It started out as just a brush of rough palm to his hair even though beginnings like that weren't really all that conventional; nothing about them was.
Turkey crouched down, playing through memories as if they were just a simple tune to hold on a flute, but he didn't mind, not really when his thoughts spun so wildly out of control that to mind would tear him apart.
He remembers being young and looking up to the older man, being impressed by his bravery, and his strength; with most of Turkey's respect, it flustered and grew under admiration.
Turkey wanted to be just like him; he wanted to be strong, lead a more than well off empire, and he definitely wanted to come home to family that would adore him and only mildly scoff off his tendency to rush head long into battle.
He admired the Roman Empire for more reasons than the simple ones at the time and more reasons than the fear that often plagued people when they thought of crossing the other man.
That admiration flourished and waved like an old pirate flag in the wind as he found himself growing up, growing stronger, and growing in love and respect for Rome even more; he doesn't question when it turned from childlike admiration built on innocence into a romantic kind of love, just knows that it did.
Ancient Rome used to look on him kindly, but it always felt too much like the son that he wasn't, that he refused to be, until one day, the Ottoman Empire has grown and flourished, and Ancient Rome runs a hand through his hair and compliments him.
They don't explain anything at all beyond a basic understanding of how they feel when they next time they meet, the Ottoman Empire presses close, locking that hand in his hair, and tilting up into the kiss as if he has any idea what he's doing, but he doesn't.
He laughs, a faint, humorless sound, just to make his throat and lungs feel as if they work, just to remind him that this isn't a dream despite the pleasant tingling beneath the surface.
Turkey pours the entirety of his heart into his mouth, pulling veins and arteries' energy on to his tongue as it twists and pulls; all of him feels like it's locked in place, and perhaps that's what he likes about it.
It's rough, and he feels weak to his own inexperience when ultimately Rome pulls back, and Sadiq wonders for not even the first time how he could come to love more than trying to kiss the man that he's always admired and wished that he could be like.
He doesn't question it when Rome fully pulls away, and yet a promise hangs in his coat tails, the end of that cape that flutters in the wind whenever Rome so much as turns around; he doesn't need words to know that that might not be the last time that he's this close to the Roman Empire, this close to his dreams, as if he's grabbed fistfuls of the clouds and won't let go.
It's light and happy even though the kiss was not, and so Sadiq watches him go with a fondness that is unmatched by the world around him that's always felt at least a little desolate.