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He is awake, but doesn’t remember waking.
His heart is pounding with painful intensity in his chest. He clutches a hand over it, fingers curling against each tremor of pain. He’s bare-chested, the lower half of his torso covered in tightly-bound bandages. He presses his other hand over his stomach, prodding for damage.
“Finally. I thought you were going to sleep forever.”
He looks up immediately, and is met by a pair of startlingly bright green eyes. For an instant, those eyes narrow—with hatred, with suspicion, with concern? He can’t tell. And a moment later the expression shifts to one of lazy observance.
“How do you feel?” the man asks, lifting a hand to brush the messy brown hair from his eyes. His voice is soft and melodic, like a lullaby.
He doesn’t know how to answer. He feels—pain, uncertainty, despair, all lingering in the corners of his mind. But as soon as he tries to fix on any one emotion, they all retreat. He feels dizzy.
The man reaches out immediately, catches him as he sways and lowers him back down onto the bed. Strong, calloused hands ease over his body, checking him over with clinical detachment.
“Are you a doctor?” he asks.
The man sits back, eyes narrowing again. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”
Something clicks in his mind, and his hands clench against clean bed sheets. “…what language is that?” he asks. He can understand everything that the man is saying, but he can’t put the language into context, he can’t give it a name. His heart seems to beat more furiously against his ribs.
The man purses his lips, sighing softly. “Greek.”
“Are we in… Greece?” Why does it take him so long to come up with the name?
The man shakes his head. “Cyprus.”
“I don’t know where that is,” he says, laughing hollowly. The movement shakes through him, upsetting sore ribs. “I don’t know…”
The man is still looking at him with a mixture of patience and chagrin. “What’s your name?” he asks, each word coming slowly, as though carefully selected.
He has to think about. He wracks his brain, searching for a glimmer of detail. Greece and Cyprus seem familiar, but he cannot connect them back to anything else. Heart pounding, he strains to remember anything at all.
“Osman,” he says abruptly, trying to sit up again. Strong hands find his shoulders and force him back down. “My name is Osman— that seems right. Doesn’t it?” He turns to the man, hoping desperately for affirmation.
There’s a flash of emotion across the other’s face, but he doesn’t speak to it. Instead, he gestures to himself. “Heracles.”
For some reason, having names to latch onto settles him. He lies back and breathes evenly, a smile pulling at his lips. “Alright, Heracles. Can I ask you something?”
“…I suppose.”
“Can you not keep looking at me, like that? I don’t think I like people staring at my face.”
--
Heracles leaves and returns with a bowl of food, soft rice and fish cooked to perfect tenderness. He hands it to Osman with a spoon, and while he eats Heracles explains what he can.
There is a terrible war going on, ripping the very world in two. Soldiers keep fighting despite injuries, despite all. Osman must have been one of them, Heracles explains. When he found him, his head was badly injured, more so than his ribs and chest. He’d done what he could for him, not expecting him to recover.
And yet Osman is still here, mind blank but body healing. He finishes his bowl of food and sets it aside, brow furrowing.
“What am I supposed to do, now?” he asks, not really expecting an answer.
“Like I care,” Heracles responds. It’s hard to tell how he feels about anything, even the war, since he speaks so slowly and lazily.
Osman huffs, mouth twisting into a wry smile. “At least you’re honest.”
Heracles doesn’t return the smile, but he shrugs. “No one will kick you out of the village, here. Most of the men are gone away to the war. They could use the help.”
In a sea of uncertainty, this is a thread to hold onto. Osman reaches out and grabs one of Heracles’ hands, gripping it tightly.
“Thank you,” he says, sincerely. He pretends not to notice the way Heracles flinched, just before they touched.
--
As it turns out, Heracles is a fisherman. A week after Osman wakes up, Heracles deems him healthy enough to come out on the boat with him. He gives Osman clean clothes—soft brown trousers and a clean white shirt. There’s a length of white cloth that’s supposed to make a loose belt, but Osman ties it around his forehead instead. The fabric shadows his eyes without covering them, and for some reason this makes him feel more at ease. It’s lucky, he supposes, that he and Heracles are about the same height. Heracles is a bit broader, his physique not wracked by weeks of injury, but it’s not as if Osman is paying attention to that, anyhow.
Osman has been told that Cyprus lies at the heart of the war, but when they take the boat out they stick close to shore and nothing disturbs their peace. The waters are calm and perfectly blue, and Osman finds himself gripping the edge of the boat and looking out, smiling like a child.
“Look,” he tells Heracles eagerly, “Dolphins!” He jabs a finger at the blue-gray shadows running under the waves, claps his hands in delight when the two dolphins break the surface to breathe.
Heracles rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath, but Osman is too enchanted by the sea to care. He doesn’t help much, on that first trip, but he watches carefully as Heracles casts nets and murmurs instructions in his placid, even voice. With the sun overhead and the gentle rocking of the boat, Osman feels utterly at peace.
--
They establish a routine easily enough. The first few mornings Heracles is the one to wake Osman, but after a week or so their positions reverse. Osman is an easy, early riser; Heracles is not. Osman finds him curled up in bed, surrounded by the purring bodies of his cats, every morning. He takes a certain amount of joy in yelling out to wake him, smiling cheekily as Heracles sits up, grumbling and irritated.
They take their breakfasts of fresh bread and olives out to sea with them, eating while they drift easily on the waves and wait to catch their fish. As soon as they hit the water, Heracles’ irritation evaporates. He looks good at sea, his green eyes catching the colors of the waves and the sky.
By the afternoon they return to shore, pulling loads of fish in woven baskets into a small cart that Osman helps push to the market. There are cars, sure, and more technological ways to get the job done. But when Osman asks about this, Heracles just says, “It’s the way I’ve been doing it for ages.” Osman can’t argue with that logic.
At the market Osman thrives, calling out to the village women and haggling with them deftly. Heracles seems to be a local sweetheart, doted on by the grandmothers and well-loved by the children. There aren’t many men around, but the ones who are often come to Heracles for advice, talking to him in serious tones and going away looking more at ease. In those moments, Osman is proud of Heracles, even though he knows he has no right to be.
They welcome Osman into their world without question, and he can’t help but feel touched by that. No more of his memory returns to him over the next few weeks, and he latches onto this existence instead. At night, when he and Heracles return to their small house and eat their fish with rice, he thinks this isn’t a bad trade off—a life’s worth of memories for this new, solid reality.
--
One day they are out at sea, pulling up the nets and laughing as the ocean mists their shirts. Heracles’ back is turned to Osman, but he’s still a comforting presence. He’s always there, not always patient, but Osman appreciates that. He doesn’t want to be coddled.
“Hey, Herc,” he says, tying off the last net. He’s a fast learner, and his fingers have memorized the deft motions easily.
“Don’t call me that,” Heracles responds, not turning around. Then, after a moment, “What is it?”
“Where’s your family?” Osman asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. The people in the village love Heracles, but he’s seen enough of them now to know that they aren’t related to Heracles. They aren’t his grandmothers and uncles and nieces.
Heracles releases a breath slowly, finally turning around. The ocean has left drops of water against his tanned skin, and now his long eyebrows narrow carefully over bright eyes.
“My mother passed away,” Heracles says eventually. His voice keeps up its usual slow march, uninflected. “It was a long, long time ago.”
“Ah,” Osman says, slightly abashed. Heracles looks younger than Osman, certainly not older than thirty. He wonders how long Heracles has been alone. The thought fills him with a deep sadness. He tries, also, to imagine what having a mother is like. He knows in theory, academically, but when he searches his mind he draws a blank. “But,” Osman continues, “You remember her.”
Heracles looks at him sharply. “Yes,” he says. “I do. I could never forget her.”
“Lucky.” Osman whistles through his teeth. “I bet she looked like you, didn’t she? Or you look like her. All those brown curls, and green eyes, eh? Must’ve been quite the lady.”
Heracles steps carefully across the boat to punch Osman on the arm. “Don’t go talking about my mother,” he grumbles. There’s something practiced in his tone, as if this is an argument he’s had many times before.
Osman grins, all teeth. “Hey, hey, don’t take it like that! I just meant that, you know, you’re beautiful. So I bet she was, too.”
Heracles stares at him, eyes wide for a moment. Osman realizes what he’s said, and suddenly his tongue feels thick in his mouth.
“I just meant—ah, aesthetically, you know? Like art. Not that you’re like art, but—”
He stops short when Heracles fixes him with another piercing look.
“Osman,” Heracles says, lifting a hand to brush his fingers over Osman’s jaw, “just shut up, alright?”
Osman swallows and nods, mute. Heracles’ lips curve into a smile, but then he pulls away, dropping his hand. Osman’s skin feels warm from the contact.
“C’mon,” Heracles says, turning away. “Let’s deal with the nets.”
The moment drops away too quickly, Osman’s heart beating fast as he rushes to check the nets and return them to normalcy. And what was he thinking, really? Heracles has taken him in, clothed him and fed him and put up with him. Why would he risk that by saying such foolish things?
They work in companionable silence after that, until the sun is directly overhead. It’s only when they’ve pulled up the nets and started rowing towards shore that Osman speaks again.
“I think it must be nice, though.” His voice is casual, dreamy. “Having a big family. Brothers and sisters to mess with, and lots of kids underfoot. Never quiet, you know? I mean, I like it when it’s quiet out at sea, but that kinda noise wouldn’t be so bad. Always someone around.”
Heracles inhales sharply, but doesn’t otherwise respond. Osman lets the idea fall away, but for many nights he dreams of a big house and many people, laughing and fighting and existing together.
--
Heracles says he needs to head to Nicosia for a few days. Osman cannot help the feeling of panic that overtakes him, but he sees Heracles off with a smile nonetheless. While he’s gone, Osman tries to do everything as they would normally. He takes the boat out to sea and sells the fish at the market.
There’s a beautiful woman, dark-haired and slightly older than what Osman guesses himself to be. Her name is Rumeysa, and she invites Osman over for dinner with her family. She serves steaming helpings of minced meet and eggplant. It all tastes delicious to Osman, and he asks for seconds and thirds, before remembering himself and blushing. Rumeysa grins at him and says he’s paid her a high compliment.
When he returns to the house he shares with Heracles that night, Osman lays awake for hours. He can taste the spices of Rumeysa’s food on his tongue, and for some reason that fills his head with indistinct impressions of another time. He hears running water and the slap of wet feet against tiles, muffled laughter and conversation. The voices grow loud and rough, and then Osman is overtaken by yelling in a flurry of languages that he cannot parse.
Heracles finds him still in bed late the next morning, curled up under the sheets. His cheeks are wet with tears and his head pounds terribly. When Heracles moves to pull back the sheets and get him on his feet, Osman reaches out with both hands and grabs Heracles above the elbows, pulling him as close as he can.
“Don’t leave,” he pleads, voice low and ashamed in Heracles’ ear. “Please, please god don’t leave me.”
Heracles isn’t taken aback by this display. He cards his fingers gently through Osman’s dark hair and whispers a soft lullaby in his ear. Osman clings to him and tries to stop the tears, but they’re founded on a memory he can’t grasp and therefore cannot master.
“Don’t go, don’t go,” Osman says. “I’m scared of being alone.”
“I won’t,” Heracles says, and Osman feels warm where they touch. But Heracles doesn’t make his words a promise.
--
The next day, they don’t speak about Osman’s outburst. Whatever memories had returned faded with a night’s sleep, and Osman is both unwilling and unable to call them back. Still, his cheeks are slightly red as they prepare to head to the ocean. He’s ashamed of weakness.
Before they leave the house, Heracles pulls Osman aside and hands him a package, wrapped in simple brown paper and twine. Osman cocks a brow in question, but then rips open the package with a certain degree of excitement. It’s a book, leather-bound and titled in a swirling script.
“What’s this?” Osman asks, flipping through the pages. There are illuminated illustrations and that same beautiful script, but he can’t make heads or tails of it.
“They’re poems,” Heracles explains. “I thought you’d like them.”
Osman is touched by the gift, but his brow furrows. “I can’t read this.”
“What?”
“I don’t… the letters. I can’t read this language.”
“It’s Turkish,” Heracles says, as though that should explain everything.
“No, it’s not,” Osman insists. He speaks Turkish, to the people in the village and to himself, sometimes. It’s the language he’d first spoken to Heracles, before he realized he knew enough Greek to speak that most of the time.
“It is,” Heracles says again, and Osman misses the way his eyes narrow, his voice going just a bit harsh.
“No, it isn’t!” Osman roars. He throws his arms in the air, and the book goes flying, hitting the opposite wall before landing on the floor with a deafening thud. Heracles takes a step back, eyes wide and hands raised as though to defend himself.
Osman looks at the book, and then at Heracles, and back again. The world seems to shrink, constricting his breathing and making his head ache.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes out, backing away and bringing his hands up to clutch at his temples. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it was a present, I’m sorry…” He covers his face in his hands.
--
They make it through the day, somehow, neither speaking. Amazingly, they’ve gotten good enough at working together that they don’t need to verbally communicate in order to continue doing so. They row their boat out to sea and cast their nets, sell their fish at the market and return home to a silent dinner.
Osman has just gotten into bed when the door opens and Heracles enters, wearing his soft linen sleep clothes and looking ruffled. With his curling hair falling in his eyes and his sleeves coming up short on his arms, he looks young and fragile. Osman can’t bear to look at him after what had happened earlier, and he turns his head away.
Heracles isn’t put off by this. He comes close and sits in the chair by Osman’s bed, the same way he had on the first day when he’d explained the war to Osman and how he’d come to be here. Heracles doesn’t vocalize kindness or affection, at least not to Osman, but he has been nothing but kind and affectionate. He’s opened up his home, and Osman has repaid him terribly.
He feels a gentle hand settle on the crown of his head and relaxes into the touch despite himself.
“Hey,” Heracles says quietly. When Osman turns to look at him, he holds up the book. “I’ll read them to you, alright?”
Throat choked with emotion, Osman can only nod.
“I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart for the joys of the multitude,” Heracles begins. “And I would not have the tears that sadness makes to flow from my every part turn into laughter.”
Heracles’ voice is soothing and musical, and as he flips through the pages and recites, Osman feels the tension slowly leaving his body.
“The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting. A tear and a smile.” When Heracles finishes, Osman sighs quietly. They sit in silence for a moment.
“Do you think I was a bad person, before?” Osman whispers. The room is dark, and he can only just make out the sharp glow of Heracles’ eyes.
It takes the other man a long time to answer. “Does it matter? You’re someone else, now.”
It shouldn’t be a comforting thought. Osman knows that he has lost something, perhaps something very precious. But if it regaining it means becoming someone else, and losing Heracles in the bargain, then he doesn’t want it.
--
It’s early May, and nearly six months since Osman woke up in Heracles’ house. Today, they lie out on the beach after a day’s worth of fishing, enjoying the warm sun on bare skin. Their wet shirts are tossed aside, hair matted with water. Osman can smell the salt of sweat and the sea between them. Emboldened by the sun, Osman does something he’s wanted to do for a very long time.
He curls over in the sand, bracing himself on one hand as he leans close to Heracles. The other man looks up at him through sleepy eyes, quiet and waiting.
Osman leans in and kisses Heracles’ lips, licking the taste of salt off of them with careful movements of his tongue. Heracles does not move away, and when his mouth opens Osman wastes no time in deepening the kiss.
Heracles’ hands come up on his shoulders, pushing him away slightly. Osman gazes down at him with wide eyes, resisting the urge to lick his lips.
“Are you sure?” Heracles asks, voice plaintive and soft.
Osman loves his voice in every way—when he’s telling Osman to shut up, or when he’s reading him poetry. Osman laughs, and nods, and then Heracles’ hands are in his hair, tugging him close. Their bare chests slide against each other, and Osman arches into the contact. He gets hugs from the villages, glancing kisses on the cheek. But there’s something so different about this, about being as close to someone else as possible. He seems to light up from the inside, cradling Heracles’ head in his hands as he kisses his mouth, his cheeks, his neck.
It’s rough and gritty, sand sliding between their toes and under their limbs. Osman is on his back, laughing, as Heracles peels away the rest of his clothes and pushes them together. The friction is rough and wonderful, hands clasped around each other as they tangle in the sand and touch every inch of skin they can reach.
They turn over in the sand and lie on their backs, both breathing heavily. Osman grins lazily and looks up at the sun.
“I want to stay here forever,” he says, sincerely. “With you.”
--
Osman moves into Heracles’ room, after that. In the days they fish, at night they read poetry surrounded by cats with flashing eyes. It’s a good, honest life, and Osman is content. Months pass by slowly, lazily.
And then one day there is a knock at the door, just as they’re sitting down to dinner. Osman rises to answer it, pulling the door open and gaping at what he sees there.
The man is young, maybe four or five years younger than Heracles. He has the same brown hair, though it’s cut unevenly, a thick lock falling in front of his face on one side. His eyes are also brilliantly green, a bit softer in color than Heracles’ but the same shape.
“What the hell,” Osman says, before he can think better of it.
The man is equally shocked, asking, “Sad—”
“Nikos,” Heracles interrupts, stepping into the entryway. “What are you doing here?”
The younger man steps forward, expression shifting to a scowl. “You really think you’re allowed to say that to me?”
Heracles sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “No,” he replies quietly. “I suppose not.”
“What’s going on?” Osman demands. “Who is this?”
Heracles takes a step towards Osman, lays a restraining hand on his arm. “Osman,” he says quietly. “Would you let us talk for a moment?”
He wants to protest, but one look at Heracles and Osman loses his resolve. He shrugs off Heracles’ hold and walks past Nikos. “I’m going to go buy some bread,” he says. He doesn’t wait for a response before stalking out towards the village. He tells himself he’s giving Heracles space and not throwing a tantrum.
He ends up circling the town square three times, not actually buying bread because he hasn’t brought any money with him. That kid—Nikos—had looked familiar, and not just because of the striking resemblance he bore to Heracles. There’s something niggling at the back of Osman’s mind, hovering on the tip of his tongue.
“Ugh!” He slams his fist heavily into a wall, startling himself at the noise. His skin smarts, turning red where the impact hit.
“Osman?”
He turns and sees Heracles standing there, silhouetted by moonlight. The night air is cool against Osman’s skin, and he wants nothing more than to grab Heracles and hold him close for warmth. But he can’t allow himself that, now.
“Did your guest leave?” he asks roughly.
Heracles tilts his head, eyes blinking slowly closed and then open again. “Yes,” he says finally. “But he’ll probably be back.”
“Why?”
Heracles sighs, takes a step towards Osman and then pauses again. He runs his hands through hair, like he always does when he’s nervous, or distracted, or irritated. Osman wishes he knew which it was, this time.
“Because we’re living in his house,” Heracles says finally. “He spends most of the year in Nicosia, but during the summer he travels.”
“What?” As far as Osman knows, Heracles has lived in that house for his entire life, fishing out of the same damn boat. But now that he has cause to think about it, he realizes that Heracles has never explicitly said this. Instead, he just murmurs things in vague terms and half-truths. He has never really told Osman anything about his life before they met. Suddenly the ground doesn’t feel as steady as it did, a moment ago.
“Osman,” Heracles says firmly. “I need you to listen to me.”
“Why? Who even is he?”
There is a long silence, and then finally Heracles murmurs, “He’s a member of my family. Like a cousin.”
Again, Heracles’ words are vague and nebulous. Osman grits his teeth.
“You said—you said you had your mother, and she was gone. You never mentioned any other family!”
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist,” Heracles murmurs after a moment. There’s still so much space between them, the pathway open and empty.
“Then—then what is this?” Osman cries out, trying to understand. “What’ve these months been, if you’ve got a family to go back to? Are we just, what? Playing house?”
“You won’t understand,” Heracles says, but that does nothing to quell the emotions rising up in Osman’s chest.
“Then explain it to me!” His voice is rising, and he knows he’s yelling, and even though he had never wanted to yell at Heracles ever again, he can’t help himself. “That kid—he knows me, doesn’t he? And I—I should know him. But I can’t… I can’t remember…”
His voice trails off, his head throbbing with pain. He crouches, curling in on himself, fingers digging deep into his skull. He feels like he’s being torn apart, like pieces of his flesh are being carved out of his body. He shudders, bites his tongue against a scream. The taste of iron fills his mouth.
He barely feels it when Heracles puts his arms around him, crushing him against his broad chest. Heracles holds onto him so tightly that Osman forgets how to breathe, forgets the pain, forgets everything but the scent of the sea and olive oil, and the comforting thump-thump-thump of Heracles’ heart.
“Osman,” Heracles says gently, lips glancing over his brow. “Do you trust me?”
Some part of Osman says no, that Heracles has kept things from him and doesn’t tell him the truth even when asked. But another, larger part of Osman knows only one thing with certainty, and that is Heracles’ place at the center of his universe.
“Yes,” he breathes out. He doesn’t like the way his voice shakes.
“Then believe this,” Heracles says. “I’m trying to help you. I am doing what is best for you. I don’t want you to leave me, either.”
“I won’t,” Osman says, a bit helpless. “Why would I?”
Heracles just sighs, and pulls Osman closer.
--
Over the next few weeks, it is clear that Heracles is trying desperately to make everything as normal as possible. They spend long hours on the boat, even once the fishing is done. After days at the market, Heracles takes Osman’s hand and they walk through the village, back towards the beach and then up over the rocky hills. At night, he reads poetry aloud. And then, after, he presses Osman down into the bed and covers his face and neck with kisses, pushing into him roughly and leaving him exhausted and sated, warm and comfortable as he holds Heracles in his arms and sleeps.
And then one day Heracles and Osman head home from the village to find Nikos standing outside their front door, arms crossed over his chest. Before either of them can speak, he says, “You’re not allowed to be mad.”
Osman can hear Heracles’ jaw click as his teeth clamp together. Nikos turns to Osman, now, and says, “And neither are you.”
Once again, Osman is struck by a feeling of displacement. He knows he should recognize this young man, but he doesn’t. He knows he’s related to Heracles, but not how all three of them fit together. He leans on what he knows best, laughing off his confusion.
“I wouldn’t worry about that, kid. I don’t get mad too easily.”
For some reason, this makes Nikos stare at him as though he’s just grown a second head. Heracles laughs, though—covers his mouth with one hand and chuckles, as though Osman has just told a very dry joke at his own expense.
“Come on,” Nikos says, inviting them into their own house. “I brought the others.”
--
There are two men seated at their—Nikos’?—kitchen table. The first has a mischievous grin, sharp teeth poking out in front of his lower lip. His skin and hair are pale, and he leans back in his wooden chair, balancing it on two legs. The other sits staidly, hands neatly folded in front of him. His head is covered, his complexion olive. His eyes are dark and deep, like oil. He turns to look at them as they enter the kitchen, and Osman can’t help but shiver. Those eyes are familiar.
“Oh, my god,” the first says, grin falling away from his face for a moment. “Look who’s back in the land of the living!”
Osman doesn’t really know how to answer that, his hands curling reflexively at his sides as he tries to assess the situation. Both of the newcomers are staring at him, gazes lingering on his face and eyes. Every instinct Osman has tells him to get rid of these two, and Nikos as well. Get them out, pretend they were never here, go back to the life he knows and loves. It could be so easy. But something stays his hand.
“Look, apparently everyone’s familiar with everyone else, but you’re going to have to run through the introductions for me.” There’s no getting away from this—Heracles isn’t saying anything, isn’t sending these men away. That’s enough of a deciding factor, for now.
Nikos throws Heracles a significant look, then pulls out another chair at the table and sits down. After a moment, Osman and Heracles do the same. The five of them sit around the small circular table, gazes flickering between each other as though they’re in the middle of a standoff.
“I’m Vlad,” the fanged man says blithely, after a moment. “And this here’s Muhammad. Nikos said you already met—and obviously you and Heracles are really cozy. How the hell did that happen?” The last question is meant for Heracles, whom Vlad turns to with a questioning quirk of his brows and lips.
Heracles glares back at him, eyes narrowed to slits. “You shouldn’t have come here.”
“That’s not very nice,” Vlad chides. “You know how hard it was to get away? We’re all answering to higher powers, now. And we thought this guy was hard to deal with.” He waves a hand vaguely in Osman’s direction.
“What?” Osman asks, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. “What does that—”
“This isn’t about that,” Nikos cuts in. “We’re not here on anyone else’s behalf. But you can’t go on like this, Heracles, someone is going to find out—”
“Who’s going to care?” Osman demands. “Who would care what we’ve been doing—”
“It isn’t wise.” For the first time, Muhammad speaks. His voice is low and quiet, brisk and sharp in a way that sets it apart from Heracles’ rumbling murmurs. “It might even be disastrous.”
“Of course it will be,” Vlad continues merrily. “The whole world’s going to hell, you think this is any different? I’m just surprised you managed to hide here this long. Kinda impressive, when you think about it.”
“Will someone tell me what the hell you’re all talking about?” Osman doesn’t even feel the anger building until it forces its way out of him. He’s on his feet, hands slammed against the table, voice rising to a thundering roar.
Four sets of eyes turn to him immediately. He sees four faces full of—resignation, caution, fear. Osman inhales sharply, sits back down and shields his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” he says warily, when no one else breaks the silence. “Just—explain it to me. Please.”
Beside him, Heracles reaches over and grips Osman’s free hand under the table. Their hands fit together the same way they did before Nikos arrived, before Osman had to seriously reconsider the validity of his existence. He holds on tight.
--
Heracles’ voice is soothing, but his words are alarming and unbelievable. As the other men sit silently, he weaves a tale of immortals and battles. It seems to belong to another era, or to children’s stories. But Heracles speaks with utmost conviction, and the others do not contradict him.
“Immortality isn’t a guarantee,” Heracles says finally. “It’s derivative, of your people and their belief in you. The strength of a government is one sign of that, but it’s held even more in people’s hearts. When they no longer consider themselves yours, you have no more reason to exist.”
“You were dying. Your reason to exist was gone. No one knew what would happen to you, if you could even survive. Every day you bled and grew a little weaker. And when the government was gone, they left you in the secluded areas of the palace. Maybe they couldn’t even see you, anymore—they’d stopped believing a long time ago.”
“There was no love lost between us. I did not care for you. For years, I had imagined how it would feel to slit your throat and watch you bleed out in front of me. I could see it. So I thought I could be the one to end it. No one of importance was left, there. It was easy enough to find you. You were defenseless, and I could have done it. I wanted to.”
“You were blind, by that point. Even uncovered, your eyes couldn’t see. But you knew it was me—of course you did. It must have been difficult to breathe, but you laughed. You laughed, and knew it was me.”
“And I couldn’t kill you.”
--
Osman listens to this, stunned into silence. He wants to deny the words, but even as he opens his mouth he can see it all happening. He feels the pain of too many bruises to count, and a crushing weight against his chest. His limbs feel numb, disconnected from the rest of his body. His throat is dry, his vision hazy. But through it all, he sees two brilliantly green eyes.
“Fuck that,” Osman spits out, looking up. Vlad, Muhammad, and Nikos look away, shifting nervously or biting their tongues. “Fuck all of this. I don’t believe you.”
Heracles doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch. His gaze is steady and even, no hint of deception about anything he’s said.
“Your body might have become something else,” Heracles says, as though Osman hasn’t spoken. “You could have become someone else. But worthless as it is, I thought I could save your soul.”
His words aren’t cruel. They aren’t anymore biting or caustic than the dozens of little jabs Heracles always takes at him. Osman had thought it cute, even a day ago. He’d thought that it was a sign of affection. Now, he senses years of burdens in every movement Heracles makes, every word he speaks so slowly and carefully.
“Did you succeed?” Osman asks, voice hoarse. “Am I… him? Or something else?”
“Osman.” It’s Muhammad speaking, from across the table. Osman finally tears his eyes away from Heracles to glare at the other man.
“What?” he grouses, irritation rolling off of him in waves.
“Your name. You chose it yourself, didn’t you,” Muhammad says, tone far too wise and knowing. “So you must remember something. Who you were is still within you.”
“Some guy everyone hates,” Osman hisses out through his teeth. He looks down at his clenched hands, then up at Heracles. “Even you.”
Heracles does not respond.
--
Vlad and Muhammad say they can help, given the time to prepare. The mystic arts are fickle, Vlad explains, but between the three of them they should be able to come up with something. Heracles and Muhammad have inherited deep wells of knowledge from their mothers; that will help.
Osman barely speaks as the two of them and Nikos leave the house. He forgets that he hasn’t eaten dinner and crawls to the spare room, to the bed he hasn’t slept in in months. He tosses and turns for hours, until he sees the sun rise through the window.
He doesn’t bother finding out where Heracles is. He leaves the house quietly, and then breaks into a run.
--
He’s sitting on the beach when Heracles finds him, water lapping at his bare feet. He stares out to sea, facing the east. He’s always felt most at peace here, looking out at the horizon. He doesn’t look up as Heracles takes a seat beside him, but he also doesn’t pull away when he feels the other man lay an arm across his shoulders.
For long moments, it is companionable silence only broken by gulls’ calls and the gentle sounds of the water.
“Why did you do it,” Osman asks. “Why did you even bother bringing me here, letting me think we were—whatever we were?”
“You were supposed to be Devlet-i Ebed-müddet,” Heracles says, staring out at the sea. “The Eternal. You used to brag about it all the time, and it drove us all mad, me especially. I hated you so much.”
He can’t respond. Words of love have never passed between them; he assumed they went unsaid, or parsed through the words of ancient poets. He never imagined the opposite was true.
“But you lied, didn’t you,” Heracles murmurs. “You weren’t going to be Eternal, you were going to die.”
There’s something raw in Heracles’ voice, a vulnerability he has never shown to Osman before.
“Stupid liar,” Heracles hisses. “Someone had to do something. So I did. I saved you.” He leans in then and kisses Osman, a biting and fierce thing. His tongue snaps through Osman’s mouth like a whip, his teeth clamping onto Osman’s lower lip and digging in.
There is no tenderness in the kiss, not even reluctant affection. But it doesn’t feel wrong.
--
Vlad and Muhammad return in late October. They head out to sea, three men murmuring words in old and forgotten languages. Osman lets them, even as he feels his heartbeat begin to slow. His gaze locks onto Heracles, onto his eyes, and he refuses to look away. If Osman is going to die, this is the last thing he wants to see.
And then, abruptly, it is as someone has reached into his chest and pulled out his heart.
--
The sun shines over Cyprus in the summer, and the Republic of Turkey grins up at the sky. He has the day off from dealing with the affairs of state, and though he is blessed with eternal vigor and enthusiasm, he looks forward to time off. He arrives on the island early in the morning, wearing plain clothes and with bare feet. His customary olive-colored jacket and face mask he leaves back in Ankara.
“You’re late,” a voice grouses at him as he walks up the shoreline. He rolls his eyes and throws up his hands.
“You’re annoying,” he returns easily. “Guess that makes us even, doesn’t it?”
Greece clenches his jaw and murmurs a prayer for patience. “It makes you an asshole.”
“And you’re a brat. Funny how you haven’t grown out of that, yet.” Even as they trade barbs, the two men pull a small boat towards the ocean. It is old and well-worn, but sturdy and reliable.
“Better than being a senile old man.” Greece is in a white sleeveless shirt, the muscles of his arms flexing attractively as he tries to pull the boat out of Turkey’s grip.
“I’m only ninety, brat,” Turkey says, lips smacking as he laughs. “The rate I’m going, I’ll be young forever.”
“Someone should warn the rest of the world,” Greece mutters.
“I think you’ve got that covered.” He shakes his head; they push the boat into the sea. For long minutes it is quiet between them as they situate themselves and row out to sea. Dolphins skim under the clear water. The light of the waves catches the color of Greece’s eyes.
They float along, letting the gentle currents guide them. Turkey lays back, arms behind his head as he looks up at the sky with a soft smile.
“Hey, Heracles.”
“What.” The other nation doesn’t snap, but it’s a close equivalent in his calm and flowing voice.
“Thanks for coming, today.”
Turkey hears Greece sigh, feels the boat rock as the other man moves towards him. Fingers brush over the line of his jaw. Turkey can feel Greece’s breath against his lips.
“Shut up, Sadık.”