The World We Lost

Ah... Wow. This was only five parts, but I can't believe it's done. It's been a trip, guys. Enjoy this last part.

----

Greece is a man of secrets.

He is a mirror, glassy, reflecting back only what one desires to see. He is blank slate on which each person writes their desires on - never one who shows exactly what he thinks or says what he wants to say.

There are times, in private, where he lowers his reflective surface. He allows himself to be weak and tired and overwhelmed by the turmoil of emotions that bubbles constantly just beneath his skin. He doesn't dare to let anybody see this most private part of him, but sometimes, he allows little glimpses to slip through. Moments when he can't struggle with the weight on his shoulders, when he needs rest, he seeks it.

Sometimes, it's Kiku. He can sit quietly with the serene man. Japan doesn't question, he simply welcomes him in and makes tea, sits nearby and reads while Heracles rests. Sometimes Kiku is in a similar state, calm mask cracking, decaying at the edges, and they sit together in silence, mutual pillars of support - just two aching souls hurting together.

Sometimes, it's Gupta. Egypt often appears at Heracles' door at the right times, as though he's sensed it. He wouldn't put it past the African country; Egypt is perceptive and has strong intuition - he always follows his instincts, and it hasn't ever seemed to lead him astray. So he visits, and sometimes Greece goes to him first. Gupta always plays music, lilting, light sounds with no words. Occasionally, he dances along, silent company and an active distraction. Occasionally, he merely perches nearby, hums to himself. Sometimes, he makes pottery, and the soft, steady hum eases Greece.

Lately, it's Sadik. He's still awkward and unsure when Heracles shows up at his door, shows himself in, and curls up in the corner of the couch or coils himself next to Sadik when he's sitting in his bed. He reacts, all unsure hands and hesitant movements. Turkey acts as though he isn't quite sure how to handle Greece anymore. Greece lets him figure things out, merely lingering around.

Sadik finds a rhythm sooner rather than later. He finds that Heracles likes it when he runs his fingers through the Grecian's hair. He finds that sometimes it's best to leave it be, to let Greece merely be there and exist only in that moment. Sometimes he makes tea. Sometimes he, in turn, curls around Heracles and they lay in silence, touching but not quite touching and always failing to voice what they are and want to be.

Turkey doesn't dare to ask. Greece doesn't dare to answer.

--

"Sometimes," Heracles tells Sadik, turning his face up to the salty air, "I think about what it was like, before."

They're on one of Antalya's beaches, tucked beneath a patch of shade. Sadik, it seems to Heracles, has taken a different approach today. He's packed them up and headed to one of Heracles' favorite places - the beach. His gaze has been tracing the scars on Sadik's torso, faded from years, but still evident against tanned skin. As much as Greece hates to admit it, Turkey's ploy works. He feels a weight leave his shoulders once he's in the sand, drags his feet through the grains and lets out a slow, steady breath.

He feels calm.

Turkey is standing, hands on his hips, but he looks down when Greece speaks. "About what?"

"My mother, mostly," Heracles murmurs, watching with a sick sort of pleasure as Sadik cringes, "but about us, as well, and the other Ottomans. But mostly about you and I."

Turkey hesitates, and lowers himself to sit beside Heracles. The mediterranean country is watching the sea, though, as it laps at his feet. There's always that part of him that begs it to take him back, but that part isn't so loud, right now. He feels warm, almost content.