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If he were still in Turkey, Sadik would've started complaining loudly about how this all started – but, thanks to his boss, he couldn't expect to numb his aggravation in his own country for a decent amount of time. He doubted Herakles appreciated him getting drunk in Athens instead: they were talking again, barely. A decade was a very narrow span of time after almost two centuries of silence. The friendlinesss didn't necessarily extend to tolerating someone drunk in your capital, so he simply intended to not let Herakles know what he was doing.
However, here in Athens there was alcohol served past ten o'clock, and if one bar closed before he was done he could easily find another. He didn't want to be sober right now. He didn't drink often, but he was a Nation: he metabolized alcohol irritatingly quickly. He needed time and decent access to fix that.
Sadik's hand shivered on the glass and he let go and tucked it into his lap as he breathed through the ghost-feeling of a water cannon hitting him in the chest. His eyes had been prickling for almost an hour now; he didn't think it'd go away soon. Tear gas was standard modern riot tactics but it wasn't a quick fix, not to end the protests. They'd gone on for months now; the people knew to expect it. They were prepared. Kind of like the water cannons. They were intense the first time, and sure, they hurt. It still wasn't enough when people were prepared. He wiped at his eyes irritably and waved at the bartender for another drink rather than speak.
This was all the reason he was here: anything to defeat the urge to start screaming at his boss. The least incendiary thing he wanted to say right now was on the lips of the rioters: he didn't think Erdogan would appreciate him shouting “Tayyip, resign!” but it was probably better than screaming about everything else he was doing wrong. On the other hand, the man couldn't blame foreign influence or the damn grove of trees in Taksim Square for Sadik doing it. It'd be nice to clear that up.
The bartender brought Sadik another drink and Sadik saluted him with the glass and thanked him in flawless modern Greek before drinking. He wasn't sure how long his mastery of the accent would last as he got drinking, but he'd keep the Turkish behind his lips as long as he could. He wasn't here to socialize or argue. If he'd wanted company, he'd have found a gay bar – he knew where most of them were in Athens after all (and Istanbul and Ankara, to be fair, but he had less options there and even less alcohol.) He could be reasonably certain Herakles wouldn't be in this bar casually tonight, and that was the main reason he'd chosen it.
Still, they were getting along well enough now he didn't know for certain Herakles would chase him out if he caught him in Athens. Even more depressing was remembering the days he came and was disappointed Herakles hadn't caught him. The new friendliness meant he'd gotten Herakles' bland congratulations on his moderate Islamist boss at the beginning of the decade – well before everyone was thoroughly sick of Tayyip Erdogan's rule – and that made his hackles rise. Sadik drank again and scowled at the bottle, unsure when he'd finished it. The bartender asked if he wanted something a little stronger and Sadik smiled at him and just asked for whatever was good. The man gave him a cautious look, but obliged.
He wished Tayyip could see him right now. His boss felt that anyone who drank and hadn't voted for him must be an alcoholic. That might not survive seeing Sadik like this, since upon a new party getting voted into power, he was considered an honorary member of the ruling party – regardless of the depth of public sentiment against it then or later.
Sadik agreed alcohol was haraam – it was an obviously bad idea most of the time – but, given his other ideas for coping right now, drunkenness was the lesser evil. (One involved going to Serbia to get drunk instead. He had almost gone with it, because trying not to get stabbed couldn't be worse than risking his fragile friendship with Herakles... but he didn't want to fight someone right now, and he definitely did not want to fight with Serbia – the little shit fought dirty.)
At any rate, telling someone how to practice Islam was, in his opinion, a worse affront to Islam than any amount of alcohol. It was almost as bad as Kemal Ataturk forcing him to mock the fashion of the countries that had humiliated him after the first world war.
He felt a rush that had nothing to do with the alcohol and let it wash over him. He couldn't focus – he was already drunk enough everything was coming to him through a haze – but the simple, fierce joy and terror of his country filled him and washed away the anxiety ten times as well as any drug. He clung to the feeling as long as it could last. Perhaps the police had retreated, or someone had given a speech – whatever it was, it had filled enough people with that simple confidence to reach him even this far away.
It was exactly like a drug. The sheer simplicity of the protests was intoxicating and dangerous. They believed Erdogan was an autocrat; the government was being damaged. Oust Erdogan, fix the problem. Answers without history, without a future, without question. There was no concern for who would take over, which allies would still support them, who would still trade with them. No question of Islam or Israel or the EU or the American war machine.
Simple.
As much as Sadik wanted to scream in Erdogan's ear, he also wanted to drag him and his party into the streets to see, to feel the crowds like he could. To force them not to dismiss their people who hadn't voted for them, so they couldn't pretend they were louts acting under foreign influence, but Turks. His citizens. They didn't need foreigners to convince them to go off; they had more than enough reason to riot on their own if losing a few trees for a shopping mall had led to this – months of unrest and riots and tear gas.
“Do you want something stronger?” the bartender asked again.
Sadik smiled at him broadly. “Ouzo?” he asked, and got a knowing nod and handed it over. Sadik was pleased he still sounded Greek and figured Herakles would be proud he could keep it up even completely drunk.
When someone asked him, some time later, if he had a friend nearby to call he pulled out his phone, picked the obvious name, and they took it. A few minutes later, Herakles walked into the bar and Sadik waved, wondering how he'd wound up sitting on the floor against the bar. Then the person next to him handed Herakles his phone.
“I think your friend should be done for the night.”
Herakles took the phone with a smile for his citizen and closed it before giving Sadik his blandest look. “Sadik.”
“Karpuz!” Sadik waved.
“It's Karpusi,” Herakles said dryly. “I guess you couldn't keep the Greek up all night. Did you close your bill?”
“Sorry,” Sadik said, although he wasn't sure which he was apologizing for – giggling at the last name he'd chosen, or saying it in the wrong language. “I'm a little drunk.”
“I did,” the bartender answered for him. “Take him home.”
One of Herakles' eyebrows went up, but instead of commenting he just offered Sadik his hand. Sadik accepted the hand up and, once he was on his feet, Herakles wrapped his arm around Sadik's chest and helped him out the door. Sadik focused on his feet and walking straight. It was a lot harder than he remembered, even compared to the last time he'd gotten drunk. He was focused until they got around a corner and Herakles stepped them from the empty street into his apartment.
Sadik spotted the couch and was very grateful when that was where Herakles left him. He thought to protest Herakles walking away, except that it was never bad watching him from the back, and the world wasn't staying still even though he was no longer moving. When Herakles came back with a bowl and a bottle of water, he was grateful for the bowl rather than embarrassed and waited to see if he was going to throw up.
“What were you drinking?” Herakles settled on the couch next to him, but not touching.
“I don't know which one did this.” Sadik groaned.
“What were you drinking last?”
“Ouzo.”
Herakles sighed in that quiet way Sadik knew meant he was extremely annoyed. “You should eat something.”
Sadik swallowed again. “I'd throw up.”
“At this point, it would probably help you as much as eating would. When was the last time you were drunk?”
“...Probably three decades ago.”
Herakles laid a hand on his back. “I don't think drinking really helps with political unrest, Sadik.”
Sadik gave him a dry look. “Is there a better response to a military coup?” He sat up and while the world rocked around him, he felt slightly less like throwing up. “Especially my third in thirty years? Or now? I almost wish we'd had another coup instead of Erdogan throwing his weight around.”
Herakles didn't respond. His face was as implacable as ever, and Sadik closed his eyes and let the feel of his country wash over him. It was sometime after midnight now, and things were calmer. Nobody was getting shot at; no water cannons. The tear gas had dispersed; pepper spray and beatings put away for the night. The tension hadn't gone away, but the most present unease he felt was his own drunkenness. He tried to get a feeling for his provinces; which ones were calm, which were going to riot next. He couldn't feel everyone – not all of them were Turkish, or wanted to be Turkish – but enough he could get an idea if he concentrated. Even drunk they were clearer to him than his own body.
“Why does this matter to you now?” Herakles asked.
“They're my people.” Sadik opened his eyes and flushed as he remembered who he was talking to. “I mean, it's not – it was different, being an empire. I got – caught up in my own head, in myself and my greatness. Nobody was ever happy; nobody expected to be happy. All of you were just part of the empire, for better or worse. People expect different things now, especially since it's just us now. I don't think it's fucking unreasonable to ask for that, you know?”
Herakles was staring at him again, the inscrutable look more resembling incredulity now.
Sadik gestured vaguely, leaning back on the couch so he didn't try to correct himself into falling over. “Erdogan's basically promised people things – like not being a dictator – and he's not keeping his promises. You can't just do that now, people expect better. It's not how things are anymore.”
Herakles took pity on him and pulled him down to lay across his lap. Herakles moved the bowl to the floor in front of him and stroked his hair as Sadik tried to enjoy it when the world was feeling like it was still falling around him.
“It's different when it's the Turks who are upset, then,” Herakles said.
Sadik wanted to take offense, but Herakles was petting his hair. They'd only been friends again, what, twenty years? He held his tongue until he had a better answer. “The Turks aren't the only ones upset with him, you know,” Sadik said.
“Mhmm.”
Sadik wrapped his hand around Herakles' knee where he could see it, hoping it would help the world stop moving. “You are right,” he grumbled, “It's harder to ignore when they're the only ones I have now.”
“Please don't throw up on my lap,” Herakles asked mildly. “Is there some reason you came here? Or is it just that your bars close early?”
“I'm familiar with your bars,” Sadik said, turning his face to press more into Herakles' thigh. “Easier to find the gay bars.”
“You weren't in one when I found you.”
“I wasn't looking for a date,” Sadik grumbled. He drummed his fingers on Herakles' knee and closed his eyes as Herakles dug his fingers gently into his hair. If he stayed still, would Herakles keep petting him? It was really fucking nice. Almost made being sick drunk worth it.
“Right,” Herakles agreed. “What I was getting at, though, was are you in trouble at home?”
“Huh?” Sadik twisted to look back at him. “No, my boss has no idea where I'm at.”
“And you don't need him not to know?”
“Yeah?” Sadik couldn't figure out what he was asking, but he was pretty sure he was simply too drunk to understand. “Why? Wanting to dump me at home?”
Herakles stared back at him evenly. “I'm considering being concerned about you.”
Sadik turned fully onto his back to stare up at Herakles properly. To his pleasure, he didn't feel more sick after but maybe he'd just gotten used to it. “Well, don't let me stop you.”
Herakles' mouth twitched. “I'm only considering it.”
“I'm in your lap and can't stand up,” Sadik pointed out with a grin. “You can be not-concerned all you want at me.”
Herakles near-smile shifted to a concerned frown. “I'm honestly not sure what you're trying to imply there.”
Sadik reconsidered his words and groaned. “I don't know either.”
Herakles leaned over him to grab the water from the coffee table and pressed it into his hand. “Drink the rest of your water.”
To his relief, it was a capped bottle with a pop-up lid so he didn't have to sit up to drink. It didn't make him feel more sick, not until he finished drinking and put the bottle aside. He closed his eyes tightly, but dammit he'd done this to himself. “I feel like shit now.”
“Are you going to throw up?”
Sadik turned back onto his side to consider it and closed his eyes as his body settled again. His stomach quieted. “I'm fine now.”
“You should go to sleep,” Herakles said, implacable. “My guest room's made up – and next to the bathroom.”
“Sure,” Sadik agreed. “I... think I can walk.”
Herakles did not respond; Sadik expected that, if he looked, he'd be treated to one of Herakles' skeptical looks. He wasn't lying to himself or Herakles, though, so a moment later he managed to sit up as long as he had a good grip on the arm of the couch.
Herakles stood up and took Sadik's arm to help him to his feet. Sadik did not object to the help. He didn't try to take advantage of it to grope him, either, because it was embarrassing enough to need it – he didn't need to be dumped on his ass because he'd pissed him off when he was being helpful. He managed his own trip to the bathroom (without breaking anything, thank you very much) and then dropped into the guest bed with a relieved curse.
“This is what happens when you drink enough to kill someone after being off alcohol for thirty years, Sadik.”
“I've drank between then and now,” Sadik objected. “Like... four times.” He tried to remember them, but a moment later he heard the bedroom door close. He looked around the room, but Herakles was gone. He rubbed his hand over his face and groaned, only to hear his text alert go off.
It was from Herakles. 'Remember to sleep on your side so you don't choke. I'll make breakfast in the morning.'
Sadik cradled the phone in his hands and curled up on his side, knowing he was smiling stupidly and not caring because nobody could see it. He texted back agreement and put the phone by the water on the nightstand. Maybe he was an idiot, but at least Herakles didn't hate him anymore.