#12 All the Things I Taught You
Summary: Turkey is sorry for all the things that he taught Greece about love and all the things he didn't.
Genre: Hurt/comfort, a bit of angst
Rating:T
Warnings: Implied sexual situations
Word Count: 864
"I'm sorry, Japan."
It was happening again.
Turkey watched them covertly from across the empty hallway. Greece and Japan were huddled in a far corner, speaking in whispers. Japan looked like he might want to cry, but he was a brave one if Turkey had ever known the meaning of the word, and he was nodding now, his hand held up to ease Greece's string of apologies. Greece had a weary look on his face, but the pain was muffled now. This had happened too many times to really cut him deep.
Turkey couldn't hear them, but he could read some of the words on their lips. It was nothing new, but he had hoped against hope that he wouldn't have to see the day.
Greece had a reputation as the most promiscuous nation in the EU, usurping even France and Spain for that position. But promiscuity didn't translate into success in relationships, and Greece had never been able to keep one lover for more than the span of a few months. No one understood why. He'd dated and slept his way through practically all of them, and just when things would take a turn for the serious, he'd become cold and withdrawn, backing away into himself and slipping through his lovers' fingers. His friends had all hoped that Japan would be different.
It wasn't. It wasn't, and Turkey felt foolish that any of them had actually hoped it would be. No one understood why, except Turkey. He knew and he understood and he so, so dearly wished he didn't.
Turkey never had parents. If he did, he certainly didn't remember them. He was okay with that, though. They were nations, and most of them had been raised on the backs of rebels and heroes, weaned on steel and gorged on blood and fire. That was their lot in life. The difference between him and most other nations, though, was that he had been burdened with the responsibility of raising another when he had no idea how to handle a child.
The Ottoman Empire hadn't had time to learn Parenting 101. He'd been off at wars, conquering, feasting, glorying—and the times when he had been home, in the palace, he'd drowned himself in alcohol* and concubines so that he wouldn't have to think how empty all his ambitions were. Greece had practically raised himself. In hindsight, he would've been better adjusted if he did raise himself. Because on those occasions when Turkey was drunk and tired and horny and lonely all at the same time, he remembered dragging Greece after him, hauling the child into the Sultan's Harem. What had he wanted then? He'd wanted to make a man of him, and to hurt and scar him, both.
Well, he'd hurt and scarred the child, alright. He remembered barking orders—"put your hand on her thigh. There, no, higher, dammit! That's right, now move, forwards, and pull back, you punk…"— and the satisfaction of knowing that the child would never forget them.
He'd taught Greece how to love a woman, or at least, how to love her body. He'd thought it was the only way he could contribute to helping Greece become a man. Then Greece was doing it without his instructions, sneaking into the Harem when the Sultan was out, fondling the girls and getting drunk off wine and flesh. He'd wooed and charmed and fallen in love, again and again and more. And for a time, Turkey had almost been proud of him.
Now he was sorry. He was sorry that he had taught Greece how to touch, how to rub and squeeze and caress. He was sorry that he'd taught him how to lie and tease and moan. But most of all, he was sorry that he had taught the child how to love, but not how to be loved in turn.
And that was why. Because none of those girls had ever loved him, had ever caressed and kissed him in return. They'd been faceless and nameless and voiceless, and now, now that Greece's lovers had faces and names and voices to love him with, Greece had no idea how to respond. His only escape was to pull back and hide inside himself, like the child he still was inside.
It was Turkey's fault, and it was Turkey's responsibility to fix it.
"Ey, Greece."
Greece turned towards him. Japan excused himself, smiling weakly. Turkey could feel his heart clench, and he didn't know who he pitied more.
"Go out with me sometime. For coffee. For old times' sake."
Greece looked surprised, but he knew the drill. When Turkey said 'for old times' sake,' he always meant just sex. Just sex, and that—that he could handle. "Okay."
Greece didn't know that it was going to be different this time. He didn't know that Turkey was determined to finish the lessons he never got around to, all those centuries ago. He didn't know that Turkey would teach him, teach him the difference between a slave and a lover, and, in the process, maybe close some of those wounds in his own heart that had been festering for so, so long.
/end
* A/N: I imagine the Ottoman Empire as Muslim, but not as a very devout Muslim. He might've drank alcohol in order to escape all the blood and death he saw on the battlefield.
MY RANT: does anyone think it's strange how well-adjusted Greece is, considering what a shitty and neglected childhood he must've had? I think he'd actually be pretty maladjusted, at least when it comes to social interaction and relationships. I can't imagine Sadiq would've actually "touched" him, but he could've still abused him by exposing him to sex and concubines in a misguided attempt to help him "grow up."
