The Bosphorus [1/1]
Title: The Bosphorus
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece
Rating: PG13
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Four hundred years falls apart on the edge of the Bosphorus.
Notes: This is a short companion piece for İstanbul prompted by a few people wanting to know more about the ring ♥
Turkey watches him do it.
They are down at the edge of the Bosphorus, in blood-stained clothes that are tattered and ripped. Greece has the remnants of a black eye, and Turkey's nose is still sore from their scuffle at the Danube. It had shattered, blood pouring from his nostrils and Turkey had howled, threw his weight and flipped them. And he caught Greece by surprise, ended up on top and choked him--there are still gashes on his hands from Greece's nails--choked him until his face turned red. He had watched his tears splatter down to Greece's cheeks, mixed with Turkey's blood. Greece had passed out, and shakily, Turkey had picked him up and carried him back to his house, tucking him into bed like he'd used to when Greece was just a small thing. And then he had grabbed the dusty bottle from his desk and drank until the blood on his face dried.
But they're at the Bosphorus now, and Greece has such a fire in his eyes that Turkey's surprised he doesn't combust. There are no soldiers with them, no weapons, no nothing. It's just them, the Bosphorus, and the ring in Greece's fist.
More than anything in the world, Turkey wants things to go back to the way they used to be. Back when they would sleep together and stay in his bed for hours even after waking. Back to the battlefields, when they were on the same side, and Greece would look so beautiful with a spear in hand. He wants to hold Greece, tell him he'll fix it--fix him, undo the lies England and Russia and France have put in his head. But it's impossible, Turkey knows it for certain now, and he's going to make himself sick dwelling on it.
There are no words between them. There isn't anything left to say that hasn't already been said. And maybe Turkey could have been a little nicer, maybe, but Greece could have certainly been more grateful. He's just not understanding any of this, the explanations Greece has given him, the shouts, the exasperated sighs. Turkey doesn't want him to leave. It's been a long time coming, but he's finally realized that there is no one else like Greece: No one who's gonna fit so finely under his arm, talk to him about poetry until the sun sets, or know what he's thinking just by the way he carries himself. If Turkey's gonna lose that, he's gonna break.
What's even worse is that he knows he's already lost Greece; he's just been holding onto whatever they have left so ferociously his fingernails could break and bleed.
Turkey watches him do it:
They don't say anything. There's just the waves lapping nearby, a siren in the distance, the sound of gunfire. Greece's fist clenches before he turns to the Bosphorus, winds up his arm, and lets the gold ring fly. It's a puzzle ring, and there's the delicate sound of its pieces coming loose before it lands in the water with a plop. Four hundred years come loose and fall into the Bosphorus, gone forever.
Turkey feels something inside of him snap like a bone breaking in two.
For a while, they both watch the waves, as if waiting to see if the ring will float or come crawling back out. It doesn't.
Greece turns back; there are tears nearly concealed by the sheer ferocity in his eyes. "You made me do this."
It's probably true. "I don't ever want to see your face again." Turkey doesn't know what makes him say it; it's the opposite of what he really wants. But the words are already out there, and he'll let them linger. "Get the fuck out of here."
No emotions show on Greece's face as he turns and walks back from where he came, out of Turkey's life and out of his heart. When he's gone, Turkey waits even longer, before staggering forward and vomiting. He wipes at the acidic taste on his lips--Turkey's head is pounding, his chest feels tight--and looks back to the Bosphorus one last time. He is overcome with a sense of loss, a sense of emptiness; there have been things done that cannot be undone, and not just today.
"What is it?"
"A ring," Turkey grunted, slipping down his veil. "Once you put it on, you can't take it off; it'll fall apart, see?"
Curiously, Greece accepts it, inspecting. "It's... nice." He puts it on and returns his attention to his reading.
There is no pomp and circumstance; either of them admitting that this had meaning would shatter it. The fact that Turkey had given the ring, the fact that Greece had accepted; the paramount of these two actions could not be safely acknowledged. So Turkey pulled Greece into his lap and settled back for a light snooze, arm snugly around Greece's waist as he read on.
More than anything, Turkey wants things to go back to the way they were.
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece
Rating: PG13
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Four hundred years falls apart on the edge of the Bosphorus.
Notes: This is a short companion piece for İstanbul prompted by a few people wanting to know more about the ring ♥
Turkey watches him do it.
They are down at the edge of the Bosphorus, in blood-stained clothes that are tattered and ripped. Greece has the remnants of a black eye, and Turkey's nose is still sore from their scuffle at the Danube. It had shattered, blood pouring from his nostrils and Turkey had howled, threw his weight and flipped them. And he caught Greece by surprise, ended up on top and choked him--there are still gashes on his hands from Greece's nails--choked him until his face turned red. He had watched his tears splatter down to Greece's cheeks, mixed with Turkey's blood. Greece had passed out, and shakily, Turkey had picked him up and carried him back to his house, tucking him into bed like he'd used to when Greece was just a small thing. And then he had grabbed the dusty bottle from his desk and drank until the blood on his face dried.
But they're at the Bosphorus now, and Greece has such a fire in his eyes that Turkey's surprised he doesn't combust. There are no soldiers with them, no weapons, no nothing. It's just them, the Bosphorus, and the ring in Greece's fist.
More than anything in the world, Turkey wants things to go back to the way they used to be. Back when they would sleep together and stay in his bed for hours even after waking. Back to the battlefields, when they were on the same side, and Greece would look so beautiful with a spear in hand. He wants to hold Greece, tell him he'll fix it--fix him, undo the lies England and Russia and France have put in his head. But it's impossible, Turkey knows it for certain now, and he's going to make himself sick dwelling on it.
There are no words between them. There isn't anything left to say that hasn't already been said. And maybe Turkey could have been a little nicer, maybe, but Greece could have certainly been more grateful. He's just not understanding any of this, the explanations Greece has given him, the shouts, the exasperated sighs. Turkey doesn't want him to leave. It's been a long time coming, but he's finally realized that there is no one else like Greece: No one who's gonna fit so finely under his arm, talk to him about poetry until the sun sets, or know what he's thinking just by the way he carries himself. If Turkey's gonna lose that, he's gonna break.
What's even worse is that he knows he's already lost Greece; he's just been holding onto whatever they have left so ferociously his fingernails could break and bleed.
Turkey watches him do it:
They don't say anything. There's just the waves lapping nearby, a siren in the distance, the sound of gunfire. Greece's fist clenches before he turns to the Bosphorus, winds up his arm, and lets the gold ring fly. It's a puzzle ring, and there's the delicate sound of its pieces coming loose before it lands in the water with a plop. Four hundred years come loose and fall into the Bosphorus, gone forever.
Turkey feels something inside of him snap like a bone breaking in two.
For a while, they both watch the waves, as if waiting to see if the ring will float or come crawling back out. It doesn't.
Greece turns back; there are tears nearly concealed by the sheer ferocity in his eyes. "You made me do this."
It's probably true. "I don't ever want to see your face again." Turkey doesn't know what makes him say it; it's the opposite of what he really wants. But the words are already out there, and he'll let them linger. "Get the fuck out of here."
No emotions show on Greece's face as he turns and walks back from where he came, out of Turkey's life and out of his heart. When he's gone, Turkey waits even longer, before staggering forward and vomiting. He wipes at the acidic taste on his lips--Turkey's head is pounding, his chest feels tight--and looks back to the Bosphorus one last time. He is overcome with a sense of loss, a sense of emptiness; there have been things done that cannot be undone, and not just today.
"What is it?"
"A ring," Turkey grunted, slipping down his veil. "Once you put it on, you can't take it off; it'll fall apart, see?"
Curiously, Greece accepts it, inspecting. "It's... nice." He puts it on and returns his attention to his reading.
There is no pomp and circumstance; either of them admitting that this had meaning would shatter it. The fact that Turkey had given the ring, the fact that Greece had accepted; the paramount of these two actions could not be safely acknowledged. So Turkey pulled Greece into his lap and settled back for a light snooze, arm snugly around Greece's waist as he read on.
More than anything, Turkey wants things to go back to the way they were.