[fic] Moussaka and its Relationship to Truth; Greece/Turkey
“I want to make moussaka.” These words left Greece’s mouth as he lounged on several pillows scattered around the harem, and contrary to what one would derive from such a statement, Greece had been, indeed, thinking about moussaka and its relationship to his cultural identity for quite a long time. Moussaka was an integral part of his country’s food and, thus, his culture; to be able to make and eat it would be a display of such culture, and though he was currently interred by an older, stronger empire, he considered it his right to at least exercise such small rights as making one’s own home dish as a country, subjugated though it might be.
The refusal to such a request carried certain implications, as well as the acceptance; his captor would either recognize him as a nation with at least some individual rights, or his continued, unrelenting oppression would continue.
As he said this, his eyes (of such a peculiar emerald for his region, and valued by his captor for this, as he often said while cupping Heracles’ face) were fixed with such burning intensity on the man seated with a sextant and map on the floor that it was a surprise the man did not feel such a gaze. However, as many large empires were ignorant of their smaller emirates, the man continued his work, and spoke only half-attending.
“Whatever- if you wanna make moussaka, make moussaka. I ain’t gonna stop ya.” The sextant continued to flash in the setting sun, casting reflections of gold onto the man’s skin, and even unclad, it made him look like a creature of metal.
Greece sat straight, as if he had been galvanized; the response had obviously been unexpected, and he could only stare at the unclad back of the man, a slight sheen of eight-o-clock building on the contours of his body, for several minutes, the thought that this was a trap dancing on the periphery of his thoughts.
“Really?” The boy-nation asked, his voice barely audible, as if afraid that by voicing his doubt, the man would suddenly come to his senses and realize the earth-shattering implications this had.
“Really.” The man said, now slightly irritated; he had been ordered to contrive a way to attack Italy without alerting its navy. It was an impossible task, and one he had been working on for most of the evening. No matter how many derivations and cross-derivations he made, the path always lead from Greece to certain destruction.
He finally turned to regard the boy-nation with an abstracted glare. “Whyddyou care so much ab’t frick’n moussaka, anyway? T’ere’s musakka ov’r t’ere, on th’ table. Et that if y’re h’ngry.” He made the slight sound of one being pestered by small, inane trivialities while one had much larger things on his mind (and thus completely missing the undercurrents in this small, formless rebellion), and returned to work.
Heracles, who had known of the presence of musakka in the corner table in the room and had been steadfastly ignoring it, stiffened, throwing aside a pillow he had been reclining on.
“No. I definitely want to make moussaka.” At this, the sextant, which had been half-way across the map, dropped, and Turkey turned again, ready to ask what had Greece so riled (because he was only now beginning to feel that moussaka was somehow important or something), and allowed himself to be distracted by Greece’s lithe, white body glinting golden in the sun so his brain would not explode.
“Iss basic’lly th’ same t’ing ‘nyway, innit? J’st eat the musakka ‘n be happy.” It was finally dawning on him that, being virtually the same dish, Greece only wanted to make moussaka because it was Greek and not Turkish, and therefore a petty insurrection, which Turkey was no where nearly in the mood to entertain. Because seriously; if Italy kicking him in the balls repeatedly wasn’t bad enough, having one of his little harem boys bitching about Turkey’s cuisine choice chafing on them was torture.
“Sides,” he continued, rising from the floor in one, fluid motion as a temporary solution to moussaka, Italy, and his throbbing temples suddenly occurred to him. “Y’re not h’ngry, inyway.” Greece regarded the empire that now stood above him with some wariness, as well as the erection he was suddenly sporting.
“I’m not?” He posed, unconsciously sinking back down into the pillows, and gathered his long, lanky limbs closer to his body, as if to make himself a smaller target for a blow.
“No.” And the man climbed onto the low bed, shoving the boy back by the neck, and Greece decided that his battle for moussaka would have to wait for another day; currently, the more pertinent issue was to try to protect the sanctity of his shorelines as much as possible.
Though, in the end, it didn’t really matter; as usual, he was breached, and after Turkey had spent himself, and lay shuddering on Greece, they had eaten the musakka, anyway. Independence and moussaka threaded through his mind as they did, however, and he thought as he chewed that he would have to contemplate their integral connection for some time longer.