fic: Once By the Bosphorus, Turkey, Greece

[tredecaphobia.livejournal.com]

Written for the Mare Nostrum Secret Santa exchange. Hope it can still be enjoyed!

Title: Once By the Bosphorus
Author: me
Pairing: Turkey/Greece
Warnings: none
Rating: pg
Summary: Greece has never been of a stellar constitution; Turkey know this. And he knows he's partially to blame.

   

             Greece has never been of a stellar constitution. Turkey knows this, the kid’s been like this since he was little; always napping, occasionally coming down with the latest slump his economy was in, forever anemic. And Turkey knew he was slightly to blame. To see the occasional hitch in the youth’s posture (left hip, to his right rib, it had been Turkey’s bayonet in the youth’s side, while Greece had exchanged by shooting Turkey in the leg), to watch the irregularity in breath (improperly healed ribs, given to him by Turkey flipping him off the battlements of the Topkapı Palace and into the Bosphorus), his inability to sleep peacefully (and he knew this one was a two-way street, as he could no longer sleep peacefully, though it was rarer for him to wake himself screaming), Turkey couldn’t help but feel guilty. Though he’d never admit it, ever.

                But he could at least try, which was what he was trying his damndest to do at that moment. It was proving to be exceptionally difficult, seeing as Greece could no longer be easily suppressed by stepping on him (and couldn’t be for a long time now), which had made taking care of him in the early days significantly easier.

               But now, when Greece was struggling just to draw air, who could hardly move from the weakness that gripped him, it tore at Turkey even more. Because he couldn’t blame himself for this, not this fuck-up; this was, perhaps even more horrifyingly, the effect of Greece’s people themselves.

He had just happened on Greece after an EU meeting, figuring chasing the kid down right after it would make him more sympathetic to Sadik’s plight, and had checked what he figured would be the most likely place for the kid to be. The roof. No matter where Greece was, Turkey knew him to find comfort in the sky; in the Palace, in the old days, he would sit wherever he had a good view of both sea and sky, and would whisper long, winding lines of philosophy to the man that held him cradled between his legs, using the knobs of the man’s knees as hand rests.  

                But in this case, even the sky was slightly mired by the smog that lay in a thick swathe over Athens, and Sadik felt his throat clog just from opening the door and stepping out onto the concrete rooftop. Mouthing vague invectives at Greece for his notoriously poor environmental control (another reason Greece was ailing these days, he considered; it was a wonder the kid didn’t have lung cancer), he lowered his gaze to the ledge that ran along the edges of the roof, cementing a preventative fence in place, and choked for an entirely different reason when he set his eyes upon Greece.

                It wasn’t like the kid didn’t randomly fall asleep in strange places or anything, but it was obvious Greece had just fainted, laying on his side, back to Turkey, half-curled into a fetal position. He would at least attempt to arrange his limbs in a comfortable fashion before sleeping, but Greece’s half-curled posture was definitely unlike him. And Sadik knew, better than anyone, really, how Greece preferred to sleep, often being forced to tuck the sprawling youth under an arm, or his chin.

A chill crept along Sadik’s gut as he stepped forward, checking automatically for immediate danger, fingers hurriedly tracing along the familiar lines of Greece’s head, arms, legs, stomach, finding and identifying correctly each well-known scar, each knot, each plane, line, and curve of Herakles’ body. Fingers cast through cinnamon hair, and he was already praying, dear Allah, this can’t have killed the kid, not yet, not--

                The kid’s eyes flicked open. They were unfocused, that rare turquoise misty, and he didn’t look as if he recognized Sadik for who he really was, for the youth reached out a hand in an old plea for comfort, something Sadik obliged before he allowed the youth to rethink it, seizing Greece’s hand.

                “Kid, what’re ya even doin’?” He asked, unable to keep an anguished pitch from his voice despite the brusqueness of the statement. He watched as Herakles’ eyes focused, realizing, belatedly, the heat of the kid’s hand in his own (Allah, the kid must have been burning with fever), and found a sort of comfort in the familiar ground of Herakles’ face souring when he finally recognized Turkey.

                “Shit.” He said, voice bleary and cracking, and entirely desolate, and Sadik recognized it as the one that was this close to tears. But he couldn’t seem to move in a coordinated manner as he tried to recollect himself (still maintaining a grip on the man’s hand, and Turkey couldn’t remember the last time they had held hands and hadn’t torn at each other’s throats), and Turkey was already moving to help him before he could even think otherwise, shifting the youth onto his back and propping him up on Turkey’s own chest, between his legs.

                “You’re probably just dehydrated.” He found his voice shaking from an emotion he understood as fear (and what if it’s not just dehydration, what if this was just a close call, what would he ever do without this kid again, oh Allah) “You never take good care of yourself if there’s not someone there to do it for you.” And Sadik’s reaching into his pocket, finding his hipflask of juice (handy because everyone around him thought it was something manly like brandy) and pressing it to Herakles’ lips, and smiling with an unfettered relief when Greece imbibes deeply from it.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.” He can’t stop himself from whispering assurances, just as he had all those years ago, when the kid had trembled from lightening rolling in across the sea, when he had screamed in pain from wounds that were too many, too much, when he had begged Sadik not to. He lifts the flask, wrapping his arm more tightly around Herakles’ shoulders, taking care not to spill contents. It was a scenario they’d shared more times than either cared to count (some only as recently as a decade ago, and it hadn’t always been Turkey providing the water), and he couldn’t help the automatic reaction of wiping excess moisture away from Herakles’ lips with a tenderness that even surprised himself.

                “Die.” It’s promising that the kid has only something that eloquent to say, but still has enough spunk to say it when he pulls away from the flask, a small rivulet of liquid streaking down his chin, caught again by Turkey’s solicitous fingers. He winces when a cramp seems to seize him (damn, the kid really must have been dehydrated), and doubles over with the intensity of it.

                “Shit, what’s wrong?” Turkey can’t help himself but ask, because he’s always been prone to these, and it’s a much younger child he suddenly feels like he’s holding, pressing damp cloths to a brow, trying to revive from sunstroke, threading his fingers through lank, sweaty hair. Herakles’ face is still contorted into a grimace when he looks back up, face resilient, but eyes desperate for help, any ounce of kindness at all.

                “It’s… okay.” He finally gasps, dispassion transformed by the pain. “It’s just… the Anarchists. They’re… rioting… again. Happens… all the time.” Turkey finds he doesn’t have anything to say to that, or at least nothing that wouldn’t sound completely emasculating, can only offer more juice, and hold on tighter, burying his nose into the curve of Greece’s neck, pressing his lips there in a gesture he can’t fully free himself from when it comes to Greece.

 When the tremors finally subside, Herakles allows Turkey to half-lift him from the ground, and only manages a meek snarl when the man voices his intentions of getting them a taxi. He still doesn’t protest when Sadik gives the taxi the name of his hotel, but by then, he’s already shaking with more riots again, and he can hardly walk straight when Sadik helps him out of the taxi.

They’re getting a lot of stares by the time they make it into the lobby, two grown men interlocked, one held up entirely by the other and crying out in what is unmistakably pain. But Sadik doesn’t care, and openly holds Herakles in the elevator, soothing him every time the youth cries out and clenches the shirt above Sadik’s belt in pain.

He’s already hyperventilating (those fucking Anarchists must have bombed some important building, or else the air pollution is finally starting to take its toll) when Sadik keys them in and deposits the kid on the bed.

“Do you want—?“ He begins, rising from the bed, and stops when the vague resistance of Herakles’ fingers still gripping his shirt stills him. Quietly, wordlessly, he climbs into the bed, settles behind the youth, the Palace next to the Bosphorus suddenly thick in his mind, and wraps his arms around the kid’s waist from behind, and waits until the shaking subsides.

Notes:
Reference to "a decade ago" was the 199x, 2000 earthquakes in both Turkey and Greece.
The Anarchists in Greece are crazy. Seriously.
Also, as one might expect, Greece's air pollution is horrid.
Extra points if you can catch the poetry reference in the title!