The World We Lost

Nocturne

Sadik stops Heracles on his way out, grabs his wrist. Heracles halts immediately, turning, but making no move to pull away. Sadik searches the other man silently, but Heracles' expression gives nothing away. He isn't surprised; Heracles is always hard to read, something constantly lurking behind haunting green eyes.

"What are we?" Turkey dares to ask.

There. There's that flicker again, something darting through piercing eyes. Greece turns his gaze away, slips his hand from Turkey's grip.

"I'll see you later, Sadik," he replies in that lilting voice of his.

The door clicks shut softly behind him, and Turkey's words die in his throat.

--

"Does it ever scare you?" Heracles asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

It's years later and he's stretched over Sadik's lap, eyes closed. Sadik's back rests against the headboard of the large bed and he's using Heracles as an armrest and reading a book Egypt had recently recommended. Turkey frowns at the vague words and turns his gaze to Heracles.

"What?"

He's startled to see that Heracles' eyes are open, but he's staring blankly at the wall. He's lost in his own head again; Sadik knows that look. Heracles is in a dark place, where nobody can reach him.

"How damaged we are," Heracles breathes.

Sadik sighs softly, absently traces the length of Heracles' spine.

"Yeah," he says, "it does."

--

Sadik doesn't like the autumn. The temperatures aren't terrible, but when October approaches, so does the rain. It's late October and it's been raining all day. The days are shorter and Sadik gets restless when he's cooped up in his house for so long. He won't go out, though, not if he doesn't have to. The rain leaves this deep ache in his very bones, weighs him down.

He senses it when Heracles crosses into his country.

Turkey is merely wandering, walking slowly through his halls when he feels it like a falter in his steps. And then he whirls, making his way quickly to the door. He knows Greece makes some questionable decisions, but this is ridiculous. Knowing the Grecian, he didn't even bring an umbrella.

Sadik opens the door just as Heracles, soaked to the bone, is raising his hand to knock. Greece looks startled, briefly, wide eyes blinking back at Sadik, who doesn't even pause to question his purpose for being here before he's towing the other man inside.

"You idiot," Turkey hisses, pulling Greece down the hall - he's concerned, dammit, and he doesn't like it, "why the hell would you walk all this way without an umbrella? Or at least a jacket?"

Heracles' skin is cold beneath Sadik's fingers. He's shivering now, clothing clinging to his form and hair stuck to his face.

"It wasn't raining back home," Heracles tells him, as if that excuse cuts it.

Sadik knows that Heracles isn't dumb by any means. He's here for a reason - more than likely a completely last second reason, but a reason, nonetheless. Turkey opts to question it later, but for now, he locates some clothing that Heracles left the last time he'd popped in - and stayed for longer than originally anticipated - and half shoves them into Greece's arms with a towel.

"Go dry off and change. Geez, Heracles, I can't baby you like this forever. You've gotta think about this stuff before you just act."

It strikes Sadik that this is so ridiculously domestic. It's strange, though not necessarily terrible.

Heracles' gaze darts down; momentarily, he looks guilty, but the expression fades as quickly as it came. He ducks past Turkey, slinking off to go get changed. Sadik sighs, shaking his head and crossing the house to his kitchen to make coffee. Heracles hasn't come yet, so he takes both cups to the living room. It's modernized now; even he had to move on with times.

Unsurprisingly, Greece is draped over the couch, face down, one arm dangling off the side. His head turns when Sadik enters, and then he draws himself up when he sees the coffee, reaching out one hand for a cup before Turkey has even offered it.

Sadik scowls and holds it out of his reach. "I'm not giving you anything if you don't ask for it politely."

Heracles' eyebrows pinch together and his lips tilt down, but he sighs. "Please?"

Turkey wordlessly passes him the cup and shoves Heracles' legs off the couch so he can sit as well. They're silent for a while, as they often are. Greece tucks his feet up and curls in, closing his eyes as he drinks. Sadik watches him silently over the edge of his own cup.

"Heracles, don't you have work to do?" Sadik finally speaks up. "Why are you here?"

"It's because," the Grecian trails, just momentarily, a sort of film covering his eyes, before he blinks and it's gone, "I suddenly remembered today was your birthday."

Turkey freezes. Oh. Even he'd forgotten; he'd been so wrapped up in other things lately. Heracles is watching him now, green eyes flickering.

"You forgot," he states.

"I did." Sadik breathes. "Is it already the twenty-ninth?"

Heracles shifts to set his already empty cup down and then rotates, draping himself across the couch again, and Turkey's lap in the process. Sadik resigns himself to the fate of being used as a headrest.

"It is."

Turkey nods, slowly, purses his lips. He's slipping up, lately. He doesn't usually forget so easily. Heracles sits up, suddenly, reaching out to touch Turkey's face. The touch almost immediately draws Sadik's attention; Greece holds his gaze, steady, and slides his hand to rest at the back of Turkey's neck. He leans forward to rest his forehead to Sadik's.

"Happy birthday, Sadik."

--

Sadik seldom dwells over how different he and Heracles are. He stays in the now, never quite daring to slip back into the past. Heracles is different, difficult to understand and never quite in the present. It's always hard to figure out where Greece's mind really is; Turkey is always wondering, but he never gets his answers.

Beside him, Heracles is still.

Time has passed, as it always does, in a blink. Turkey is still unsure as to the state of their relationship, but Heracles always dances around the subject when he tries to ask and Sadik doesn't dare push it, for the fear of the other man completely shutting down. Greece is unpredictable, neither here nor there, and liable to close himself off at any given moment.

He's fragile, in a sense.

They're at Sadik's home again, as they generally seem to be. He's been to Heracles' home; a little hole in the wall of an apartment flanked by a chronic smoker on one side and a neurotic couple on the other. Greece never seems to care, but by silent agreement, they seldom go there. Sadik is on his side, facing Greece, simply observing. Heracles' face is relaxed, arms tucked up under his head. Turkey is tempted to reach out and trace the man's face, run his fingers across his arms. Heracles opens his eyes, then.

"...What?" He whispers, voice low and rough from sleep.

Sadik shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, but when Heracles shifts, he reaches out to take his hand, dragging his thumb over the other's knuckles.

Greece watches him with a strange look, but he doesn't pull away. "If you say so," he murmurs, closing his eyes once more.

"Hey," Sadik says, suddenly.

Heracles doesn't open his eyes, but Sadik knows he's listening. He can't stop the words now, one way or another.

"Promise you'll be here tomorrow?"

Almost subtly, Heracles' grip on Sadik's hand seems to tighten.

But perhaps it's just the imagination.

"Promise," Heracles whispers.

There was nothing left to say.