02 - [Hetalia] a formal talk of ghosts and legends.
Rating: M
Characters: Russia, Turkey
Fandom: Hetalia
Summary: Good friends deliver gifts that they themselves would want. ('Want' is so misused. Why the hell do we never learn?)
Notes: There, I have surrendered. 8|
Russia smells like the summer promised by November, only to be withheld by the Ides of March: beware. Turkey can feel the warmth and can smell the frozen earth when he looms behind him, smiling, his lips never leaving the softness of the nape of his neck.
"I will be," Russia began, "I will be your monolith."
Turkey has a mask that is held painfully by a worn band stretched tight around his skull, and Turkey smiles. Kohl in his eyes running down a cheek, a memory from the old lands, Turkey is smiling a smile that Russia is just as fluent in, because it is the smile that all those who have felt loss have painted on their faces. It's a magical gesture to say that you are not cornered and made religious in a fox-hole.
That is the smile that Russia traces on Turkey's lips as he forms his words, ghostly and true, on his dark skin. "That which cannot be divided, can only be made to serve. It is the only way we can remain in peace."
Turkey still has the decency to laugh, to raise his tone, subtly rearrange the pitch of his voice. His lips are dry. It is hard to form words when there is a leathered hand that is busy memorizing the sensuous curves of your lips. "Fuck that. There is no sense of peace with the words 'divide' and 'serve'. What the hell do you think you're playing at?"
Russia presses a kiss against his neck (cold, too cold, and Turkey shivers pleasantly under his tongue) and answers, "it's the oldest game of all."
*
Good friends deliver gifts that they themselves would want. The adage has been twisted violently to fit the bill. Russia walks into his house and announces, "I would like to have some water."
"The world's plenty made up of water," Turkey fires back, and the rest of the visit is conducted in the same vehemence that Russia enters in. Within his house his delegates plant their feet firmly on the land and shove their hands in their pockets, looking on the outlines of his shoulders, enduring the sudden cold.
"You will turn me away?"
"I'm not letting you stay," Turkey snarls. "Not for water. Not for anything."
"May I have some food, then? Before I go and make my goodbyes." Russia, at least, had the gallantry to look ashamed.
"No," Turkey replied. "You may not."
Russia nods. "I understand. Do you know the story about ghosts?"
Turkey knows: that which has been invited can never be denied. And because Turkey knows, Russia leaves with a piece of his arm and blood drawn from the corner of his lips. He has eaten, he has staved off his thirst. In the dark Turkey carefully replaces his mask with a stoic hand.
*
The nights are always endless when we wait.
"I can teach you this, sometime -- " Russia speaks in a language flavoured with ice and war and endless coiling of unrest. Russia leans against the window and writes his letters ghostly, with the tip of a finger and his breath against the glass. Turkey thinks, it's not the right night. He thinks, there will never be a right night if we keep doing this.
"-- it makes for a good palate."
"No thanks. Here, why don't I teach you a language that both of us can totally agree on, hey?"
He punches Russia across the jaw.
The sound echoes dully in his house as Russia's pale head slams against the windowpane. Russia grins, laughs. Oldest game in the world, indeed.
"'s why Russia -- was so kind -- to teach about palates," he replies, laughing, laughing, loosening his collar. That glint in his eye is unmistakeable, but Turkey is prepared. He has a thousand masks to replace and destroy at will. "The wind is blowing from the east to west, Turkey. It is a foul wind."
"I've always been a sickly one," white teeth, bared fangs. Russia stands up, dusts the ends of his scarf, rubs the side of his jaw ruefully. Turkey's hands curl like birdclaws dying in the cold, Russia notes. He whispers malevolently: "Kara, kara. I am not without my lessons, asshole."
"Careful, Turkey." Russia smiles, laces his fingers together: anticipation. Turkey draws his sword, and Russia closes his eyes as he feels the cold of Turkey's blade against his neck, drawing blood. He removes a glove from his hand and runs it on the silk tassel of his robes, his calloused hands. He moves against the blade. He moves towards him. The blade presses insistently on the side of his neck. He digs his hands into the folds of Turkey's robes, and lightly breathes on the side of his head, against his dark hair. So warm, he thought. He makes him so thirsty. He makes him so hungry again. A tongue flicks out and sucks on the edge of a collarbone. "I will be your monolith," he murmurs.
*
At the end of the evening Russia has sunflowers delivered all over his room, and Turkey nearly suffocates in all the brown-and-yellow faces of the flowers that has watched his every move, all the way to the part of this play where he is forced to kneel, and collapse down the dust.
"We both know about ghosts," Turkey grates out.
Russia nods, smiling serenely. Turkey wants nothing more than to carve it out of his face. Russia leans down, presses a boot against his lovely neck. An image of a broken throat, much like a twig snapped in two in a storm, flashes across the dark of his mind, and he smiles in some secret joy. "You cannot haunt someone who is already gone."
Turkey staggers from the weight and coughs blood on the tip of his boots and Russia moves a hand towards his men, gesturing them to move further in. He tells them, "make sure you children have something to drink, before we go."
He will eat me, Turkey thought. He will eat me and drink me whole. When I open my eyes again I'll be gone, melted in the snow.
*
But he was not.
Turkey wakes up amidst his graveyard of yellow flowers. Russia leaves a note attached to one of the bouquets, unsigned, but written in that intimate, heavy hand, in blue ink: Azov is a thin wafer, melting on my tongue.
It takes a while before the cold passes and Turkey can feel the warmth in his bones again. Idly, he thinks: it is spring.
+ kara, kara
+ Warfare between the Russians and the Crimean Tatars was chronic during the 16th and 17th cent. In 1696, Peter I won the first major Russian victory over the Turko-Tatars by capturing the fortress of Azov.
Characters: Russia, Turkey
Fandom: Hetalia
Summary: Good friends deliver gifts that they themselves would want. ('Want' is so misused. Why the hell do we never learn?)
Notes: There, I have surrendered. 8|
Russia smells like the summer promised by November, only to be withheld by the Ides of March: beware. Turkey can feel the warmth and can smell the frozen earth when he looms behind him, smiling, his lips never leaving the softness of the nape of his neck.
"I will be," Russia began, "I will be your monolith."
Turkey has a mask that is held painfully by a worn band stretched tight around his skull, and Turkey smiles. Kohl in his eyes running down a cheek, a memory from the old lands, Turkey is smiling a smile that Russia is just as fluent in, because it is the smile that all those who have felt loss have painted on their faces. It's a magical gesture to say that you are not cornered and made religious in a fox-hole.
That is the smile that Russia traces on Turkey's lips as he forms his words, ghostly and true, on his dark skin. "That which cannot be divided, can only be made to serve. It is the only way we can remain in peace."
Turkey still has the decency to laugh, to raise his tone, subtly rearrange the pitch of his voice. His lips are dry. It is hard to form words when there is a leathered hand that is busy memorizing the sensuous curves of your lips. "Fuck that. There is no sense of peace with the words 'divide' and 'serve'. What the hell do you think you're playing at?"
Russia presses a kiss against his neck (cold, too cold, and Turkey shivers pleasantly under his tongue) and answers, "it's the oldest game of all."
*
Good friends deliver gifts that they themselves would want. The adage has been twisted violently to fit the bill. Russia walks into his house and announces, "I would like to have some water."
"The world's plenty made up of water," Turkey fires back, and the rest of the visit is conducted in the same vehemence that Russia enters in. Within his house his delegates plant their feet firmly on the land and shove their hands in their pockets, looking on the outlines of his shoulders, enduring the sudden cold.
"You will turn me away?"
"I'm not letting you stay," Turkey snarls. "Not for water. Not for anything."
"May I have some food, then? Before I go and make my goodbyes." Russia, at least, had the gallantry to look ashamed.
"No," Turkey replied. "You may not."
Russia nods. "I understand. Do you know the story about ghosts?"
Turkey knows: that which has been invited can never be denied. And because Turkey knows, Russia leaves with a piece of his arm and blood drawn from the corner of his lips. He has eaten, he has staved off his thirst. In the dark Turkey carefully replaces his mask with a stoic hand.
*
The nights are always endless when we wait.
"I can teach you this, sometime -- " Russia speaks in a language flavoured with ice and war and endless coiling of unrest. Russia leans against the window and writes his letters ghostly, with the tip of a finger and his breath against the glass. Turkey thinks, it's not the right night. He thinks, there will never be a right night if we keep doing this.
"-- it makes for a good palate."
"No thanks. Here, why don't I teach you a language that both of us can totally agree on, hey?"
He punches Russia across the jaw.
The sound echoes dully in his house as Russia's pale head slams against the windowpane. Russia grins, laughs. Oldest game in the world, indeed.
"'s why Russia -- was so kind -- to teach about palates," he replies, laughing, laughing, loosening his collar. That glint in his eye is unmistakeable, but Turkey is prepared. He has a thousand masks to replace and destroy at will. "The wind is blowing from the east to west, Turkey. It is a foul wind."
"I've always been a sickly one," white teeth, bared fangs. Russia stands up, dusts the ends of his scarf, rubs the side of his jaw ruefully. Turkey's hands curl like birdclaws dying in the cold, Russia notes. He whispers malevolently: "Kara, kara. I am not without my lessons, asshole."
"Careful, Turkey." Russia smiles, laces his fingers together: anticipation. Turkey draws his sword, and Russia closes his eyes as he feels the cold of Turkey's blade against his neck, drawing blood. He removes a glove from his hand and runs it on the silk tassel of his robes, his calloused hands. He moves against the blade. He moves towards him. The blade presses insistently on the side of his neck. He digs his hands into the folds of Turkey's robes, and lightly breathes on the side of his head, against his dark hair. So warm, he thought. He makes him so thirsty. He makes him so hungry again. A tongue flicks out and sucks on the edge of a collarbone. "I will be your monolith," he murmurs.
*
At the end of the evening Russia has sunflowers delivered all over his room, and Turkey nearly suffocates in all the brown-and-yellow faces of the flowers that has watched his every move, all the way to the part of this play where he is forced to kneel, and collapse down the dust.
"We both know about ghosts," Turkey grates out.
Russia nods, smiling serenely. Turkey wants nothing more than to carve it out of his face. Russia leans down, presses a boot against his lovely neck. An image of a broken throat, much like a twig snapped in two in a storm, flashes across the dark of his mind, and he smiles in some secret joy. "You cannot haunt someone who is already gone."
Turkey staggers from the weight and coughs blood on the tip of his boots and Russia moves a hand towards his men, gesturing them to move further in. He tells them, "make sure you children have something to drink, before we go."
He will eat me, Turkey thought. He will eat me and drink me whole. When I open my eyes again I'll be gone, melted in the snow.
*
But he was not.
Turkey wakes up amidst his graveyard of yellow flowers. Russia leaves a note attached to one of the bouquets, unsigned, but written in that intimate, heavy hand, in blue ink: Azov is a thin wafer, melting on my tongue.
It takes a while before the cold passes and Turkey can feel the warmth in his bones again. Idly, he thinks: it is spring.
+ kara, kara
+ Warfare between the Russians and the Crimean Tatars was chronic during the 16th and 17th cent. In 1696, Peter I won the first major Russian victory over the Turko-Tatars by capturing the fortress of Azov.