupid bastard, it was all he thought, ringing through his teeth.
He thought about it, quick and hard. It was good. At least his anger was human- was something other than sickness or madness or dark vanity...at least he was alive; Greece felt his blood beat like a drum.
-He could feel Turkey’s ragged breathing: as his own- as a blood and lightning beat in his heart. All that useless anger behind that faulty mask, yet somethin’ about it had been soft- been full- Greece let the sun and the heat burn rhythm into his mind- in a couple of short calm breaths, hated and loved Turkey more than he had in his entire life.
Just like that, things passed like they always did in history. Two wars passed in a world of radio static and deceived hearts. Everything, for Greece, was like Thucydides had written it; and the world didn’t change. There was profound sadness, that was the only thing that rattled him. He observed one political, politic era swept out with the rudeness of royalty, and another, more mysterious era slip in.
There was nothing to search for and nothing to get over. The year 1957 found Greece chewing thoughtfully on french fries and still vaguely mystified by television and generally taking things easy; helping here and there, but mostly thinking. Now he was on foreign shores, and the waves were dark blue- waves like a soft tongue describing the night.
("That’s fascinating," Japan murmured, leaning close to Turkey- Greece felt the vague urge to tell Japan that this dark sheep was a wolf in disguise; "Your eyes, they’re lighter now." And Turkey, quick-tongued- "Heh, yeah, that’s the beauty of seein’ new.")
Hm, nothing had probably changed on this shore. It had probably remained this way for centuries, Greece figured. Even if it hadn’t- you could imagine it was so.
"Aw shit," Turkey sighed nearby, "My luck blows- one night off and here you are. So tell me, pipsqueak, what’re ya doin’ in Antalya?"
"Why do you need to know?"
"It’s my house, duh."
Since the blue was deepening- like it was burning- the winds that chopped off the sea were brisk and dark with salt, and tousled Greece’s hair. He looked back at Turkey, standing on a rock- appearing to have recently come from work, all white shirt and tie and everything. The tie blew over his shoulder, vaguely like a noose.
Did he ever feel the pain? He used to be so old, Greece thought as Turkey hopped off his rock and strode over to meet Greece (he still had that long official way of walking); he sat down next to him in the sand, "accidentally" shoving Greece as he settled down.
"Stop it, asshole," Greece said, shoving him back.
Turkey sort of laughed- edged himself next to Greece like a gun. "Been to Hadrian’s Gate?" he asked, not really to Greece or to anybody in particular but the scene before them.
"The Queen of Sheba went through it," Greece observed mildly.
"Right," Turkey nodded.
Then he sort of- well, didn’t put his arm around Greece so much as he settled it on one of Greece’s shoulders- looking out at the sea with the vague stamp of a grin, a blade over his features. Aw, it was just like Turkey had said back then- nothing to be forgiven- it was just a mistake, just a bump in a long road. Damn but he’d been scared shitless back then.
"Damn I’m tired," Turkey said, lowering himself easy so that he was stretched, lying down on the sand.
History was a weird mistress to keep around. The wind was rough like guitar flight. Greece didn’t know how he’d done it (maybe it was- the sudden light of a lemon, the sudden hand of a father- or maybe something else: the full circle of that will to keep going that he’d shown back on that day, much stronger than love could be- maybe he had left it all behind like Ulysses left Nausicaa), but somehow this bastard hadn’t drowned. He hadn’t stayed in the darkness under the surface. Maybe it was that, surfacing, breaking the darkness once, he’d screamed "Help!" at exactly the right volume, exactly the right time.
NOTES;;
1] The Greek War of Independence went somethin like this: Ottoman Turkey (+ Egypt, later) VS Greece (+ England, France, Russia, later). "The turning point" I talked about was the Battle of Navarino, in which the present Turkish-Egyptian fleet was fucking destroyed. After that, there was another decisive battle, and Turkey finally relented after ten years. Like I sed, they installed a Bavarian king called Otto and drew up an account of debt for Greece because somebody has to pay for these things. Main source was this article on Wikipedia.
2] "The Sick Man of Europe" is what Tsar Nicholas I of Russia reportedly called the Ottoman Empire in 1853, referring to the fucking mess state of decline the Ottoman Empire was undergoing. Other sources say that he called the Ottoman Empire a dying bear, etc., but "The Sick Man" has stuck heaviest in the modern mind. This article on Wikipedia splains it all better than I just did.
3] The decline of the Ottoman Empire is a really, really tricky thing to map out. It was a combination of factors: competing markets, the inability to keep up with the modern power mentalities, incapable rulers, strained resources covering too much diversity and too much land, the disease of nationalism...what stood out most to me was the strange sort of pride that seems present throughout its decline- the idea of Islamic superiority over infidels, a haughtiness with regards to progress, and the stubborn will to keep on going and going. During the time of the fic I believe that Ottoman Turkey was going through a reform-phase that I noted here. I'm not going to link to the Wikipedia article cuz to tell you the truth it's not that well-written, but I will say the best resource I used was The Columbia History of the World, apparently published in 1989. I could tell the year because it had leopard print leggings on, ka-pow.
4] "Fuck the printing press!" - sez The Columbia History of the World: "Through most of the century, however, these attempts produced few significant reforms. The main alterations were still purely technological in nature. The Turkish printing press finally authorized in 1726 was shut down in 1742 after producing fewer than twenty books." FAIL
5] kritharáki = Greek word for "orzo"
şehriye = Turkish word for "orzo"
/obvious, anyway, orzo is a type of rice-shaped + rice-sized pasta that's used in the Greek soup "avgolemono" (egg-lemon). IT'S ONE OF THE BEST SOUPS EVER TRY IT
6] The first poem was by...some...uhm...Sultan Mohammed II? *fails* Anyway "The Lover" is Ashqi- "Ashqi" means "Lover," yah yah.
7] I chose the year 1957 for absolutely no reason.
8] the sudden hand of a father - reference to Ataturk
maybe he had left it all behind like Ulysses left Nausicaa - reference to the Nietzsche quote from Beyond Good and Evil: "One should part from life as Ulysses parted from Nausicaa--- blessing it rather than in love with it."
MY GOD SO MANY NOTES. orz i feel like this was overdramatic at some points and underdramatic at others. /too srs
Thanks for reading! :D Happy holidays absynthess and hope you enjoyed!