[fic] Yurtta Barış, Dünyada Barış (Turkey, Greece)
If there was nothing more that Turkey hated, it was the past; at the most inopportune moments, it would come up and bite you in the ass, or choke you until tears streamed from your eyes and the world was suddenly two-hundred years younger, and the world was a much simpler, much darker place.
Turkey was a nation that tried to constantly move forward, work past the foundation he had built himself, with the hopes that if he built his new house high enough, and long enough, eventually it would no longer resemble the abode he had once resided in.
But, and Turkey knew this, this was often wishful thinking. No one can ever really run from the past; everything you did would be stitched with the colors of what you had done before. And it was most evident when it came to Greece. They fought. They always fought. Herakles, as if not realizing he had finally ameliorated himself from Turkey’s grasp, kept fighting (and Turkey often wondered if it was really because of pure and simple hatred, or if he was truly trying to fight demons he could not entirely rid from his mind). And when they weren’t fighting, it could be just fucking awful, because Greece always made him remember, because it was his job.
Like on that particular day, when Turkey was running to catch up with Greece, and had called out to him (“Hey, brat.”) like he usually did, and was reaching out to tap the kid’s shoulder, when Greece turned, saw Adnan descending upon him, and flinched. It was not quite a flinch in the traditional sense, as if he were afraid of being hit, but rather a full body reaction of dread. Turkey could see every minute, involuntary twitch; his breath hitch, his lips open, his muscles freeze, his pupils contract, and suddenly, the cries of a boy naked, shaking, his skin shining against silk with the light of eight-o-clock (all spoils of war, and he had treated them all the same) raced up from the darkness of Turkey’s mind and struck him.
And Turkey stopped. Stopped dead as if he had been shot, because Greece was obviously not faking his sudden and momentary fit of terror, and Turkey wondered what he looked like. But Greece composed himself as quickly as he had lapsed, but his language was shaky (at best), and no insults had been thrown in.
“What do you need.” It was defensive, a statement and not a question, and Turkey found this to be a promising sign; that he had even spoken at all was promising.
“Ah.” He let his hand fall with (what he hoped was) a comforting weight on the kid’s shoulder, and offered a slightly forced grin. “I needed ta talk t’you abou’ the EU seat.”
“Then never.” The words fell as flatly as if he had slapped Turkey in the face, and he felt his blood throb suddenly against the walls of his arterial veins, and he fought to keep his sudden burst of anger down.
“I’d be great if you did. C’mon,” he cajoled repositioning his body so that they stood more as equals, trying to use any and every opportunity he could to set Herakles at ease; because his heightened respiration (mingling and transforming with the same boy’s warm, shallow breaths on his neck, with tears and sweat, and Turkey fought this back, too) made Turkey realize the kid was still scared, and, besides he really wanted this EU seat. “give us a try, eh?”
Greece’s face was blank as he shook his head, quietly uttering, “No.” It was an expression all too familiar to Turkey, one he had seen over and over again for four-hundred years; Greece was retreating into his happy place, where he didn’t have to worry about trade deficits, GDPs, accessions to the EU, or his most hated enemy gaining peer status. Realizing he was desperate now, Turket gripped both of Greece’s shoulders and redoubled his efforts.
“Herakles, you don’t understand how hard it is to try to live in this world now; I have been struggling to become a peer to these…” he struggled to find a word that was not insulting, derogatory, or off-put Greece. “men for almost forty years, and I have found it is almost impossible to do anything in this world without them looking over your shoulder.”
“Don’t touch me like that.” Sadik finally hesitated, looking down from the kid’s beautiful, mournful face to see that his hands were gripping with bruising force, though Herakles seemed relatively unfazed by this. It was just the indignity of the pressure, and Sadik found he suddenly couldn’t really care, because Greece was doing his damndest not to listen.
“Listen to me, kid,” and he gripped both sides of Greece’s neck, bringing them close together so that they looked eye to eye (or mostly eye to eye, because Sadik was still just slightly taller), and he didn’t realize he had been choking the kid until an elbow had been brought up and into his solar plexus with enough force so that Turkey saw stars.
“I said don’t touch me like that.” And he was standing, with his legs braced and apart, his arms stiffened, his hands (Turkey had never really appreciated their innate strength, but upon seeing them now, loosely coiled, strengthened from years of manual labour) clenched, face unreadable, and there was suddenly a new history facing Turkey, and he had to turn away, or else he would have to kill this kid or humiliate him back into his place (which was wrong because there was no place, not anymore, and god his head hurt, where was the fucking aspirin), but he could only stare, and wait, wait for the world to come crumbling down around him.
And the moment did not break when Herakles finally spoke into the long plateau of silence that stretched between them (a moment that had lasted for two-hundred, maybe seven hundred years; this one fucking moment of heightened anticipation), and his words seemed almost blasphemous to be spoken in an era such as now (where had the days gone when you gouged out your brother’s eye in the name of vengeance? Turkey couldn’t help but miss those days, and if not an aspirin, then maybe a bottle of raki?).
“I’ll support your aspirations. You’ve been trying hard.” And, just for an instant, Turkey had been floored at this, stricken almost dumb by the sudden implications this could mean, before the small, subtle innuendos crept in like shadows at seven-o-clock, and the kid spoke again, his face hard and cold (and Allah, he knew that face, had loved it and destroyed it more than seven-hundred years ago). “I… want you to be ready to join us in the present world… But I don’t think you are. Prove me wrong, Turkiye.”
It was like some sort of Greek drama, a tragedy, maybe (though he remembered, reaching back into those tallow-smoke darkened days where Herakles had been small enough to fit comfortably in the cradle of his legs, doze against his chest, and murmur of the inherent twins Farce and Tragedy), even while Herakles turned again, eyes at last sliding away. And Sadik could only stand, mutely, with the weight of something familiar and old, and shackling coming to rest on his shoulders, and the cries and blood of a child imprinted side-by-side with fading, golden sunlight, on his mind.
For a moment, Sadik perhaps thought it too much (there was still too much left to do, and perhaps just enmeshing himself in his local politics was enough; maybe, just maybe, there were things too hard to fight against; Yurtta Barış, Dünyada Barış, he had promised, but sometimes, it was like a soldier getting over the war), before realizing with a steady regaining of consciousness that the kid was still fighting, too, and knew this from every hitch and every irregularity in the kid’s stride (Sadik himself had put some of them there; that one in Herakles’ hip that made his gate stiff he’d gotten from Sadik’s bayonet back in 1828).
And he forced on a smile again, and started forward to catch up with the kid. He owed him some raki, maybe; and a couple of doners, if the kid didn’t keep calling them whatever gay-ass Greek name he insisted on calling them. After all, such heavy trappings as Herakles still saw on him (a creature of a waking nightmare, resplendent in blood and gold, and a mask where any semblance of a human would be) Sadik had long set aside (Yurtta Barış, Dünyada Barış he reminded himself, though sometimes it was all he could do not to remind himself of his younger days), and it was time he started proving this. Even if it was to this brat (whom with he had fought and cherished too long to intelligibly separate the two).
“Oi!” He called, and there was a sort of promising lilt in the way the kid turned (he wasn’t scared anymore), and upon catching up to him, clapped a hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Let’s go get somethin’ ta eat, eh?” And, ignoring the brat’s ill-tempered invectives (which were only half-hearted at best), linked his fingers in through Greece’s, a position they had practiced so many times, they fell back into it unconsciously (and other nations would wonder at this double-sided show;Tragedy and Farce, the lips against his ear whispered) and led him out. Yurtta Barış, Dünyada Barış Sadik reminded himself, and smiled into the sunlight, and held on tighter.
Notes:
Though Greece is officially supporting Turkiye’s aspirations to the EU, I think about 85 percent of Greeks don’t think Turkey is ready for the position. It’s a weird sort of duality that I think would be reflected in Herakles’ opinion.
Yurtta Barış, Dünyada Barış- Peace at Home, Peace in the World. A motto resulting from the days of Ataturk, who is regarded with reverence, even today. I think Turkey would sort of treat this time in his life, the founding of the Republic, and the institution of secularism, as well as renouncing claims for expansion, among other things, a sort of turn-around in his life.