[fic] The Many Forms of Truth
Listening to Greece and Turkey fight was, at times, like watching a married couple fight. A married couple with violent tendencies, albeit, but a couple nonetheless. It was what they argued about and how they argued about it. Attending meetings with them was often close to impossible to get anything done therein, but also terribly entertaining to watch as long as you were nowhere near them or the receiving end of either side.
“It’s because you’re such a pig, you damn, dirty Turk. That’s why no-one wants to make any agreements with you; they know you’ll just backstab them when things turn ugly.” The Annan plan had not gone over well with either party. Turkey was sore it hadn’t worked. Greece was aghast it had even been suggested in the first place. Neither were about to let it go graciously. He was exaggerating, and those watching knew he knew it; there had never been a complaint about Turkey being a fair-weather friend, and to accuse him of it would set him off.
“What the fuck’dyou say, ya lil’ shit? None’o this wouldda been happenin’ if it weren’t fer you!” Turkey rose from his seat with such velocity that his chair upset, teeth gritted, one hand rising as if to strike the other country in a motion an abusive husband would use against his battered spouse. Greece, having spent his fair share of time in Turkey’s company, flinched, his shoulders involuntarily hunching, eyes squinting in preparation, one hand rising prematurely in order to ward off the blow that never fell. Both reactions sent either party over the edge, and both were literally at each other’s throats faster than any of the other countries could react, Turkey throttling the young man, and Greece desperately gouging at Turkey’s eyes with blunt nails under the mask.
Immediately, Veneziano, who was always positioned next to Greece in meetings, started forward, surprisingly the quickest to react, immediately looping his arms around the older man’s waist, trying to hold him back, calling to his brother for help. Romano reacted more out of instinct than anything else (seizing Turkey’s wrists, understandably coming to the conclusion that Greece would not be fighting if Turkey wasn’t strangling him, and wrenching; “Let go, you dumb bastard!” he said when neither relinquished their grips), and then the rest of the room was in action.
Germany attempted to break Turkey’s hold on his former emirate nation (who was, despite all attempts to calm him, only growing more frantic, leaving scours in Turkey’s face), while the older man had dissolved into irate Turkish, and was roaring something at Greece (“I will kill you, you little bitch- I was fucking you up the ass when you were still wearing a tunica; youse better show me some fucking respect, or I’ll show you again who owned who not that long ago!” Other Arabic speaking nations were wisely stepping away from the situation, including Hungary, who had heard these invectives thrown before, about three-hundred years ago) while pinning him backwards onto the table.
Eventually, with the help of England, America, Switzerland, and Prussia, they managed to haul Turkey off of Greece (who, both being older than any of the other assembled countries, were stronger, and could easily bodily resist any single one of them) and tried to reassemble some semblance of peace to the meeting.
“Listen.” Said America, diplomatically, as he did anything diplomatically as he forced their hands. “Nothing is ever gonna get solved if we just try to kill each other all the time. Now, I say we take a breather, let things rest ‘till tomorrow. How’s that sound? I mean,” he added, in an attempt to keep in control of the tightly wound situation. “It’s already almost nine-o-clock.”
The assembled room had agreed. Turkey snapped his suit by straightening his arms violently, and Greece rearranged his collar. America, watching the nations file from the room, flinched suddenly and slightly, and putting a hand to his mouth, softly uttered,
“Fuck.” The only one to have noticed this was England who, having become used to the youth’s physical and verbal ticks recognized this as America’s rare and brief shows of nerves.
“What?” He asked, not really having the heart to jibe him like he would have France. America looked glanced over to the older youth, and England was shocked at the wanness of his face, and the expression of desperation (as if he were looking to Arthur to fix a mess he’d made; big brother would make it all better) stopped England in his tracks.
“I just forgot. Since there’s a shortage of rooms this year, I had to double up people. I arranged them by how close their houses were to each other, and I didn’t think this would happen.”
“Oh.” England said after a few pregnant seconds. “Fuck.”
Japan was not displeased with the choice of roommates in his case; China could be, at times, melodramatic and slightly morally questionable when it came to economics, but he still valued his older brother, just like Yao valued him. Yao, however, was quite popular amongst their siblings, and had been called out to resolve a minor tiff between Hong-Kong and Korea. And so, Japan had been sitting quite alone in the room reading for a good thirty minutes when the first crash had impacted the eastern wall, accompanied by masculine shouting. And then, immediately after, coupled with the sounds of screaming bedsprings, a man’s voice, raised in some indefinable emotion.
“Let go of me, dirty bastard! I said, let go!” Japan froze, hand hovering over his mouth as his face blanched , and then flushed. I can’t even begin to think of what’s going on over there. Was his first thought as the sounds continued, the dull, meaty sound of hardened flesh meeting soft, yielding flesh, and the bedsprings continuing their cacophony.
“No! Get off of me, you asshole! Get off!” The man’s voice, which had been protesting before, had now the hint of the screams of hysteria. A rape? Dear gods, was this a rape? Even as he propelled himself from the chair he had been sitting in, he couldn’t imagine any of the countries doing such a thing at a world meeting.
“Excuse me!” He called, knocking on the door, and fretted when the occupants not only seemed to fail to notice his presence, the cries continued. “I’m coming in!” He resumed, trying the door and, shocked to find it unlocked (these were electronic locks, they locked automatically when you closed them; what was America thinking with such shoddy worksmanship?), let himself in.
He did not entirely think of what he was going to do when he saw Turkey straddling Greece’s body, hands around the younger man’s neck, clenching. And he didn’t even allow himself time to be shocked at what he saw; instead, he threw himself forward, gathering his strength, and pulled Turkey, looming over Greece, throttling him, off the bed and onto the floor.
“What do you think you’re doing?” He cried, allowing his true feelings to come through. It was rare, but it was surprising enough to most people that Japan would be having an outburst to stop them. “I don’t know exactly what was going on, but is this really the place for it? Where all of our contemporaries are gathered? Isn’t this wrong?”
Both men stared at him, with only mild bafflement, Greece slightly leery, and Turkey more bemused as he spoke, and Greece offered up to a panting Japan,
“I haven’t willingly had sex with this man for nearly two-hundred years. And I never will.” And so saying, he shot a filthy look over at Turkey, still sprawled on the floor, who caught the glance and sneered back.
“What made you such an un-cute kid, huh? Did a pack of wild dogs rape your mother?” Japan was too aghast that something like that would actually come from someone’s mouth to try to placate before Greece retorted.
“She probably was, but, thankfully, you’re not my father.” Seeing where this was going, if Turkey’s strained posture and ticking eye were any indication, Japan stepped in again, hastily.
“Anyway, you two, this may not be a good time, but I have a request for both of you.” Both men turned to regard him, slightly startled, and he was relieved to find the tension already draining from the atmosphere.
“A request? Sure, if it’s from Japan, I don’t see why not.” Turkey said first, seeming to already forget his previous occupation (making Japan wonder if it had, indeed, been all that serious in the first place, after all).
“Go on ahead.” Greece said, his voice still slightly raspy; he coughed as Japan started to explain, and had to be fetched water by Turkey so that he did not immediately expire. Japan had a new game he wanted to introduce to the market, but, unfortunately, he did not know if it would be as enjoyable as other comparable games for the console, and he needed an objective, fresh opinion on the matter. Both men seemed receptive to this idea.
“Well, as long as it’s to help you, I don’t mind.” Herakles had said softly, nodding. Turkey had stood, swinging his arms, and demanded, with some determination, to be shown the object in question.
“Of course, if you wouldn’t mind waiting a second.” As he hurried back to his room, he hoped that his momentary absence would not leave them enough time to incite another bloodbath. Yao was already there when Japan got there, and jumped at his hasty entrance.
“Ah! Where did you go off to in such a hurry, and then come back from in such a hurry? You’ll be the death of me, you know!” Japan cast about the room, not yet ready to entertain his brother’s old-fashioned melodrama.
“Have you seen my Wii?” He asked, slightly frantic as he started going through his suitcase, and then China’s, before China (more to save his own possessions) retrieved it from where Kiku had set it up earlier beneath the flatscreen T.V., and only watched in bewilderment as Japan dashed from the room, console in hand.
Japan set it up with the pretense that it was a new type of game for the Wii (it wasn’t really, but this version had only been released in Japan); not being terribly sophisticated technology buffs, they could only take him for his word, and sat down on their hotel room couch to play it. Japan, apologizing and excusing himself, begged their leave to take care of his brother, who had a tremendous headache. Both men only nodded, slightly blankly, as the beginning notes of a tennis game trickled through the air.
It was only some time later did Japan finally find it in himself to check back on them. Treading down the hallway with some apprehension, he could only pray his strategum had worked. The room was silent when he let himself in again; the ending strains of the game music overlaid the oddly peaceful scene.
The two had fallen asleep since Japan had last checked on them; both were splayed on the couch in half en dishabille; Turkey’s shirt was open to the waist, his tie entirely undone, and Greece’s had disappeared entirely in lieu of being exposed to the breeze that played through the open balcony door.
The older man had fallen asleep with his head having fallen against the back of the couch, arms and legs spread wide. He seemed to unconsciously accommodate Greece, who fit so naturally in the crook of Turkey’s arm, and whose head had been pressed so naturally in the curve between the older man’s chest and shoulder while one of his own arms fell across Turkey’s waist that Japan wondered at the ease of it. It looked familiar, like they’d enjoyed this position many times in the past, and had fallen back into it unbidden and involuntarily.
Japan gave a quick glance at the screen; despite being relative novices when it came to gaming equipment, they had done remarkably well. He shut off the console, turning back to the pair, smiling at the peaceful image they made. He knew that, were anyone else to try to harm either of the nations in the way Turkey and Greece harmed each other, the offending party would be descended upon in a fit of fury by the other. After all, good or bad, they shared such a long history, they could not rid themselves from it now.
Quietly, he closed the balcony door, and glance back once at the sleeping pair (who looked, really, so perfect together) before quitting the room entirely.