In which Sadik finally understands the meaning of agony.
Day six (number 1) of rare pair week – It's History/AU Day. Obviously went with history. Normally, I'd jump at the chance to do an AU, but like, I saw TurGre wasn't on the ban list and I couldn't resist some Ottoman history. Basically just a trashy historical oneshot that's probably terribly inaccurate (even though I spent most of the day researching oops). I apologize. Sick Man Of Europe; Sadik is forces to watch as everything he cares about is ripped straight from his hands. As usual, I had something or another on repeat; Scarborough Fair [Simon and Garfunkel], Implicit Demand For Proof [Twenty One Pilots], It Took Me By Surprise [Maria Mena] (this one definitely goes with this particular oneshot the most), I Come With Knives [IAMX], aaand Arms Of A Thief [Iron and Wine]. There may or may not be influences from some of said songs in this. XD Um… Human names mostly, but occasionally country names, and I mostly just focused on the countries that are in Hetalia whom were at one time or another part of the Ottoman Empire (Hungary, Romania, Greece, Egypt, Ukraine, Bulgaria, Moldova, etc). I wanted to write some angst so here we go. I was tempted to make this into like a mini fanfic so here we go, it might just become one depending on when I can be bothered with it. The title of this first chapter is a play on "Sick Man Of Europe."
For the first time in a long time, it is silent.
Sadik stands at the window; he keeps listening for something he knows he isn't going to hear. He keeps waiting to hear laughter or arguments or the soft sound of someone trying to sneak past his study and forgetting about the one floorboard that always creaks. It's directly in front of the door, he knows, and he's never bothered to fix it. He knows he won't hear it, but that doesn't stop a part of him from hoping.
It's funny, he thinks, feeling the tip of Mouth Athos press into the small of his back – Heracles is the only one who constantly avoided that board. Sadik is almost expecting it, so he doesn't really react when Heracles' cross presses into his back. He lifts his chin to watch the fading colors in the evening sky.
"Are you afraid to die?" Heracles asks, voice carefully flat.
Sadik knows Heracles is suppressing something. "I'm not," he tells him shortly, holding himself as proudly as ever.
It isn't a lie; Sadik does not fear death. If he falls with the empire he has created, then that's simply how it is. They are not humans who come and go, but nations and empires that live knowing that one day, they will inevitably fall. He turns and Heracles backpedals a few steps, watching him through haunting emerald eyes. Sadik pretends not to notice how the Grecian's grip on Mouth Athos briefly clenches, but he sees the way Heracles holds the cross so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He watches the Grecian from behind his mask. The man is all tension, harsh eyes riddled with determination.
"Are you going to leave me, too?"
Heracles doesn't hesitate. "I am. Will you try to stop me?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"I see," says Heracles, lowering his cross.
His voice is quiet, a change from the howls of battle that Sadik is now accustomed to. Sadik watches Heracles wordlessly, simply observing as the Grecian moves around the study that none of them were ever allowed into. Sadik keeps his private things here, his favorite things, but this doesn't feel like any sort of invasion of privacy to him. Heracles isn't really looking; his eyes just sort of skim over everything.
Staring at the Grecian's back, Sadik wonders when Heracles became a man.
"Do you remember how happy we used to be?" Sadik dares to ask.
He's tired; Sadik is so, so tired. He leans heavily against the windowsill and his hand trembles slightly as he reaches up to remove his mask, setting it aside on the desk. He braces that hand against the wood surface and brings his other up to press his eyes. Everything aches; they've been playing this tentative game for a long time, faking their feelings, tip-toeing around each other and everyone else. Sadik has so many memories in this house. A part of him does not want to let go of that familiarity, but the other part of him knows he doesn't have the option anymore. He is losing.
"Yeah," Heracles whispers, and just like that, they're playing again, "we were pretty stupid."
Sadik hadn't known it couldn't go on forever – at least, he tells himself this. The man drags his hand down his face and watches as Heracles paces patiently back towards the center of the room across from Sadik. He swings Mount Athos up, bracing the cross against his shoulder. Sadik is suddenly very tired of this game.
"Everyone loves a good lie," he breathes, and Heracles' gaze shifts to look over Sadik's head and out the window.
"Can you blame them?" Heracles sighs, "Perhaps it's better to create false memories than to face the reality of life – especially lives like ours. We live through painful events, one after another. Memories are dangerous things, Sadik. You turn them over and over until you know every nook and cranny, but still, you'll always, always find an edge that will cut you open."
Sadik is all too aware of this.
"Then why-?"
Mount Athos clanks against the floor and Heracles drapes his arms over the arms of the cross. "I guess I just wanted to stop pretending."
Sadik tips his head back. He supposes he should have expected this much, really. Heracles was always the one least inclined to play their little game, always the one to shatter their little façade when no one else dared to. Sadik had tried, he'd tried harder than he thought, but he realizes, quite abruptly, that Heracles will never be happy like this. As lazy as he is, the Grecian is a free spirit and Sadik can see it in the way the man – even when he was a child – looks longingly into the distance or buries himself among novels and dreams.
"I didn't realize..."
Sadik desperately wants to hold onto him, keep him here. He is selfish, he knows. The feeling is agonizing.
"The ignorant, Sadik," Heracles murmurs, slowly, "never do."
Sadik knows that. He knows that better than anyone. He isn't going to deny it, either. Heracles looks as though he wants to say more, but his words fail him as they so seldom do. Though perhaps not entirely conventional in terms of personality, Heracles is intelligent. He thinks too much, and such men always were and always will be dangerous.
"Tell me then, Heracles," Sadik's gaze fixed on the Grecian, and Heracles does not dare look away, "which of them is aiding you? Britain, France, Russia?"
"All three," Heracles informs him, and Sadik is the one to break the stare, "among others."
"I see."
Sadik slides his mask back on. Between the revolts and Greece's allies, he wonders if he has a chance to keep this man close. Perhaps, though, it was never an option to begin with. Ultimately, Heracles is not his. The Sick Man of Europe can do nothing but watch as everything he cares about is ripped from his fingers. He is defenseless, he knows; he can't deal with the Europeans from a position of equality anymore, much less superiority like he could all those years ago.
Perhaps it is the end for him.
Heracles is watching him carefully and Sadik knows he must be cautious – nothing will escape this man's eye, even if he may act as though it does. He catches himself waiting again, trying desperately to listen for Elizabeta and Vladimir arguing while Gupta sits by and just watches them with an expression of vague amusement. But it is silent. Heracles turns away without so much as a goodbye.
Sadik supposes that Heracles has said goodbye far too many times.
"Heracles," he begins, as something that isn't quite an afterthought.
His fingertips curl around the edge of the desk beside him, if only to prevent him from reaching out towards Heracles. Stop him, a part of him urges, but the other tells him to let Heracles go. Perhaps he's thinking of something along the lines of the childish saying, 'if you love something, let it go. If if comes back, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was to begin with.'
But he knows Heracles will not come back.
The Grecian halts at the sound of his name, head inclined upwards slightly. His hands drop by his sides and his grip on his cross loosens a fraction. He's waiting; Sadik can't see his expression, but he can read it in the other man's slightly slouched posture and the way his head is angled, only barely, towards Sadik.
"I loved you," Sadik utters, before he inwardly corrects himself; love, "in my own selfish way."
Heracles' laugh is laced with bitterness. "What a bad liar you are, Sadik Adnan."
And all he can do is watch Heracles' back as the distance between them grows far, far too great. He watches without a single word as the Grecian steps carefully over that board and turns the corner, vanishing from Sadik's sight. A moment later, he hears the door shut and that's it. There is nothing left to say; Heracles Karpusi slips between his fingertips like sand. Something within him breaks - this, he supposes, is what agony feels like. A part of him wonders if Heracles feels it, too.
The Ottoman Empire recognizes Greece's independence on May 7, 1832 by the signing of the Treaty of Constantinople.
On November 1, 1922, the Ottoman Empire is officially dissolved.
In the end, Sadik Adnan doesn't believe in happily ever afters.