When A Heart is Like A Writing Desk [1/1]
Title: When A Heart is Like A Writing Desk
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece
Rating: R
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Sometimes the things we own take on new meaning, especially when they've been there to see us through our best and worst times.
Notes: With allusions to İstanbul.
Sadiq has a desk, one made of dark wood lacquered to an old shine with delicate engravings. There are drawers with dim gold knobs, and a few hidden compartments just above where his knees rest. To the left there are long slots for his maps and scrolls (even though no one really uses scrolls any longer, do they?) and to the right sits an inkwell made of ivory just above a deep wound in the wood that he's never bothered to fix. The desk is old and while he supposes he should just get a new one, Sadiq can't quite bring himself to throw the old thing out.
14XX
"Are you still working?"
"Mmmhm." Sadiq glances up from his map to the tiny body in his doorway, hair tousled into a mess. "Thought you went to bed, brat." He doesn't like it when Heracles is out of his sight, or away from the place Sadiq put him last.
There is a soft scoff as Heracles shuts the study door behind him, waddling over to the desk. "Hermes couldn't sleep." The kitten in his grasp mewls and looks up at the Empire incredulously.
"...right." Recently, Sadiq has discovered that he is allergic to cats. Why he indulges the brat like this he'll never know.
"What are you doing?" Heracles stands on his toes, just barely peeking over the desk. "Drawing?"
"Cartography. Don't worry about it." Yawning, Sadiq runs a hand through his hair, wondering just how late it's gotten. He should really scoop the kid up and head back to his room but--
"Can I draw?"
But he can't help but indulge when they're away from the prying eyes of the court and harem. And it looks as if the brat has figured this out. Sadiq's lips quirk. "Guess that can't hurt." He reaches down and easily lifts Heracles and his kitten up and into his lap. "Quit squirming. Here; pen and ink."
"Gimme parchment."
"Yeah, yeah." Sadiq wraps his arm around the tiny waist, keeping Heracles still as the kitten leaps to the wooden surface. "What're you gonna draw?"
"Him." With a look of great intent, Herakles watches the kitten as he washes his whiskers and face. Long, delicate strokes of ink stretch across the parchment, forming ears, eyes, legs and a tail.
"Not bad," Sadiq grunts after a few minutes have passed. "Want me to hang it up?"
"Not done yet."
"Hmn." Watching the pen scratch against the parchment is hypnotic; Sadiq has to scoot closer to the desk and lean, resting his chin in his palm. "Wake me up when you're done, eh?"
"Shh." Herakles adds each whisker slowly, lulling Sadiq even closer to sleep. So Sadiq runs his fingers through brunette locks, the little curls on top, watching silently and waiting until they may return to bed.
17XX
"What. The. Hell."
Heracles glances up from the papers in his hand and doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed for rooting around in the desk. "You're back sooner than I expected. Did the Janissary revolt end early?"
Quickly, Sadiq shuts the door behind him, rushing to the usurper of his privacy. "The fuck're you doing in my desk!?" He snatches the papers out of Heracles' hands, and glances at them and---and shit shit shit. They're his poems. Fuck. Sadiq wills his hands to stay steady. "Did you read these?"
"A few," Heracles shrugs, his feet kicking back and forth as he sits on the desk. His hair is damp and he is still wrapped in the cloth robes of the hammam. "Did you write them?"
"...'Course not," Sadiq says with a grunt, shoving them back into the desk. "One of the, the princes gave them to me."
An eyebrow arches at that. "As a token of love?"
"To proofread, brat," Sadiq snaps, slumping down into his seat. He feels exhausted suddenly, heart hammering behind his ribcage. There has to be a better hiding place than his desk for his poetry. Maybe behind a painting or up on the rooftop. Or locked in a chest at the bottom of the damned Bosphorus.
"Hmmm." There is a delicate smirk on Heracles' face and slowly, slowly he runs a bare foot over Sadiq's knee. "If those ones are so bad, tell me a different one. A good one."
It's as if Sadiq's heartbeat doesn't know whether to slow or skip. "What one do you want to hear?"
Heracles' other foot finds Sadiq's other knee, the robe draping in an irritating fashion between his legs, Sadiq thinks, just covering what he'd like to see. "Any. Just tell me one."
There are too many to count; too many that he's memorized, too many that he used to whisper when Heracles couldn't sleep through the night. Delicately, Sadiq runs a finger over Heracles' ankle; he smells of the soaps and oils of the baths. "Fine." Sadiq clears his throat. "He saw the water round about her ear play; In rings upon her shoulders her dark locks lay." He is suddenly thankful for his mask covering any color to his cheeks.
A long, delicious pause stretches between them, and Sadiq is certain he has heard a short intake of breath. Heracles' knees move apart just an inch, his smirk widens. "Tell me more."
He is like one of his mother's sirens.
"When yon heart-winning moon before the King beamed, The King became the sun---in him Love's fire gleamed." Sadiq licks his lips, lets his thumb trail up higher on Heracles' muscular calve. "No power was left him, neither sport nor pleasure; He bit his finger, wildered beyond measure." He watches Herakles' fingers grip into the edge of the desk and feels his body heat up like an ember come to life.
"I like that one. You know that one's my favorite, don't you?" Languidly, Heracles steps down from the desk and onto the plush chair, kneeling around Sadiq. "It's really long though," he murmurs, wrapping an arm about broad shoulders and carding his fingers through Sadiq's locks. "I'm not sure I can wait for the end."
Rough hands travel up Heracles' thighs, bunching up the soft fabric; Sadiq can feel Heracles through his clothing and it makes his head light. "Why don't you tell me one then?" Sadiq's palms run under the thighs to cup at Heraces' rear and bring him close. "A short one."
There is a low, languid chuckle as Heracles shivers, presses his lips close to Sadiq's ear: "Fuck me."
Sadiq grins. "That ain't very poetic."
"Take it or leave it."
Sadiq takes.
182X
"But it's okay now; I'll fix you," Sadiq says calmly, voice laced with determination.
Heracles looks as though he might vomit. "I... am not broken," he whispers. His fists ball and quake under the desk.
"What did you s--"
Heracles' voice tears from his throat, scraping against it like gravel and dirt as he shouts: "I AM NOT BROKEN!" The desk is now under his fist, wood splintered. He doesn't notice, even when the inkwell topples and spills like dark blood. "There is nothing for you to fix, Sadiq!"
Across the plain of wood, Sadiq has steeled his face into something even more expressionless than usual. The mask leers at Heracles. Behind him, the little clock ticks away like thunder. It had been a gift from Francis. "What have they been telling you," he asks quietly. "What lies have they been putting in your head?"
"I don't have to answer that."
They both flinch at those words. They both flinch at the fact they'd been said.
But Heracles recovers faster, standing, reeling back from the desk with his eyes hidden by long bangs. "I'm leaving. Don't follow me."
"I will defeat anyone who tries to claim you from me." Sadiq's voice is low, cool and factual. He'd reclaimed Greece from Austria, from Italy--hadn't he? He'd kept his promise. "You know this."
Pausing at the doorway, Heracles' frame tenses like a silken chord. "No one is trying to claim me." He doesn't turn; he simply walks out of the study. "You don't get it, do you?"
Sadiq really doesn't get it.
192X
There is a mask lying broken on Sadiq's desk, split in half. He's not sure if he can fix it this time. Slumped in his chair, he stares at it--has been staring at it, for days--but doesn't even have the power to will it back together. His body feels different, feels battered and broken--littered by Germany's bite marks, by England's scars and Greece's cuts that seem less heinous than that--and just... different.
A man walks into his office. The hairs on the back of Sadiq's neck prickle. He knows who it is; the general who saved Istanbul while he could. It had fallen, though, and it's been hard for Sadiq to catch his breath since then.
The man only says one thing: "Get up."
And somehow, Sadiq does.
1999
The shaking had stopped hours ago; there is rubble and dirt and dust and Sadiq can't stop coughing because of it all. It burns his chest, makes his eyes water--but, hey, he figures, could be worse. He got under the desk just in time to avoid being bashed on the head by anything too terribly solid. Now if only the ripping, tearing sensation between his ribcage would go away, boy would he be set to get the fuck out of his house and see the damage in the city.
Except Sadiq has an idea that it's pretty fucking bad, if the fact that he can't move his right arm is any indication.
"Sadiq!"
He's probably going crazy too, thinks he's hearing things.
"Sadiq--dammit, where the hell...!"
Dimly, in the back of his mind, Sadiq hopes his desk isn't too fucked up. No one really makes 'em like this anymore, not with the hidden compartments and etchings and--
"Damnit, Sadiq! Bastard, why didn't you answer me!"
Sadiq glances up, though his vision is still a little blurry. And he knows he must be going nuts, because there's no way in hell that's Heracles stumbling through the wreckage that was his study, tripping forward to the desk with a duffle bag and worried look.
"I'll fucking kill you if you're not dead!" Heracles falls to his knees, glaring for all he's worth--but it doesn't hide the concern in his voice. "Stupid idiot, can't even take care of yourself..."
Yes, Sadiq decides, he's finally gone off the deep end. No way Heracles is with him under the desk, stripping off his green jacket and inspecting him for wounds, dumping all manners of medical materials from his bag. No way is he bandaging up Sadiq's arm, shoving a canteen and aspirin to his lips, or dropping angry tears to the floor.
"Shit, idiot," Heracles mutters, pointedly staring at the splint he's working on. "What would you do without me?"
2002
"Listen, I don't care how tired you are--we need to keep practicing so we can host the UEFA in 2008, alright?"
"You're a fukkin' slave driver, you know that?" Sadiq yawns and leans forward towards the desk, wrapping his arms around Heracles' waist and burying his head into his jean-covered thigh. "Who're we up against? Austria and Switzerland? Buncha wimps, don't worry--"
A rolled-up magazine smacks Sadiq right on his head. "And others, not just them. I thought you were serious about joint-hosting this thing, idiot."
"Not at seven in the morning I ain't. Take a nap with me," Sadiq half-pleads. Man, could he go for a nap; they hadn't even gone to bed until three in the morning. Hardly seems fair, is all.
"A nap on your desk?"
"If you insist on sitting on it... 'Sides." One eye cracks open and Sadiq smirks. "We've done worse on it."
"I'm surprised the legs haven't given out," Heracles mutters. "Come on, honestly--"
"Man, you really want this UEFA thing bad, dontcha?" Sadiq maneuvers over to Heracles' crotch, deftly undoing his pants button before clamping his hands down on lean hips. "What can I do to get your mind offa it?"
"...you know I'm open to negotiations."
Gently, Sadiq nuzzles forward and takes the little zipper between his teeth, pulling downwards.
A sigh. "You're a conniving bastard." But Heracles leans back just the same, small grin on his face.
"Shuttup and let me blow you so you get sleepy."
"I believe the delegate from Turkey has the floor."
Sadiq's never going to get rid of this desk--not ever.
-----Here are your notes:
1999: Turkey is struck by a massive earthquake, and Greece is the first on the scene to help. Turkey would recipricate a few months later when Greece was hit with their own earthquake.
2002: Austria and Switzerland eventually won the 2008 bid, though this is just a theory as to why.
There. Something happy-ish. \:D/
...now I'm off to write something depressing with Spain. /shot
ALSO: In... 20 days I will be moving to China for a few months to teach English! I'm not entirely sure how this will affect my fic-writing, but if you feel yourself curious about my exploits in a foreign land, please feel free to friend my travel journal: thatpasserby
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece
Rating: R
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Sometimes the things we own take on new meaning, especially when they've been there to see us through our best and worst times.
Notes: With allusions to İstanbul.
Sadiq has a desk, one made of dark wood lacquered to an old shine with delicate engravings. There are drawers with dim gold knobs, and a few hidden compartments just above where his knees rest. To the left there are long slots for his maps and scrolls (even though no one really uses scrolls any longer, do they?) and to the right sits an inkwell made of ivory just above a deep wound in the wood that he's never bothered to fix. The desk is old and while he supposes he should just get a new one, Sadiq can't quite bring himself to throw the old thing out.
14XX
"Are you still working?"
"Mmmhm." Sadiq glances up from his map to the tiny body in his doorway, hair tousled into a mess. "Thought you went to bed, brat." He doesn't like it when Heracles is out of his sight, or away from the place Sadiq put him last.
There is a soft scoff as Heracles shuts the study door behind him, waddling over to the desk. "Hermes couldn't sleep." The kitten in his grasp mewls and looks up at the Empire incredulously.
"...right." Recently, Sadiq has discovered that he is allergic to cats. Why he indulges the brat like this he'll never know.
"What are you doing?" Heracles stands on his toes, just barely peeking over the desk. "Drawing?"
"Cartography. Don't worry about it." Yawning, Sadiq runs a hand through his hair, wondering just how late it's gotten. He should really scoop the kid up and head back to his room but--
"Can I draw?"
But he can't help but indulge when they're away from the prying eyes of the court and harem. And it looks as if the brat has figured this out. Sadiq's lips quirk. "Guess that can't hurt." He reaches down and easily lifts Heracles and his kitten up and into his lap. "Quit squirming. Here; pen and ink."
"Gimme parchment."
"Yeah, yeah." Sadiq wraps his arm around the tiny waist, keeping Heracles still as the kitten leaps to the wooden surface. "What're you gonna draw?"
"Him." With a look of great intent, Herakles watches the kitten as he washes his whiskers and face. Long, delicate strokes of ink stretch across the parchment, forming ears, eyes, legs and a tail.
"Not bad," Sadiq grunts after a few minutes have passed. "Want me to hang it up?"
"Not done yet."
"Hmn." Watching the pen scratch against the parchment is hypnotic; Sadiq has to scoot closer to the desk and lean, resting his chin in his palm. "Wake me up when you're done, eh?"
"Shh." Herakles adds each whisker slowly, lulling Sadiq even closer to sleep. So Sadiq runs his fingers through brunette locks, the little curls on top, watching silently and waiting until they may return to bed.
17XX
"What. The. Hell."
Heracles glances up from the papers in his hand and doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed for rooting around in the desk. "You're back sooner than I expected. Did the Janissary revolt end early?"
Quickly, Sadiq shuts the door behind him, rushing to the usurper of his privacy. "The fuck're you doing in my desk!?" He snatches the papers out of Heracles' hands, and glances at them and---and shit shit shit. They're his poems. Fuck. Sadiq wills his hands to stay steady. "Did you read these?"
"A few," Heracles shrugs, his feet kicking back and forth as he sits on the desk. His hair is damp and he is still wrapped in the cloth robes of the hammam. "Did you write them?"
"...'Course not," Sadiq says with a grunt, shoving them back into the desk. "One of the, the princes gave them to me."
An eyebrow arches at that. "As a token of love?"
"To proofread, brat," Sadiq snaps, slumping down into his seat. He feels exhausted suddenly, heart hammering behind his ribcage. There has to be a better hiding place than his desk for his poetry. Maybe behind a painting or up on the rooftop. Or locked in a chest at the bottom of the damned Bosphorus.
"Hmmm." There is a delicate smirk on Heracles' face and slowly, slowly he runs a bare foot over Sadiq's knee. "If those ones are so bad, tell me a different one. A good one."
It's as if Sadiq's heartbeat doesn't know whether to slow or skip. "What one do you want to hear?"
Heracles' other foot finds Sadiq's other knee, the robe draping in an irritating fashion between his legs, Sadiq thinks, just covering what he'd like to see. "Any. Just tell me one."
There are too many to count; too many that he's memorized, too many that he used to whisper when Heracles couldn't sleep through the night. Delicately, Sadiq runs a finger over Heracles' ankle; he smells of the soaps and oils of the baths. "Fine." Sadiq clears his throat. "He saw the water round about her ear play; In rings upon her shoulders her dark locks lay." He is suddenly thankful for his mask covering any color to his cheeks.
A long, delicious pause stretches between them, and Sadiq is certain he has heard a short intake of breath. Heracles' knees move apart just an inch, his smirk widens. "Tell me more."
He is like one of his mother's sirens.
"When yon heart-winning moon before the King beamed, The King became the sun---in him Love's fire gleamed." Sadiq licks his lips, lets his thumb trail up higher on Heracles' muscular calve. "No power was left him, neither sport nor pleasure; He bit his finger, wildered beyond measure." He watches Herakles' fingers grip into the edge of the desk and feels his body heat up like an ember come to life.
"I like that one. You know that one's my favorite, don't you?" Languidly, Heracles steps down from the desk and onto the plush chair, kneeling around Sadiq. "It's really long though," he murmurs, wrapping an arm about broad shoulders and carding his fingers through Sadiq's locks. "I'm not sure I can wait for the end."
Rough hands travel up Heracles' thighs, bunching up the soft fabric; Sadiq can feel Heracles through his clothing and it makes his head light. "Why don't you tell me one then?" Sadiq's palms run under the thighs to cup at Heraces' rear and bring him close. "A short one."
There is a low, languid chuckle as Heracles shivers, presses his lips close to Sadiq's ear: "Fuck me."
Sadiq grins. "That ain't very poetic."
"Take it or leave it."
Sadiq takes.
182X
"But it's okay now; I'll fix you," Sadiq says calmly, voice laced with determination.
Heracles looks as though he might vomit. "I... am not broken," he whispers. His fists ball and quake under the desk.
"What did you s--"
Heracles' voice tears from his throat, scraping against it like gravel and dirt as he shouts: "I AM NOT BROKEN!" The desk is now under his fist, wood splintered. He doesn't notice, even when the inkwell topples and spills like dark blood. "There is nothing for you to fix, Sadiq!"
Across the plain of wood, Sadiq has steeled his face into something even more expressionless than usual. The mask leers at Heracles. Behind him, the little clock ticks away like thunder. It had been a gift from Francis. "What have they been telling you," he asks quietly. "What lies have they been putting in your head?"
"I don't have to answer that."
They both flinch at those words. They both flinch at the fact they'd been said.
But Heracles recovers faster, standing, reeling back from the desk with his eyes hidden by long bangs. "I'm leaving. Don't follow me."
"I will defeat anyone who tries to claim you from me." Sadiq's voice is low, cool and factual. He'd reclaimed Greece from Austria, from Italy--hadn't he? He'd kept his promise. "You know this."
Pausing at the doorway, Heracles' frame tenses like a silken chord. "No one is trying to claim me." He doesn't turn; he simply walks out of the study. "You don't get it, do you?"
Sadiq really doesn't get it.
192X
There is a mask lying broken on Sadiq's desk, split in half. He's not sure if he can fix it this time. Slumped in his chair, he stares at it--has been staring at it, for days--but doesn't even have the power to will it back together. His body feels different, feels battered and broken--littered by Germany's bite marks, by England's scars and Greece's cuts that seem less heinous than that--and just... different.
A man walks into his office. The hairs on the back of Sadiq's neck prickle. He knows who it is; the general who saved Istanbul while he could. It had fallen, though, and it's been hard for Sadiq to catch his breath since then.
The man only says one thing: "Get up."
And somehow, Sadiq does.
1999
The shaking had stopped hours ago; there is rubble and dirt and dust and Sadiq can't stop coughing because of it all. It burns his chest, makes his eyes water--but, hey, he figures, could be worse. He got under the desk just in time to avoid being bashed on the head by anything too terribly solid. Now if only the ripping, tearing sensation between his ribcage would go away, boy would he be set to get the fuck out of his house and see the damage in the city.
Except Sadiq has an idea that it's pretty fucking bad, if the fact that he can't move his right arm is any indication.
"Sadiq!"
He's probably going crazy too, thinks he's hearing things.
"Sadiq--dammit, where the hell...!"
Dimly, in the back of his mind, Sadiq hopes his desk isn't too fucked up. No one really makes 'em like this anymore, not with the hidden compartments and etchings and--
"Damnit, Sadiq! Bastard, why didn't you answer me!"
Sadiq glances up, though his vision is still a little blurry. And he knows he must be going nuts, because there's no way in hell that's Heracles stumbling through the wreckage that was his study, tripping forward to the desk with a duffle bag and worried look.
"I'll fucking kill you if you're not dead!" Heracles falls to his knees, glaring for all he's worth--but it doesn't hide the concern in his voice. "Stupid idiot, can't even take care of yourself..."
Yes, Sadiq decides, he's finally gone off the deep end. No way Heracles is with him under the desk, stripping off his green jacket and inspecting him for wounds, dumping all manners of medical materials from his bag. No way is he bandaging up Sadiq's arm, shoving a canteen and aspirin to his lips, or dropping angry tears to the floor.
"Shit, idiot," Heracles mutters, pointedly staring at the splint he's working on. "What would you do without me?"
2002
"Listen, I don't care how tired you are--we need to keep practicing so we can host the UEFA in 2008, alright?"
"You're a fukkin' slave driver, you know that?" Sadiq yawns and leans forward towards the desk, wrapping his arms around Heracles' waist and burying his head into his jean-covered thigh. "Who're we up against? Austria and Switzerland? Buncha wimps, don't worry--"
A rolled-up magazine smacks Sadiq right on his head. "And others, not just them. I thought you were serious about joint-hosting this thing, idiot."
"Not at seven in the morning I ain't. Take a nap with me," Sadiq half-pleads. Man, could he go for a nap; they hadn't even gone to bed until three in the morning. Hardly seems fair, is all.
"A nap on your desk?"
"If you insist on sitting on it... 'Sides." One eye cracks open and Sadiq smirks. "We've done worse on it."
"I'm surprised the legs haven't given out," Heracles mutters. "Come on, honestly--"
"Man, you really want this UEFA thing bad, dontcha?" Sadiq maneuvers over to Heracles' crotch, deftly undoing his pants button before clamping his hands down on lean hips. "What can I do to get your mind offa it?"
"...you know I'm open to negotiations."
Gently, Sadiq nuzzles forward and takes the little zipper between his teeth, pulling downwards.
A sigh. "You're a conniving bastard." But Heracles leans back just the same, small grin on his face.
"Shuttup and let me blow you so you get sleepy."
"I believe the delegate from Turkey has the floor."
Sadiq's never going to get rid of this desk--not ever.
-----Here are your notes:
1999: Turkey is struck by a massive earthquake, and Greece is the first on the scene to help. Turkey would recipricate a few months later when Greece was hit with their own earthquake.
2002: Austria and Switzerland eventually won the 2008 bid, though this is just a theory as to why.
There. Something happy-ish. \:D/
...now I'm off to write something depressing with Spain. /shot
ALSO: In... 20 days I will be moving to China for a few months to teach English! I'm not entirely sure how this will affect my fic-writing, but if you feel yourself curious about my exploits in a foreign land, please feel free to friend my travel journal: thatpasserby