Sixes and Sevens, Chapter Two- Kumru
♪♫ "When The War Came" by The Decemberists ♫♪
The phone rang.
It was too damned early for the phone to ring. He knew it, and he knew the person on the other end fucking knew it as well. Still. If some fucker was going to call him at 5:04 in the goddamn morning...
He groped for the phone and mashed the button angrily, jamming the phone to his ear fitfully.
“What?” he growled into the receiver.
“Sadiq.” A low voice greeted him calmly, clearly unperturbed by the gruff tone and early hour.
Sadiq Adnan sat up slowly, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep from his brain.
“...Gupta? This is a hell of a time to be making a call.”
“I am afraid this is not a leisurely call, as you might have guessed.” Egypt replied, his voice unhurried and even.
Turkey frowned as his fingers traced over the scars from losing Medina and Mecca, one over each lung.
“I can't even imagine,” he retorted dryly, “So what is it this time? Bulgaria smacked Italy around again and Germany wants restitution? Hungary fucked her economy again? The Balkan-”
“Herakles is gone, Sadiq.”
His hand froze over Mecca, fingers clenching deep into the skin of his bare chest, ripping ripping ripping at those ancient bones--
“What do you mean gone?” he hissed into the phone.
There was a pause, and then “You know how it goes, Sadiq. There was an accident.”
“I don't want none of your bullshit! What. Do you mean. Gone?”
“...do you pay attention to the news at all? Or whenever it has something to do with him, you just pass over it?”
...fuck.
“Fine then, I don't!” he snarled into the phone, “Fucking inform me instead of playing at this passive-aggressive horseshit, Gupta!”
“Yesterday he was on a train to Alexandroupolis. A truck got in the way and the train derailed.”
He felt his throat choke closed with imagined smoke and the smell of burning metal and singed flesh--
“--and?” he managed.
The line went silent.
“...you don't need to know,” Gupta said finally, “That's not the important part.”
“...what are you saying?” Sadiq hissed into the phone, “The FUCK are you saying?”
--fingers digging into Mecca, mining deep for those old ancient bones--
“They want you to find him.” Gupta said calmly.
“No.”
“Sadiq, I know you two don't get along, but the situation calls for you to--”
“Don't give a damn what the 'situation calls for'! I don't do anything I don't want to, and I don't want to go looking for that brat!”
“Sadiq...” Gupta's voice turned pleading, “...please...”
Fingers retreated from seizing Mecca and clenched at his hair instead, furiously grasping and viciously pulling at the dark strands, worrying away the false composure, the feigned fury, the faux hatred--
‘“I told you I don't hate you. The captor doesn't hate his prisoner. You should be a little grateful, because you could have it so much worse, kumru.”
“Just because you don't hate me...it doesn't mean it's mutual.”'
“...I'll think about it.”
“For how long? How long will you think about it before you let it slip your mind?” Gupta's voice became accusing, “How long do you suppose they can do without him? What they think to be an endless age is the blink of an eye for us. You need to go find him.”
“...I don't want to find him. If he's dead again, I hope he stays dead this time.”
“You're lying.” Gupta's voice went flat and emotionless. Sadiq froze, staring blankly at the bleached plaster that formed the four walls of his airy prison.
And then he began to chuckle weakly, a choked laugh that caught in his throat and sent tremors through his chest.
“Even if I am, you don't have to be an ass and call me on it. Bastard.”
“If I didn’t, nobody else would. Who would you believe?”
Sadiq paused for a moment, racking his brain. Slowly, slowly, his lips began to move against the receiver.
“Gupta…”
“Yes?”
Sadiq paused for another long moment, considering his words, which was never a habit with him and therefore difficult.
“…Cyprus…would call, wouldn’t he?"
The silence on the other end, across the ocean and several kilometres away was most telling.
The phone rang.
It was too damned early for the phone to ring. He knew it, and he knew the person on the other end fucking knew it as well. Still. If some fucker was going to call him at 5:04 in the goddamn morning...
He groped for the phone and mashed the button angrily, jamming the phone to his ear fitfully.
“What?” he growled into the receiver.
“Sadiq.” A low voice greeted him calmly, clearly unperturbed by the gruff tone and early hour.
Sadiq Adnan sat up slowly, blinking away the last vestiges of sleep from his brain.
“...Gupta? This is a hell of a time to be making a call.”
“I am afraid this is not a leisurely call, as you might have guessed.” Egypt replied, his voice unhurried and even.
Turkey frowned as his fingers traced over the scars from losing Medina and Mecca, one over each lung.
“I can't even imagine,” he retorted dryly, “So what is it this time? Bulgaria smacked Italy around again and Germany wants restitution? Hungary fucked her economy again? The Balkan-”
“Herakles is gone, Sadiq.”
His hand froze over Mecca, fingers clenching deep into the skin of his bare chest, ripping ripping ripping at those ancient bones--
“What do you mean gone?” he hissed into the phone.
There was a pause, and then “You know how it goes, Sadiq. There was an accident.”
“I don't want none of your bullshit! What. Do you mean. Gone?”
“...do you pay attention to the news at all? Or whenever it has something to do with him, you just pass over it?”
...fuck.
“Fine then, I don't!” he snarled into the phone, “Fucking inform me instead of playing at this passive-aggressive horseshit, Gupta!”
“Yesterday he was on a train to Alexandroupolis. A truck got in the way and the train derailed.”
He felt his throat choke closed with imagined smoke and the smell of burning metal and singed flesh--
“--and?” he managed.
The line went silent.
“...you don't need to know,” Gupta said finally, “That's not the important part.”
“...what are you saying?” Sadiq hissed into the phone, “The FUCK are you saying?”
--fingers digging into Mecca, mining deep for those old ancient bones--
“They want you to find him.” Gupta said calmly.
“No.”
“Sadiq, I know you two don't get along, but the situation calls for you to--”
“Don't give a damn what the 'situation calls for'! I don't do anything I don't want to, and I don't want to go looking for that brat!”
“Sadiq...” Gupta's voice turned pleading, “...please...”
Fingers retreated from seizing Mecca and clenched at his hair instead, furiously grasping and viciously pulling at the dark strands, worrying away the false composure, the feigned fury, the faux hatred--
‘“I told you I don't hate you. The captor doesn't hate his prisoner. You should be a little grateful, because you could have it so much worse, kumru.”
“Just because you don't hate me...it doesn't mean it's mutual.”'
“...I'll think about it.”
“For how long? How long will you think about it before you let it slip your mind?” Gupta's voice became accusing, “How long do you suppose they can do without him? What they think to be an endless age is the blink of an eye for us. You need to go find him.”
“...I don't want to find him. If he's dead again, I hope he stays dead this time.”
“You're lying.” Gupta's voice went flat and emotionless. Sadiq froze, staring blankly at the bleached plaster that formed the four walls of his airy prison.
And then he began to chuckle weakly, a choked laugh that caught in his throat and sent tremors through his chest.
“Even if I am, you don't have to be an ass and call me on it. Bastard.”
“If I didn’t, nobody else would. Who would you believe?”
Sadiq paused for a moment, racking his brain. Slowly, slowly, his lips began to move against the receiver.
“Gupta…”
“Yes?”
Sadiq paused for another long moment, considering his words, which was never a habit with him and therefore difficult.
“…Cyprus…would call, wouldn’t he?"
The silence on the other end, across the ocean and several kilometres away was most telling.