Post by Greece/Vietnam on Apr 15, 2012 19:14:52 GMT -7
Little one shots I came up with out of boredom today:
#1: Olympia
Summary: Turkey once loved Olympia, but we all move on, and he wants Greece to know that he isn't a substitute for his mother.
Genre: A little hurt/comfort, slice-of-life
Rating: T
Warnings: Implied sexual situations
Word Count: 454
"I loved your mom."
Greece has known this for a while.
But they are still lying among rumpled sheets and wet stains and half-empty lube bottles, so he thinks that this is probably the second worst time possible for Turkey to make such a confession.
Greece wants to say something profound here, but he's not sure how he's supposed to react. The replies "I figured," "Well, too bad," and "That's nice" cross his mind, and he wants to say them all, but in a much more eloquent way.
Instead, he just says lamely: "Me too."
Turkey whips around from his observation of the ceiling to look at Greece. He's almost positive the Greek doesn't mean it the same way he meant it. At least, Turkey hopes so.
"No," Turkey says slowly, "I mean…I was in love with her."
"Oh." A pause. "That's nice."
Turkey sees the slight crease in Greece's forehead, the barely-perceptible change in his eyes. He can tell Greece is suppressing the urge to bite his lip, or worse, to pout. It's all very endearing, in a dear-Allah-this-is-giving-me-diabetes-and-I-just-wanna-punch-someone kind of way.
"I'm not anymore," He confesses, trying to reassure the Greek.
"I hope not. She's dead."
"That's not what I meant." Turkey cuffs Greece lightly on the side of his curly head. He wants to have one of those deep, philosophical, what's-the-meaning-of-life conversations that the Greek is so fond of, but he doesn't seem to be doing a good job of it. "I meant, I moved on. We all do. That's life."
Greece keeps staring at the ceiling, and he looks very uncomfortable, like he doesn't know where Turkey wants to go with this conversation. It makes Turkey want to do stupid things, like pet his hair and kiss his nose and tell him that everything's going to be okay.
"Hey," he says, and he tilts Greece's chin with a gentle finger so that the younger man will look at him. "I just wanted ya to know. Y'know…so you don't think I still am. I, uh, I don't think of you as her."
Turkey lies down again on his back and stares at the ceiling with Greece. He just lies there for a time wondering if he's screwed everything up, if he's ruined this tentative peace that they've finally achieved in an effort to do just the opposite of that. It's a bad feeling. Maybe he's getting too attached to Greece after all. Maybe it's better to back off a little, before it gets too serious.
Greece threads their fingers together and squeezes his hand. He looks at Turkey and smiles.
And Turkey thinks that maybe, it's better to just do what he always does, and jump in with both feet first.
#2 The Multitudinous, Ubiquitously Legitimate, and Not Inconsequential Reasons Why Turkey Hates Cats
Summary: Turkey hates cats. This is why.
Genre: Humor
Rating: T
Warnings: Implied sexual situations, explicit language
Word Count: 758
Reason #4: They judge you with their beady little eyes
So they'd fought. So what. They did it all the time. Turkey was aware that this wasn't the way a normal, healthy relationship was supposed to be, but when they'd first gotten into this thing, he had already known it'd be anything but normal and healthy.
Now he was at Egypt's home, cooling off. No, he hadn't run away. Turkey was brave, strong and noble, and he'd never run away like a wuss. He'd merely decided to be the bigger of the two and leave before they went back to using fists and teeth. And not in the pleasurable way either.
So. It was established: Turkey did not run away.
The fatass cat currently glaring at him seemed to disagree. It lounged on a sofa across from him, and hadn't stopped staring at him in an extremely disapproving way since he'd gotten there.
"What are ya lookin' at?" Turkey snapped.
The cat glared.
"I didn't run away. And it wasn't my fault in the first place, anyway."
The cat glared.
"It wasn't! It was totally his fault. Can you believe he wants to tell people about us? Fucking stupid idea."
The cat glared.
"Shuddup! I wasn't being unreasonable. I'm not ashamed of him or anything, I just don't want the fuss."
Glare.
"Greece is a big boy, he'll suck it up."
Glare.
"Shit. You really think he's upset?"
Glare.
"Goddammit." Turkey got up. He was going to go buy Greece some flowers and apologize.
Stupid cat.
Reason #12: They have no tact
Turkey cracked open an eye and froze.
He wasn't in his bed. Greece was lying asleep next to him, curled around his side. Shit.
ShitshitshitshitSHIT.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep, and now it was morning and he was naked and anyone could burst through the bedroom door at any goddamn moment!
Turkey carefully extricated himself from Greece and tiptoed to the door. None of his clothes was in the room; they'd all been tossed haphazardly around the house last night. He turned the doorknob and slipped out. The hallway was empty. All he had to do was cross the living room, past the kitchen, and he'd be free. He'd come back for his clothes later; no one would recognize him from them anyway.
Then he heard it. Voices. In the kitchen. He moved stealthily into the living room, pressing himself to the wall next to the open kitchen door. Egypt was chatting with Hungary inside. He would have to race across the open doorway without their noticing. Naked. No problem.
He glided silently past. No one noticed. Hell yeah, he's good!
Turkey snuck towards the backdoor. He was so close. He was gonna make it!
"Meow!"
Turkey froze.
"Meow!"
A cat bounded up to him, rubbing itself against his leg. He tried kicking it, but it skipped out of the way and meowed again. Loudly.
"What's wrong, kit— Sadiq!"
Turkey turned around to see Egypt blushing furiously and Hungary squealing. She'd somehow pulled a camera out of thin air.
The cat purred. Stupid cat.
Reason #27: They shed everywhere
Turkey woke up in Greece's bed. This was becoming a routine. Greece was still asleep, which meant it was time to leave. It wasn't that they were still a secret, but if he waited for Greece to wake up, the man would probably want him to stay over and—God forbid—talk. He got up quietly and started picking up his clothes, dressing as he went along. Shirt, boxers, pants, socks. Now to find his jacket.
He walked into the living room and saw them.
Cats. A dozen of them, all lying on top of his coat on the floor. His eye twitched.
"Get off'er there!" He kicked at them, and the cats meowed and hissed as they jumped out of the way. They glared at him disapprovingly, seemed to "hmph" in contempt and proudly strolled away.
Turkey picked up the remnants of his poor jacket. It wasn't scratched up, but it was covered in a thick layer of fur. Gross. Now what should he do?
"Sadiq?" A bleary-eyed Greece walked into the room, cuddling a cat. He found Sadiq pouting morosely at his fur-covered jacket and couldn't help but chuckle. Turkey glared at him. The cat glared back.
"I have some tape. You can use that to get it off." Greece started walking away, then: "Oh, and I'll put on some coffee. You like eggs?"
Looked like Turkey was staying over after all. Stupid cats.
#3: Independence
Summary: What Heracles wants and what Greece needs are very different things. Greece's last battle for independence.
Genre: Angst, historical
Rating:T
Warnings: Violence, implied sexual situations, angst. Yeah. No happy ending here.
Word Count: 717
He is awake.
He was never asleep. He feels the other man's arms curled possessively around him, muscular and dark and so, so scarred. The man's breathing is shallow, almost pained. It has been like this for decades now, and Greece is used to it, but it still hurts him somehow to see the man like this.
The night is silent and still, and birds have yet to begin their songs. It is time for him to leave. It has to be now, because when the Ottoman Empire is awake, he will never let him go. When the Ottoman Empire is awake, he will look at Greece with those eyes so full of empty pride and past glory, but there will be a strain and a pleading underneath. It will not be the pride, but the sadness, that will keep Greece there.
He stands, as silent as the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight. He wants to touch the Ottoman Empire one last time—because it will be the last time, he knows—but can't risk waking him from his feverish dreams. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and carries with him the soreness in his body as the only token to remember them by. Then he is gone, and the Ottoman Empire is still sleeping, and when he wakes, there will be no one there to see the betrayal and hurt in his eyes.
"Stand strong, men!"
Officer Ypsilanti is a commanding presence on the battlefield. In minutes, the Ottoman forces will be upon them—7,000, if their intelligence has not failed—and they will clash, with 2,000 men who have never known military discipline, 2,000 men who have no training but the strength in their hearts and the love of their country and God to guide them. Greece is so full of pride and love and fear for them that he wants to cry. But he is the only symbol they have, an entity weightier than a thousand generations, and he cannot show weakness.
They hear the hooves beating before they see the dust in the distance, and they steel themselves for death or victory. Within seconds, a hail of gunfire is showering them, and they charge forward with cries that deafen the Heavens, with nothing but swords and feet and hope.
"Amen."
Greece crosses himself and stands. It's over. It's really, really over.
They've won.
The bodies of hundreds of Ottoman soldiers litter the blood-soaked ground, and his men—his undisciplined, untested, unruly men—are in turns cheering their victory and mourning their dead.
Officer Ypsilanti is beaming his pride, and Greece has almost forgotten why his heart is still so heavy, when he sees him. He is the last man still there, the last man to keep looking back when the rest of the defeated army is already in retreat. His stance is proud and haughty, looking down at them from his majestic mount, but his eyes tell another story.
They find each other, across that one battlefield that is soaked through with more than just blood, but with all the pain and death and sorrow of four hundred years. They find each other, only through their eyes. The Ottoman Empire has his mask on, and they are separated by the distance of centuries, but even still, Greece thinks he can see hurt etched below the contempt on his face. Then the man turns—is gone—and Greece has won, but it doesn't feel completely like victory.
A new wave of cheers rises behind him, and he turns to find Officer Ypsilanti next to him, handing him the Greek banner with a reverence that rivals a man holding the Holy Grail. Greece takes the banner from him, a simple pattern of a blue cross on a white background. Not a single man breathes. He raises the banner with all the pride that is Greece, and the world around him explodes in jubilee.
For this one instant, he cannot be selfish. For this one instant, he is no one but Greece, and all of him is celebrating. For this one instant in the grand scheme of God's machinations, not one inch of him is Heracles. There is only the victory of a country, and that matters more than one man's pain.
#4: Parenting
Summary: Little Greece is sick, and the Ottoman Empire is a warrior, not a parent, dammit.
Genre: H/C, historical, pre-slash
Rating: T to be safe
Warnings: A little language
Word Count: 976
"Achoo!"
Greece sniffles piteously as he tugs the covers over his chin. Egypt wrings out a fresh towel and places it over Greece's burning forehead. The child whimpers, his breaths hitching as if he is holding back sobs. It is this scene that the Ottoman Empire walks into as he returns from the battlefield, and even from a distance, he can tell that the child looks as if he is on his deathbed.
"Wha's wrong with 'im?" He wipes the sweat and caked blood off his face with a loose sleeve, throwing off his armor haphazardly as he approaches. Egypt wrinkles his nose in distaste; the Ottoman Empire still reeks of the blood of his foes, his bloody scimitar glinting dangerously against his waist.
"He has a high fever." Egypt wonders whether he should continue, and risk the Ottoman's rage. Then Greece gives a low cry, hiccupping and coughing at once. Egypt grits his teeth and continues, "Most likely a result of the heavy tax burden and tribute of children that you have started demanding." The accusation is a miscalculation, Egypt realizes immediately. The Ottoman Empire is always most aggressive when he returns from battle. For a moment he looks as if he is about to punch Egypt, and the younger man flinches in apprehension. Then the Ottoman grabs his sleeve, and shoves him to the door.
"Get the hell out. I'll take care of 'im." Egypt almost laughs bitterly. Instead, he bows his head and leaves the child to his fate.
The boy looks terrible. His skin is sweat-soaked and clings to his bones. He has heavy bags under his eyes, and his cheeks are flushed with heat. Tears gather on his eyelashes, and his breaths sound more labored with every passing moment.
The Ottoman Empire is suddenly seized with something uncomfortably close to fear. He has no idea what to do. He wonders if he should be sitting on the bed, if he should pet the child, maybe sing him something, or feed him soup. He remembers something about boiling water when a child is sick—or is that when a child is born? Dammit. He has no clue.
"Mm..Mom..mommy…" The boy mumbles miserably, his small hands reaching out in search of his mother. The Ottoman Empire almost has a panic attack at the guilt that suddenly seizes him.
"No, brat, it's me. Yer mom's dead, remember?" He winces at his own harsh tone, but doesn't know how to do anything but continue. "Yer just sick, you'll be fine soon. Quit whining."
The child doesn't respond with his usual vehemence, no trickle of defiance left in his frail body. He merely moans in pain, and returns to his quiet sobs.
The Ottoman berates himself. Obviously he's no parent. He knows this. Greece knows this. Egypt and Hungary and everyone know this. Greece hates him for it, hates him for taking away a mother and not being a father in turn. He remembers the one time that Greece had ventured to call him 'daddy,' and he had been so shocked he'd backhanded the child across the face.
And that's the problem, because he doesn't know how to react. He wants the brat to like him, of course. His house would be a lot more peaceful if the brat liked him. But he doesn't know how to do it. He can't be what Greece needs, can't sooth his nightmares, can't sing him lullabies, can't smile at him and pet him, play with him and teach him. The Ottoman Empire can't be a parent, never had one to show him how, and can't react with anything but violence.
Greece's quiet sobs become more insistent, and his little body shakes alarmingly. He's mumbling in Greek now, and at any other time, the Ottoman Empire would've slapped him for it. In sob-choked spurts, he cries for comfort in his mother's tongue, and the Ottoman catches random phrases from time to time. "It hurts, hurts, hurts…" He calls for his mother, for God and Jesus and angels, but none of them come to rescue him.
The Ottoman Empire realizes that his fists are clenched so tight that his fingernails are digging into his battle-wounds. He wants to take the pain away, to channel it onto himself, because he's a warrior and he can take pain.
"So..sorr.." He stutters, then, instead of doing what any parent would do, he turns on his heel and leaves the child to suffer alone.
-Present Day-
"Achoo!"
Greece wipes his leaky nose on the covers, and a small whimper escapes him despite his best efforts to stay quiet. The sounds of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen reach him, along with a litany of foreign curses. Greece pulls the covers over his head and wills his unwelcome guest to go away.
"I made ya soup." Greece peeks through the covers and sees a bowl of some most-likely-poisonous liquid sloshing around. He moans piteously. "It looks terrible. Go away." His guest stubbornly doesn't go away. Instead, he sits by Greece long after the sick man has fallen asleep, watching every tremor and wishing he could take the pain away.
When Greece tosses his blanket aside in his troubled sleep, Turkey places it over him again. When Greece wakes himself with his coughs, Turkey presses a glass of water to his lips. When Greece reaches out for comfort, Turkey takes the fevered hand and squeezes it in his own.
He waits with Greece until well past sunrise, waits with him until the latest bout of tremors and fever from his economic collapse passes. Greece doesn't know why the Turk does it, and Turkey doesn't enlighten him. "You probably…just like seeing me suffer," Greece had said to him a few days ago, and Turkey had not corrected him.
Because he's a warrior, and warriors never say they're sorry.
#1: Olympia
Summary: Turkey once loved Olympia, but we all move on, and he wants Greece to know that he isn't a substitute for his mother.
Genre: A little hurt/comfort, slice-of-life
Rating: T
Warnings: Implied sexual situations
Word Count: 454
"I loved your mom."
Greece has known this for a while.
But they are still lying among rumpled sheets and wet stains and half-empty lube bottles, so he thinks that this is probably the second worst time possible for Turkey to make such a confession.
Greece wants to say something profound here, but he's not sure how he's supposed to react. The replies "I figured," "Well, too bad," and "That's nice" cross his mind, and he wants to say them all, but in a much more eloquent way.
Instead, he just says lamely: "Me too."
Turkey whips around from his observation of the ceiling to look at Greece. He's almost positive the Greek doesn't mean it the same way he meant it. At least, Turkey hopes so.
"No," Turkey says slowly, "I mean…I was in love with her."
"Oh." A pause. "That's nice."
Turkey sees the slight crease in Greece's forehead, the barely-perceptible change in his eyes. He can tell Greece is suppressing the urge to bite his lip, or worse, to pout. It's all very endearing, in a dear-Allah-this-is-giving-me-diabetes-and-I-just-wanna-punch-someone kind of way.
"I'm not anymore," He confesses, trying to reassure the Greek.
"I hope not. She's dead."
"That's not what I meant." Turkey cuffs Greece lightly on the side of his curly head. He wants to have one of those deep, philosophical, what's-the-meaning-of-life conversations that the Greek is so fond of, but he doesn't seem to be doing a good job of it. "I meant, I moved on. We all do. That's life."
Greece keeps staring at the ceiling, and he looks very uncomfortable, like he doesn't know where Turkey wants to go with this conversation. It makes Turkey want to do stupid things, like pet his hair and kiss his nose and tell him that everything's going to be okay.
"Hey," he says, and he tilts Greece's chin with a gentle finger so that the younger man will look at him. "I just wanted ya to know. Y'know…so you don't think I still am. I, uh, I don't think of you as her."
Turkey lies down again on his back and stares at the ceiling with Greece. He just lies there for a time wondering if he's screwed everything up, if he's ruined this tentative peace that they've finally achieved in an effort to do just the opposite of that. It's a bad feeling. Maybe he's getting too attached to Greece after all. Maybe it's better to back off a little, before it gets too serious.
Greece threads their fingers together and squeezes his hand. He looks at Turkey and smiles.
And Turkey thinks that maybe, it's better to just do what he always does, and jump in with both feet first.
#2 The Multitudinous, Ubiquitously Legitimate, and Not Inconsequential Reasons Why Turkey Hates Cats
Summary: Turkey hates cats. This is why.
Genre: Humor
Rating: T
Warnings: Implied sexual situations, explicit language
Word Count: 758
Reason #4: They judge you with their beady little eyes
So they'd fought. So what. They did it all the time. Turkey was aware that this wasn't the way a normal, healthy relationship was supposed to be, but when they'd first gotten into this thing, he had already known it'd be anything but normal and healthy.
Now he was at Egypt's home, cooling off. No, he hadn't run away. Turkey was brave, strong and noble, and he'd never run away like a wuss. He'd merely decided to be the bigger of the two and leave before they went back to using fists and teeth. And not in the pleasurable way either.
So. It was established: Turkey did not run away.
The fatass cat currently glaring at him seemed to disagree. It lounged on a sofa across from him, and hadn't stopped staring at him in an extremely disapproving way since he'd gotten there.
"What are ya lookin' at?" Turkey snapped.
The cat glared.
"I didn't run away. And it wasn't my fault in the first place, anyway."
The cat glared.
"It wasn't! It was totally his fault. Can you believe he wants to tell people about us? Fucking stupid idea."
The cat glared.
"Shuddup! I wasn't being unreasonable. I'm not ashamed of him or anything, I just don't want the fuss."
Glare.
"Greece is a big boy, he'll suck it up."
Glare.
"Shit. You really think he's upset?"
Glare.
"Goddammit." Turkey got up. He was going to go buy Greece some flowers and apologize.
Stupid cat.
Reason #12: They have no tact
Turkey cracked open an eye and froze.
He wasn't in his bed. Greece was lying asleep next to him, curled around his side. Shit.
ShitshitshitshitSHIT.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep, and now it was morning and he was naked and anyone could burst through the bedroom door at any goddamn moment!
Turkey carefully extricated himself from Greece and tiptoed to the door. None of his clothes was in the room; they'd all been tossed haphazardly around the house last night. He turned the doorknob and slipped out. The hallway was empty. All he had to do was cross the living room, past the kitchen, and he'd be free. He'd come back for his clothes later; no one would recognize him from them anyway.
Then he heard it. Voices. In the kitchen. He moved stealthily into the living room, pressing himself to the wall next to the open kitchen door. Egypt was chatting with Hungary inside. He would have to race across the open doorway without their noticing. Naked. No problem.
He glided silently past. No one noticed. Hell yeah, he's good!
Turkey snuck towards the backdoor. He was so close. He was gonna make it!
"Meow!"
Turkey froze.
"Meow!"
A cat bounded up to him, rubbing itself against his leg. He tried kicking it, but it skipped out of the way and meowed again. Loudly.
"What's wrong, kit— Sadiq!"
Turkey turned around to see Egypt blushing furiously and Hungary squealing. She'd somehow pulled a camera out of thin air.
The cat purred. Stupid cat.
Reason #27: They shed everywhere
Turkey woke up in Greece's bed. This was becoming a routine. Greece was still asleep, which meant it was time to leave. It wasn't that they were still a secret, but if he waited for Greece to wake up, the man would probably want him to stay over and—God forbid—talk. He got up quietly and started picking up his clothes, dressing as he went along. Shirt, boxers, pants, socks. Now to find his jacket.
He walked into the living room and saw them.
Cats. A dozen of them, all lying on top of his coat on the floor. His eye twitched.
"Get off'er there!" He kicked at them, and the cats meowed and hissed as they jumped out of the way. They glared at him disapprovingly, seemed to "hmph" in contempt and proudly strolled away.
Turkey picked up the remnants of his poor jacket. It wasn't scratched up, but it was covered in a thick layer of fur. Gross. Now what should he do?
"Sadiq?" A bleary-eyed Greece walked into the room, cuddling a cat. He found Sadiq pouting morosely at his fur-covered jacket and couldn't help but chuckle. Turkey glared at him. The cat glared back.
"I have some tape. You can use that to get it off." Greece started walking away, then: "Oh, and I'll put on some coffee. You like eggs?"
Looked like Turkey was staying over after all. Stupid cats.
#3: Independence
Summary: What Heracles wants and what Greece needs are very different things. Greece's last battle for independence.
Genre: Angst, historical
Rating:T
Warnings: Violence, implied sexual situations, angst. Yeah. No happy ending here.
Word Count: 717
He is awake.
He was never asleep. He feels the other man's arms curled possessively around him, muscular and dark and so, so scarred. The man's breathing is shallow, almost pained. It has been like this for decades now, and Greece is used to it, but it still hurts him somehow to see the man like this.
The night is silent and still, and birds have yet to begin their songs. It is time for him to leave. It has to be now, because when the Ottoman Empire is awake, he will never let him go. When the Ottoman Empire is awake, he will look at Greece with those eyes so full of empty pride and past glory, but there will be a strain and a pleading underneath. It will not be the pride, but the sadness, that will keep Greece there.
He stands, as silent as the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight. He wants to touch the Ottoman Empire one last time—because it will be the last time, he knows—but can't risk waking him from his feverish dreams. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and carries with him the soreness in his body as the only token to remember them by. Then he is gone, and the Ottoman Empire is still sleeping, and when he wakes, there will be no one there to see the betrayal and hurt in his eyes.
"Stand strong, men!"
Officer Ypsilanti is a commanding presence on the battlefield. In minutes, the Ottoman forces will be upon them—7,000, if their intelligence has not failed—and they will clash, with 2,000 men who have never known military discipline, 2,000 men who have no training but the strength in their hearts and the love of their country and God to guide them. Greece is so full of pride and love and fear for them that he wants to cry. But he is the only symbol they have, an entity weightier than a thousand generations, and he cannot show weakness.
They hear the hooves beating before they see the dust in the distance, and they steel themselves for death or victory. Within seconds, a hail of gunfire is showering them, and they charge forward with cries that deafen the Heavens, with nothing but swords and feet and hope.
"Amen."
Greece crosses himself and stands. It's over. It's really, really over.
They've won.
The bodies of hundreds of Ottoman soldiers litter the blood-soaked ground, and his men—his undisciplined, untested, unruly men—are in turns cheering their victory and mourning their dead.
Officer Ypsilanti is beaming his pride, and Greece has almost forgotten why his heart is still so heavy, when he sees him. He is the last man still there, the last man to keep looking back when the rest of the defeated army is already in retreat. His stance is proud and haughty, looking down at them from his majestic mount, but his eyes tell another story.
They find each other, across that one battlefield that is soaked through with more than just blood, but with all the pain and death and sorrow of four hundred years. They find each other, only through their eyes. The Ottoman Empire has his mask on, and they are separated by the distance of centuries, but even still, Greece thinks he can see hurt etched below the contempt on his face. Then the man turns—is gone—and Greece has won, but it doesn't feel completely like victory.
A new wave of cheers rises behind him, and he turns to find Officer Ypsilanti next to him, handing him the Greek banner with a reverence that rivals a man holding the Holy Grail. Greece takes the banner from him, a simple pattern of a blue cross on a white background. Not a single man breathes. He raises the banner with all the pride that is Greece, and the world around him explodes in jubilee.
For this one instant, he cannot be selfish. For this one instant, he is no one but Greece, and all of him is celebrating. For this one instant in the grand scheme of God's machinations, not one inch of him is Heracles. There is only the victory of a country, and that matters more than one man's pain.
#4: Parenting
Summary: Little Greece is sick, and the Ottoman Empire is a warrior, not a parent, dammit.
Genre: H/C, historical, pre-slash
Rating: T to be safe
Warnings: A little language
Word Count: 976
"Achoo!"
Greece sniffles piteously as he tugs the covers over his chin. Egypt wrings out a fresh towel and places it over Greece's burning forehead. The child whimpers, his breaths hitching as if he is holding back sobs. It is this scene that the Ottoman Empire walks into as he returns from the battlefield, and even from a distance, he can tell that the child looks as if he is on his deathbed.
"Wha's wrong with 'im?" He wipes the sweat and caked blood off his face with a loose sleeve, throwing off his armor haphazardly as he approaches. Egypt wrinkles his nose in distaste; the Ottoman Empire still reeks of the blood of his foes, his bloody scimitar glinting dangerously against his waist.
"He has a high fever." Egypt wonders whether he should continue, and risk the Ottoman's rage. Then Greece gives a low cry, hiccupping and coughing at once. Egypt grits his teeth and continues, "Most likely a result of the heavy tax burden and tribute of children that you have started demanding." The accusation is a miscalculation, Egypt realizes immediately. The Ottoman Empire is always most aggressive when he returns from battle. For a moment he looks as if he is about to punch Egypt, and the younger man flinches in apprehension. Then the Ottoman grabs his sleeve, and shoves him to the door.
"Get the hell out. I'll take care of 'im." Egypt almost laughs bitterly. Instead, he bows his head and leaves the child to his fate.
The boy looks terrible. His skin is sweat-soaked and clings to his bones. He has heavy bags under his eyes, and his cheeks are flushed with heat. Tears gather on his eyelashes, and his breaths sound more labored with every passing moment.
The Ottoman Empire is suddenly seized with something uncomfortably close to fear. He has no idea what to do. He wonders if he should be sitting on the bed, if he should pet the child, maybe sing him something, or feed him soup. He remembers something about boiling water when a child is sick—or is that when a child is born? Dammit. He has no clue.
"Mm..Mom..mommy…" The boy mumbles miserably, his small hands reaching out in search of his mother. The Ottoman Empire almost has a panic attack at the guilt that suddenly seizes him.
"No, brat, it's me. Yer mom's dead, remember?" He winces at his own harsh tone, but doesn't know how to do anything but continue. "Yer just sick, you'll be fine soon. Quit whining."
The child doesn't respond with his usual vehemence, no trickle of defiance left in his frail body. He merely moans in pain, and returns to his quiet sobs.
The Ottoman berates himself. Obviously he's no parent. He knows this. Greece knows this. Egypt and Hungary and everyone know this. Greece hates him for it, hates him for taking away a mother and not being a father in turn. He remembers the one time that Greece had ventured to call him 'daddy,' and he had been so shocked he'd backhanded the child across the face.
And that's the problem, because he doesn't know how to react. He wants the brat to like him, of course. His house would be a lot more peaceful if the brat liked him. But he doesn't know how to do it. He can't be what Greece needs, can't sooth his nightmares, can't sing him lullabies, can't smile at him and pet him, play with him and teach him. The Ottoman Empire can't be a parent, never had one to show him how, and can't react with anything but violence.
Greece's quiet sobs become more insistent, and his little body shakes alarmingly. He's mumbling in Greek now, and at any other time, the Ottoman Empire would've slapped him for it. In sob-choked spurts, he cries for comfort in his mother's tongue, and the Ottoman catches random phrases from time to time. "It hurts, hurts, hurts…" He calls for his mother, for God and Jesus and angels, but none of them come to rescue him.
The Ottoman Empire realizes that his fists are clenched so tight that his fingernails are digging into his battle-wounds. He wants to take the pain away, to channel it onto himself, because he's a warrior and he can take pain.
"So..sorr.." He stutters, then, instead of doing what any parent would do, he turns on his heel and leaves the child to suffer alone.
-Present Day-
"Achoo!"
Greece wipes his leaky nose on the covers, and a small whimper escapes him despite his best efforts to stay quiet. The sounds of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen reach him, along with a litany of foreign curses. Greece pulls the covers over his head and wills his unwelcome guest to go away.
"I made ya soup." Greece peeks through the covers and sees a bowl of some most-likely-poisonous liquid sloshing around. He moans piteously. "It looks terrible. Go away." His guest stubbornly doesn't go away. Instead, he sits by Greece long after the sick man has fallen asleep, watching every tremor and wishing he could take the pain away.
When Greece tosses his blanket aside in his troubled sleep, Turkey places it over him again. When Greece wakes himself with his coughs, Turkey presses a glass of water to his lips. When Greece reaches out for comfort, Turkey takes the fevered hand and squeezes it in his own.
He waits with Greece until well past sunrise, waits with him until the latest bout of tremors and fever from his economic collapse passes. Greece doesn't know why the Turk does it, and Turkey doesn't enlighten him. "You probably…just like seeing me suffer," Greece had said to him a few days ago, and Turkey had not corrected him.
Because he's a warrior, and warriors never say they're sorry.