A Ring in Crimea [1/1]
Title: A Ring in Crimea
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece; mentioned Turkey/x where x = Netherlands, Hungary, America, France, Japan, Denmark, Germany and probably others
Rating: R
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Turkey lets his mind wander during a meeting; a very, very dangerous thing.
Notes: There's a lot of history stuff in here and I didn't do notes, so leave a comment if you're curious about something. I think you'll like this if you like how I write Turkey; otherwise there was very little point to me doing this orz
Turkey needs to work on giving people the benefit of the doubt, on at least trying to consider them not as complete morons. This would be a lot easier if they weren't, you know, morons. Again and again they set up these meetings and nothing ever gets done--ever!--and at this point he thinks the only reason he attends any longer is because of the kick-ass buffet spread they have at the end of each torturous meeting. Maybe the organizers aren't morons, after all, since now the buffet comes at the end of the meeting instead of the beginning and he has to sit through it to get his moussaka and sukiyaki and crepes. Fine. So now they're not morons as much as they're conniving bastards.
Germany's talking, talking, talking, about hybrid cars like they're a gift from God and it's only a matter of time before diesel-using heathens see the light, and Turkey looks up from his doodles to make eye contact with him. Germany seems to appreciate Turkey's thoughtful nod--Did I remember to turn off the iron, he thinks, and forward Poland's chain letter?--as he flips to the next slide about streamlined car bodies and Turkey sighs in relief. There. Good. Now Turkey can drift off for another ten minutes. Or, better yet, maybe he can have a little fun.
He glances across the table. Greece is passed out in his chair like napping is a fucking profession and he's the damned CEO, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. Damn it. How the hell is Turkey supposed to give him a lecherous stare when his eyes are closed? How's he supposed to nod nonchalantly to the door, excuse himself and wait for Greece in the janitor's closet down the hall? They're probably not fooling anyone, he reflects, but that's the beauty of not giving a damn.
Turkey frowns, eyes skimming up and down the table. Maybe there's someone else. There's always--always--France, but he's not sure he quite has the energy for that at the moment after getting hammered with Netherlands last night. Netherlands himself is out of the question. It's been a while since they fucked; mostly they just agree about plants and argue about coffee these days. Guy's gone kinda doe-eyed ever since Canada--speaking of which, where is--oh there he is! No, that's a coffee pot, fuck it--saved his ass in the 1940s. Turkey can't find it in himself to begrudge Netherlands that, though, having found one person to devote his energies and romances to. 'S fucking weird, is all.
Speaking of which... Turkey's eyes flit between Germany--the man treats Power Points the way cavemen must have treated fire back in the day--and Italy, who is beside him and... appears to be drawing a hauntingly accurate The Last Supper on his notepad with nothing but a cheap pen. Turkey turns his legal pad over, his stick figures suddenly less impressive. Poetry's more his strong suit anyway. He wonders if Italy knows he and Germany fucked a century ago, Germany's bite marks crossing his back like his railroads crossed Turkey's lands. The sex as a whole was... It was... weird. Efficient. Efficiently weird.
But maybe some people like that, he figures, eyes flitting over to America. They did it once, but after America and the Jupiter missiles and Russia, Turkey found himself suddenly over it, and just a bit miffed that the kid probably couldn't even locate Ankara on a map. Granted, kid's got a lot on his shoulders, being the leader of the free world and a pain in everyone's ass and all that. But Turkey can relate; he'd been there, grown so huge so fast. Downfall's inevitable, really, but only the ones who have fallen know it. Just a question of how much longer the kid's gonna last, really. He'd put his money on America, though, and won when Russia keeled over in the 80s. (Like hell he'd ever put his money on Russia.) He wonders if America and Russia are still beating the shit out of each other and sneaking to one anothers room in the middle of the night. Maybe things have grown cold ever since the wall--the danger, the intrigue, the fatal attraction--fell over. Maybe things never grow cold once they get that hot, though.
At that thought, his eyes flicker back to Greece. Brat's still sound asleep. Turkey should throw a pen at him so they can fuck and pretend to hate it and get over with the inevitable. But, he figures suddenly, maybe the janitor's closet is already occupied. Three of them are missing at the meeting table, he frowns, ticking them off mentally: England, France, Denmark. Odd. That closet's not big enough for three--he and Egypt and Greece know for a fact--so that begs to question: Who's in it? Monaco would know the odds, but she's too far down the table to help. Italy, to Turkey's left, is too busy shading Jesus' face with deliberate pen strokes, and to Turkey's right Cuba is rolling cigars with the tobacco Turkey'd given him earlier and, if he's not mistaken, the print-outs Germany had doled out an hour ago. So he's on his own, then. Right. He can do this.
If he was a betting man--and he is, no one who was an Empire isn't--Turkey would wager it's either England with France while Denmark's at the bar, or England with Denmark while France is streaking through the lobby. Turkey figures he has a slight advantage at guessing the odds since he's had sex with France and Denmark before, France long ago as a way to seal a treaty or two (before he got le tired of fighting Austria and stabbed him in the back like a le dick) and Denmark not-so-long ago when they were flaming drunk at a soccer match. France is always a guaranteed good time with a delicious breakfast the next day; Denmark is a guaranteed hangover and possibly waking up in an alley without pants and a goat tied to you. And England, Turkey thinks, no thank you. He's seen enough Monty Python reruns to ever be curious about England naked and moaning wantonly with wool socks on.
"Did you eat something bad," Italy asks in a whisper. "You look pale."
"'M fine." Turkey swallows down whatever the fuck that is in the back of his throat.
Maybe Turkey's still bitter about the whole Lawrence of Arabia thing, or maybe there are some relationships in the world that will never get past a begrudging respect. Besides. He'd already made his bed with France and he's doing a damn fine job staying out of France and England's thousand-year hair pulling match on the playground. Leave getting between that shit to Spain.
Ugh. Spain. Turkey eyes him warily from down the table; Spain's slicing up a tomato, smiling at Germany like he has a fucking clue what's going on. Turkey knows he's not stupid, that he's not all sunshine and tomatoes and loud laughs. Turkey knows a lot of people don't know--don't remember--that. He was around long enough to see the gleam in Spain's eye whenever he was invited to a dinner party and the host brought out the gold-filigreed plates. He's heard some of Morocco's stories, and to be fair it's a delightful tale of what comes around goes around, but it still bugs Turkey. It bugs all of them, on the other side of Gibraltar. And he knows from Netherlands' drunk lips how, with the exception of Japan, Netherlands and Spain unofficially decided who got what island in the Pacific: by gender, goddamned gender, men to the left and ladies to the right. Turkey frowns, and hopes he was never that bad--that obvious--when he was an empire and leaves it at that. And Greece's snores still come steadily from across the table.
Well, Turkey figures, he could try for Hungary. People tend to forget how wild and brutal she was before Austria gave her that apron; Turkey liked her better that way, with blood and dirt in her hair, under his heel at Mohacs. He spots her diagonal from his seat, and she's got the same blank expression that's probably on his face, her eyes flitting between delegates at the table. And he realizes that Hungary is doing the exact same thing he is, eying up people, except she doesn't need to go to the janitor's closet because she's busy pairing them up in her mind and--fuck--Hungary's eyes settle on Turkey for just a moment, then to Russia. And she smiles, and all Turkey can think is Oh hell no, no fucking way and sink down further in his chair, praying Greece'll wake up soon. Even when Hungary was a servant in his palace, a three-way tryst never quite panned out since Hungary would just sit there and watch with a leer that'd make even France blush.
Fuck it, everyone is too damned weird, he just wants Gree--oh wait. Japan's here, all the way at the end of the table, but it looks like he's about to go next if that stack of color-coded handouts is any indication. Besides, Turkey reminds himself, he'd probably never do it in a closet, of all places. He and Greece still have a rough time getting Japan to loosen up, but when he does... Turkey and Greece come as close to high-fiving as they ever will. That's kind of a, a weird situation, truth be told. They each like Japan for their own--shockingly similar--reasons, and that Japan is, is appreciative of them both just sort of seals the deal. And both Turkey and Greece know that, while they may bicker and argue over him, in the long run of things Japan is too old--too been there, done that--to be entranced by the tangled webs of love and lust like some younger nations are. He knows enough of it to have had his heart broken--and to have broken hearts--more times than he can count; Turkey and Greece will most likely never be more than very cherished friends to Japan, and at the moment they're okay with that.
At the moment.
Turkey snaps out of his musings at the sudden hustle and bustle within the room. People are getting up, the Power Point has dimmed and Germany's looking forlornly at it as if it's Alexander's light house going dim and not a projector. "We'll break for fifteen minutes," he barks, and everyone knows it'll be timed to the second.
Italy and Cuba have already bounded out of their chairs--one for a quick smoke with Canada, the other for an emergency pasta break with his brother--but Turkey stays seated even as Albania elbows the back of his head in her escape out with the others. He ignores it for the moment and watches as Greece's eyes finally flutter open, and he rubs at them with a fist. No one else is left in the room, the door banging shut with a note of finality.
"Whadd'I miss," Greece yawns.
"Everything. But nothing really."
"As usual," he grumbles, stretching his arms up high. Something falls out of the breast pocket of his rumpled jacket and rolls across the glossy table, spinning and catching the light until it stops in front of Turkey. "Shit. Give it back."
Turkey ignores the command and picks the thing up. "A ring?" It's got a huge diamond in it with gold and rubies, something in Cyrillic written inside the band. It clicks: He is covered in sweat and dust from battle, grinning maniacally as he rips the pen from calloused fingers and shoves the ring onto the middle one. Turkey glances up into eyes that have lost all trace of sleep. "You still have this?"
"Give it back." Greece's voice is flat.
"Didn't think you'da kept this, brat." Turkey feels lead in the bottom of his stomach; it always feels this way when the past comes back to slap him in the face.
"Why not?" Greece shifts a bit in the chair, trying not to look as uncomfortable as they both must feel. It's all fine and good to fuck in a closet, but when tenderness and memories of fleeting kisses in a garden--given because they could be, not because they had to be--come back, it's too much. "It's a nice ring," he says simply.
Turkey throws down the gauntlet. "That I gave to you."
"That you stole from Russia's nobles," Greece sneers.
It was a ransom so those fat men and women could escape his Janissary in Crimea, but Turkey has something more important to point out: "That you wore just the same."
"Then we agree it's mine." Turkey knows how hard it must have been to say that. Greece holds out his hand across the table. "Give. It. Back."
Turkey eyes the palm before his face, remembers that hand being much smaller. Gingerly, he sets the ring into the flesh. "Why do you have it with you today?"
"If you must know," Greece huffs, relief showing in the slope of his shoulders, "I'm going to sell it back to Russia."
"You're what?"
"I need the cash," Greece shrugs, standing with his lazy grace. "Gotta pay for lunch somehow."
Turkey watches him leave the room quietly, only glancing back once to inquire if Turkey's going to follow. "'M not hungry." Greece shrugs yet again and exits.
The spot on the table he stares at for the next ten minutes has nothing interesting about it. For all his previous musings, Turkey finds his mind oddly blank. It's just a ring, after all, old and something he'd forgotten about up until now. He used to lavish everyone in his house with gifts--Egypt, Hungary, Syria, Serbia and of course Greece--because it meant they were his. His to lavish in what he pleased whether it be roses for Hungary's hair, silk for Egypt's lovely skin, or jewelry akin to collars for Greece.
It was a very long time ago. He should be over it.
He's not.
Turkey barely notices Italy slip back into the room, the scent of olive oil and garlic heavy around him. "Ve, didn't you eat, Sadiq?"
"Nah. You're back early though," Turkey says with a forced grin.
"Oh yes--Germany gets mad when I'm late so I try extra hard to be early when he's in charge."
Turkey's always envied the sparkle in Italy's eyes. "You must really love him, eh?"
There is just the briefest pause as Italy moves to sit back in his chair. "I do." He smiles, picking his pen up and returning to his drawing. "I... need to remind myself sometimes, when he does things that I don't like. But it's still there."
Turkey doesn't really know how to reply to that, but he gets the feeling he doesn't have to; Italy's already back to shading and cross-hatching on his paper. Slowly, people start to trickle back into the room, and he sees Russia with Greece, speaking in hushed tones. Russia is smiling, Greece isn't, but that's not so different from the norm so Turkey can't make a guess. Maybe if Russia declined the offer, Turkey could buy the ring back from Greece later. It's just a matter of deciding which he's more reluctant to break: his heart or his pride.
Finally Greece sits, and Turkey just stares at him, jaw atop his fist. "What," Greece mutters, eyebrow raised.
"Nothing. He buy it offa ya?"
"What business is it of yours?"
Ouch.
Turkey manages a chuckle before the meeting resumes: "Meet me later."
Series: Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Turkey/Greece; mentioned Turkey/x where x = Netherlands, Hungary, America, France, Japan, Denmark, Germany and probably others
Rating: R
Date: Written today
Status: complete
And So... Turkey lets his mind wander during a meeting; a very, very dangerous thing.
Notes: There's a lot of history stuff in here and I didn't do notes, so leave a comment if you're curious about something. I think you'll like this if you like how I write Turkey; otherwise there was very little point to me doing this orz
Turkey needs to work on giving people the benefit of the doubt, on at least trying to consider them not as complete morons. This would be a lot easier if they weren't, you know, morons. Again and again they set up these meetings and nothing ever gets done--ever!--and at this point he thinks the only reason he attends any longer is because of the kick-ass buffet spread they have at the end of each torturous meeting. Maybe the organizers aren't morons, after all, since now the buffet comes at the end of the meeting instead of the beginning and he has to sit through it to get his moussaka and sukiyaki and crepes. Fine. So now they're not morons as much as they're conniving bastards.
Germany's talking, talking, talking, about hybrid cars like they're a gift from God and it's only a matter of time before diesel-using heathens see the light, and Turkey looks up from his doodles to make eye contact with him. Germany seems to appreciate Turkey's thoughtful nod--Did I remember to turn off the iron, he thinks, and forward Poland's chain letter?--as he flips to the next slide about streamlined car bodies and Turkey sighs in relief. There. Good. Now Turkey can drift off for another ten minutes. Or, better yet, maybe he can have a little fun.
He glances across the table. Greece is passed out in his chair like napping is a fucking profession and he's the damned CEO, chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. Damn it. How the hell is Turkey supposed to give him a lecherous stare when his eyes are closed? How's he supposed to nod nonchalantly to the door, excuse himself and wait for Greece in the janitor's closet down the hall? They're probably not fooling anyone, he reflects, but that's the beauty of not giving a damn.
Turkey frowns, eyes skimming up and down the table. Maybe there's someone else. There's always--always--France, but he's not sure he quite has the energy for that at the moment after getting hammered with Netherlands last night. Netherlands himself is out of the question. It's been a while since they fucked; mostly they just agree about plants and argue about coffee these days. Guy's gone kinda doe-eyed ever since Canada--speaking of which, where is--oh there he is! No, that's a coffee pot, fuck it--saved his ass in the 1940s. Turkey can't find it in himself to begrudge Netherlands that, though, having found one person to devote his energies and romances to. 'S fucking weird, is all.
Speaking of which... Turkey's eyes flit between Germany--the man treats Power Points the way cavemen must have treated fire back in the day--and Italy, who is beside him and... appears to be drawing a hauntingly accurate The Last Supper on his notepad with nothing but a cheap pen. Turkey turns his legal pad over, his stick figures suddenly less impressive. Poetry's more his strong suit anyway. He wonders if Italy knows he and Germany fucked a century ago, Germany's bite marks crossing his back like his railroads crossed Turkey's lands. The sex as a whole was... It was... weird. Efficient. Efficiently weird.
But maybe some people like that, he figures, eyes flitting over to America. They did it once, but after America and the Jupiter missiles and Russia, Turkey found himself suddenly over it, and just a bit miffed that the kid probably couldn't even locate Ankara on a map. Granted, kid's got a lot on his shoulders, being the leader of the free world and a pain in everyone's ass and all that. But Turkey can relate; he'd been there, grown so huge so fast. Downfall's inevitable, really, but only the ones who have fallen know it. Just a question of how much longer the kid's gonna last, really. He'd put his money on America, though, and won when Russia keeled over in the 80s. (Like hell he'd ever put his money on Russia.) He wonders if America and Russia are still beating the shit out of each other and sneaking to one anothers room in the middle of the night. Maybe things have grown cold ever since the wall--the danger, the intrigue, the fatal attraction--fell over. Maybe things never grow cold once they get that hot, though.
At that thought, his eyes flicker back to Greece. Brat's still sound asleep. Turkey should throw a pen at him so they can fuck and pretend to hate it and get over with the inevitable. But, he figures suddenly, maybe the janitor's closet is already occupied. Three of them are missing at the meeting table, he frowns, ticking them off mentally: England, France, Denmark. Odd. That closet's not big enough for three--he and Egypt and Greece know for a fact--so that begs to question: Who's in it? Monaco would know the odds, but she's too far down the table to help. Italy, to Turkey's left, is too busy shading Jesus' face with deliberate pen strokes, and to Turkey's right Cuba is rolling cigars with the tobacco Turkey'd given him earlier and, if he's not mistaken, the print-outs Germany had doled out an hour ago. So he's on his own, then. Right. He can do this.
If he was a betting man--and he is, no one who was an Empire isn't--Turkey would wager it's either England with France while Denmark's at the bar, or England with Denmark while France is streaking through the lobby. Turkey figures he has a slight advantage at guessing the odds since he's had sex with France and Denmark before, France long ago as a way to seal a treaty or two (before he got le tired of fighting Austria and stabbed him in the back like a le dick) and Denmark not-so-long ago when they were flaming drunk at a soccer match. France is always a guaranteed good time with a delicious breakfast the next day; Denmark is a guaranteed hangover and possibly waking up in an alley without pants and a goat tied to you. And England, Turkey thinks, no thank you. He's seen enough Monty Python reruns to ever be curious about England naked and moaning wantonly with wool socks on.
"Did you eat something bad," Italy asks in a whisper. "You look pale."
"'M fine." Turkey swallows down whatever the fuck that is in the back of his throat.
Maybe Turkey's still bitter about the whole Lawrence of Arabia thing, or maybe there are some relationships in the world that will never get past a begrudging respect. Besides. He'd already made his bed with France and he's doing a damn fine job staying out of France and England's thousand-year hair pulling match on the playground. Leave getting between that shit to Spain.
Ugh. Spain. Turkey eyes him warily from down the table; Spain's slicing up a tomato, smiling at Germany like he has a fucking clue what's going on. Turkey knows he's not stupid, that he's not all sunshine and tomatoes and loud laughs. Turkey knows a lot of people don't know--don't remember--that. He was around long enough to see the gleam in Spain's eye whenever he was invited to a dinner party and the host brought out the gold-filigreed plates. He's heard some of Morocco's stories, and to be fair it's a delightful tale of what comes around goes around, but it still bugs Turkey. It bugs all of them, on the other side of Gibraltar. And he knows from Netherlands' drunk lips how, with the exception of Japan, Netherlands and Spain unofficially decided who got what island in the Pacific: by gender, goddamned gender, men to the left and ladies to the right. Turkey frowns, and hopes he was never that bad--that obvious--when he was an empire and leaves it at that. And Greece's snores still come steadily from across the table.
Well, Turkey figures, he could try for Hungary. People tend to forget how wild and brutal she was before Austria gave her that apron; Turkey liked her better that way, with blood and dirt in her hair, under his heel at Mohacs. He spots her diagonal from his seat, and she's got the same blank expression that's probably on his face, her eyes flitting between delegates at the table. And he realizes that Hungary is doing the exact same thing he is, eying up people, except she doesn't need to go to the janitor's closet because she's busy pairing them up in her mind and--fuck--Hungary's eyes settle on Turkey for just a moment, then to Russia. And she smiles, and all Turkey can think is Oh hell no, no fucking way and sink down further in his chair, praying Greece'll wake up soon. Even when Hungary was a servant in his palace, a three-way tryst never quite panned out since Hungary would just sit there and watch with a leer that'd make even France blush.
Fuck it, everyone is too damned weird, he just wants Gree--oh wait. Japan's here, all the way at the end of the table, but it looks like he's about to go next if that stack of color-coded handouts is any indication. Besides, Turkey reminds himself, he'd probably never do it in a closet, of all places. He and Greece still have a rough time getting Japan to loosen up, but when he does... Turkey and Greece come as close to high-fiving as they ever will. That's kind of a, a weird situation, truth be told. They each like Japan for their own--shockingly similar--reasons, and that Japan is, is appreciative of them both just sort of seals the deal. And both Turkey and Greece know that, while they may bicker and argue over him, in the long run of things Japan is too old--too been there, done that--to be entranced by the tangled webs of love and lust like some younger nations are. He knows enough of it to have had his heart broken--and to have broken hearts--more times than he can count; Turkey and Greece will most likely never be more than very cherished friends to Japan, and at the moment they're okay with that.
At the moment.
Turkey snaps out of his musings at the sudden hustle and bustle within the room. People are getting up, the Power Point has dimmed and Germany's looking forlornly at it as if it's Alexander's light house going dim and not a projector. "We'll break for fifteen minutes," he barks, and everyone knows it'll be timed to the second.
Italy and Cuba have already bounded out of their chairs--one for a quick smoke with Canada, the other for an emergency pasta break with his brother--but Turkey stays seated even as Albania elbows the back of his head in her escape out with the others. He ignores it for the moment and watches as Greece's eyes finally flutter open, and he rubs at them with a fist. No one else is left in the room, the door banging shut with a note of finality.
"Whadd'I miss," Greece yawns.
"Everything. But nothing really."
"As usual," he grumbles, stretching his arms up high. Something falls out of the breast pocket of his rumpled jacket and rolls across the glossy table, spinning and catching the light until it stops in front of Turkey. "Shit. Give it back."
Turkey ignores the command and picks the thing up. "A ring?" It's got a huge diamond in it with gold and rubies, something in Cyrillic written inside the band. It clicks: He is covered in sweat and dust from battle, grinning maniacally as he rips the pen from calloused fingers and shoves the ring onto the middle one. Turkey glances up into eyes that have lost all trace of sleep. "You still have this?"
"Give it back." Greece's voice is flat.
"Didn't think you'da kept this, brat." Turkey feels lead in the bottom of his stomach; it always feels this way when the past comes back to slap him in the face.
"Why not?" Greece shifts a bit in the chair, trying not to look as uncomfortable as they both must feel. It's all fine and good to fuck in a closet, but when tenderness and memories of fleeting kisses in a garden--given because they could be, not because they had to be--come back, it's too much. "It's a nice ring," he says simply.
Turkey throws down the gauntlet. "That I gave to you."
"That you stole from Russia's nobles," Greece sneers.
It was a ransom so those fat men and women could escape his Janissary in Crimea, but Turkey has something more important to point out: "That you wore just the same."
"Then we agree it's mine." Turkey knows how hard it must have been to say that. Greece holds out his hand across the table. "Give. It. Back."
Turkey eyes the palm before his face, remembers that hand being much smaller. Gingerly, he sets the ring into the flesh. "Why do you have it with you today?"
"If you must know," Greece huffs, relief showing in the slope of his shoulders, "I'm going to sell it back to Russia."
"You're what?"
"I need the cash," Greece shrugs, standing with his lazy grace. "Gotta pay for lunch somehow."
Turkey watches him leave the room quietly, only glancing back once to inquire if Turkey's going to follow. "'M not hungry." Greece shrugs yet again and exits.
The spot on the table he stares at for the next ten minutes has nothing interesting about it. For all his previous musings, Turkey finds his mind oddly blank. It's just a ring, after all, old and something he'd forgotten about up until now. He used to lavish everyone in his house with gifts--Egypt, Hungary, Syria, Serbia and of course Greece--because it meant they were his. His to lavish in what he pleased whether it be roses for Hungary's hair, silk for Egypt's lovely skin, or jewelry akin to collars for Greece.
It was a very long time ago. He should be over it.
He's not.
Turkey barely notices Italy slip back into the room, the scent of olive oil and garlic heavy around him. "Ve, didn't you eat, Sadiq?"
"Nah. You're back early though," Turkey says with a forced grin.
"Oh yes--Germany gets mad when I'm late so I try extra hard to be early when he's in charge."
Turkey's always envied the sparkle in Italy's eyes. "You must really love him, eh?"
There is just the briefest pause as Italy moves to sit back in his chair. "I do." He smiles, picking his pen up and returning to his drawing. "I... need to remind myself sometimes, when he does things that I don't like. But it's still there."
Turkey doesn't really know how to reply to that, but he gets the feeling he doesn't have to; Italy's already back to shading and cross-hatching on his paper. Slowly, people start to trickle back into the room, and he sees Russia with Greece, speaking in hushed tones. Russia is smiling, Greece isn't, but that's not so different from the norm so Turkey can't make a guess. Maybe if Russia declined the offer, Turkey could buy the ring back from Greece later. It's just a matter of deciding which he's more reluctant to break: his heart or his pride.
Finally Greece sits, and Turkey just stares at him, jaw atop his fist. "What," Greece mutters, eyebrow raised.
"Nothing. He buy it offa ya?"
"What business is it of yours?"
Ouch.
Turkey manages a chuckle before the meeting resumes: "Meet me later."