Work Text:
Mohamed appeared in the dark front entry of his apartment and stumbled. He caught himself on the wall. His body ached all over. He tried to push the pain away, and his skin crawled instead. The thobe he had on wasn't his; he'd gone out in a tunic and jeans, but the police had said his clothes were lost, then ruined, then told him to shut up and get dressed and leave, or stay the night in the cell.
He'd gotten dressed. Wanted to be home, to just take the fine and forget how his night had gone wrong. He just needed to shower and go to bed. He dumped his wallet and keys on the kitchen table and flexed his hands, trying to make them stop aching too. His nails were ragged and the side of his face throbbed, reminding him of the concrete floor at the police station.
Reminding him he'd have to revisit all his little pains to clean up, and he muffled a sob. He bit down on his thumb until the urge to start crying passed, leaning heavily on the table. The emptiness of his apartment stretched around him, silent as a grave.
He wished for Greece, for his company, but he'd suffered a military coup – what, a year ago? He couldn't remember. He didn't want to add this to his worries; there was nothing Greece could do for him.
Nothing Greece could do, but his apartment felt even larger for the thought and Mohamed started to cry, knowing he couldn't cope with this on his own.
His phone was by the far end of the kitchen, and Mohamed picked it up and listened to the dial tone, hesitating as he considered each of his neighbours in turn. He had to pick someone he knew. He didn't have anyone he trusted besides Greece, but...
He dialled and closed his eyes, hoping it would go to voicemail. It was late. Surely he wouldn't have a phone by his bed, wouldn't wake...
“Ya allah.” The voice on the other end carried on in Turkish, “the Hell time is it?”
“It's Misir,” Mohamed said, matching his language. His breath caught in his throat, but he spoke past it, his tone tightly controlled. “Can we meet outside my office building? Please.”
“You – what?”
“Please.” His voice wavered. Mohamed wasn't sure if it was nature or instinct, because the moment he heard it in his voice he knew Turkey would come.
“I – sure, I mean, alright. What's wrong?”
Mohamed hung up the phone and stepped from his apartment to the dark street in front of his office building – the only place in modern Cairo he'd ever met Turkey. His body quivered with tension and fear, his pulse still thundering in his ears.
This was a mistake. He hadn't seen Turkey for anything but work since he left him in the 1830s, fleeing the control of his Empire. It had been a century and a half and the only thing he missed was...
Well. Everything before the 18th century, when things had spiralled out of control.
“Hey.”
Mohamed gasped and nearly fled before he turned. It was Turkey, wearing pyjama pants and a long coat. Mohamed stepped forward, intending to stop and greet him politely. His body didn't cooperate. He walked into Turkey's chest and wrapped his arms around his waist, his cheek pressed into the fabric until he could smell his tobacco.
“What happened?” Turkey asked. He wrapped one arm around Mohamed's back, holding him back, but his arm didn't tighten.
“Please take me home,” Mohamed pleaded. His voice was shaking again. He couldn't make it stop.
“I don't know where you live.”
“I don't mean my place,” Mohamed whispered. “I don't want to be alone.”
His back throbbed in pain and his legs gave up beneath him. Turkey caught him and picked him up, stepping quickly from the dim street of Cairo into a bright entry way. He paused in the doorway, kicking off his shoes, and walked into the dark living room. He sat down on the low couch with Mohamed still in his lap.
Mohamed sat up a little and Turkey turned on the side lamp without warning. Mohamed covered his eyes reflexively and bumped his still-broken nose. He cried out and ducked his head.
“Shit, I'm sorry!” Turkey turned the light back off. “I just wanted to see.”
“It's okay,” Mohamed mumbled. He lowered his hands and felt over the bridge of his nose before closing his eyes and manipulating it back into place. His eyes watered and his hands shook, but – sooner than it felt like – he was done. He leaned gratefully into Turkey's arms and let himself go limp.
“What happened to you?” Turkey asked softly.
Mohamed's chest was quivering with each breath. He knew he would sound weak and frail if he tried to speak. He wanted to curl up and forget everything that had happened that night, but he couldn't without... “Please,” he whispered, “will you help me wash?”
“What, you mean –” Turkey cut himself off. He swallowed hard enough Mohamed could feel it. “What kind of help exactly?”
“It hurts to move.” It was only half a lie. “I just need someone to do it for me.”
Chills were running up and down his skin at the thought of inviting Turkey to touch him naked again, but no matter what else he did, Turkey would at least make sure he was clean at the end of it. It was the best he could hope for that night. Mohamed knew the worst he might do and that didn't scare him as much as being home and alone right now.
Turkey took his time before he picked him up from the couch and carried him into the bathroom attached to his bedroom. He set Mohamed on his feet and got him undressed and into the shower in short order. Mohamed could hear him react to the marks from the beating he'd gotten from his arrest – the catch in his breath, a muffled curse, his suddenly shy fingers – but it got progressively harder to focus as his clothes came off.
Dimly he noticed Turkey had his boxers on in the shower with him. It wasn't what he'd expected, but he pushed away the thought, waiting for things to go wrong. He was so focused on what might happen it came from nowhere when Turkey wrapped him in a soft bathrobe and laid him down in his bed.
When Turkey started to move away rather than join him, Mohamed grabbed the edge of his sleeve and tugged on it.
“What?” he asked.
Mohamed frowned and pulled harder, unwilling to be alone. He wanted to forget the past two hundred years and press up against him – to pretend he wasn't here out of fear of his own people, but out of the faint, fond memories of Turkey buried under the fear and pain. He wanted to think of him as Sadik, not Turkey.
When Mohamed didn't let go, Turkey took the hint and joined him under the light covers. Mohamed curled up against his chest.
“Is your house okay?” Turkey asked. “I mean, do you need help cleaning it up before you can go home?”
Mohamed closed his eyes. “I got arrested,” he mumbled. “They thought I... accused me of being a prostitute, because of how I was dressed. I just don't want to be alone.”
Turkey kissed his forehead and pulled him closer. “You're safe here, I promise.”
Mohamed pressed his forehead against Turkey's jaw, inhaling the smell of his room that made him wish he felt well enough for the shisha. Expensive tobacco and molasses, and some array of spices he was too tired to name. The sheets were silk and smelled like him – like Sadik, the Ottomans. Like the place he had once called home.
It felt like he was safe again, and the illusion coaxed him to sleep.
IIII
Sadik woke to a bed that smelled faintly of sandalwood and something bitter. The room also smelled like fresh coffee and he turned onto his back and exhaled happily. When he turned to check the clock, there was a piled up bathrobe by the turned back covers.
He picked up the bathrobe to smell it, to see if it was the source of the sandalwood, but he noticed the bloodstains along the collar first. The memory of last night came back with force. He got up and tightened his robe as he walked out into the kitchen.
Egypt was standing at the stove making coffee, dressed in a clean long-sleeved thobe, his hair hidden under a messy turban. The scratches that had bled onto the robe were dry scabs, and bruising showed like shadows under his brown skin.
When Egypt turned to pour the coffee into the mug, he saw Sadik and paused.
“Uh, hi,” Sadik said. “You look better.”
Egypt's eyes flinched, but he smiled. “Thank you. I was going to make your coffee after your azan went off, I didn't expect you to be up before then.”
“Right, yeah, of course.” Sadik startled and glanced at the clock on the wall – the call to prayer would play in two minutes. “I should go do that – get dressed. I'll be back after, okay?”
He left the kitchen and tried, but it was hard to concentrate. He had to restart two rakat because he couldn't focus on what he was doing. Egypt had called him for help after that. Egypt had called him, when they hadn't spoken civilly outside work in decades.
He gave up on completing the full set of prayers. He could make them up later, when he could think. He put away the prayer rug and returned to the kitchen, to find both coffee and a full plate of food waiting for him. Sadik touched Egypt's shoulder to thank him and Egypt flinched away, looking up at him with wide eyes.
Sadik backed up and sat down, hands raised. “I just wanted to say thank you for breakfast. It looks nice.”
“Of course,” Egypt lowered his eyes. “You're welcome.”
Sadik sipped the coffee to change the subject and closed his eyes in pleasure. He took another sip before setting it down. “You're as good at this as I remember.”
This time when he looked up, Egypt's smile was softer. “You're welcome.” He cupped his hands around his mug. “I'm sorry for interrupting your sleep last night. Thank you for coming for me.”
“Yeah, of course.” Sadik blinked. “I mean – I kind of owe you. I'm just glad I could help.” He stopped himself before he made even less sense. What did you say to someone who called you for help after they left in a raging fury.
“I know, thank you.” He lowered his gaze in familiar feigned shyness and dropped a shoulder towards him in invitation. “If there's anything I can do to make up for it...”
Sadik closed his eyes and restrained himself from standing up from the table. He inhaled through his nose, gripping his temper until he knew he wouldn't scare Egypt. Stupid, stupid of him to forget this would come up, forget what Egypt remembered of him. He smiled tightly back at Egypt, not able to meet his eyes.
“You don't owe me anything,” Sadik said. “I promise. I'm not going to – I don't expect anything from you, okay? I meant it that I owe you. This was just – paying that back, if you need to account for it. I swear to God, Misir, why would you think I'd want sex after what happened to you?”
Egypt flinched and his hands tightened on the cup. Sadik swore at himself, then moved a hand across the table to rest by Egypt's.
“I didn't meant it like that, I'm not disgusted by you. I know I hurt you – a lot – and... If you wanted us to do that again, I'd be happy to but dammit Misir I know I have no damn right to expect you to. That's what I meant. I don't want to hurt you on top of what already happened.”
“Of course, Sadik, thank you.” Egypt looked up at him, a bitter smile on his face. He moved to cover Sadik's hand with his own and squeezed his fingers. “I know you didn't mean to imply that.”
Sadik turned over his hand under his and gave a little squeeze back. He forced a laugh. “I'm just surprised you chose me instead of Yunanistan.”
Egypt looked away. “He has his own troubles at the moment.”
Sadik closed his eyes and swallowed his own stupidity again. Great. He'd managed to screw up twice in a row, but dammit he wasn't prepared for this. There wasn't a good way to practice fixing things with an ex.If you were doing things right, they wouldn't be an ex.
Well, one place to start was obvious.
“I'm sorry.”
Egypt stared at him. “For what?”
“Where should I start?” Sadik smiled bitterly. “For what happened to you. For Greece's problems. For what I did to you and to him both. It doesn't fix it, but... I'm sorry it happened at all.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
The words were formal and stiff, but he hadn't thrown anything at him or gone cold. Sadik took another breath and carried on. “I mean I'm sorry I hurt you and I'm sorry I hurt him too, not just sorry you left. I'm sorry that you're here because things got so bad at home, and not because I've done anything to prove I won't do it again.”
Sorry Egypt had come for help while expecting to pay for it with sex.
“Yes, of course.” Egypt squeezed his hand again and pulled away, sipping at his coffee again.
Sadik went back to his own, feeling awkward and uncertain. He stole glances Egypt's way as they ate, not sure what to make of this. Egypt looked calm, but he'd learned – to his regret – that didn't mean anything. Egypt had spent two thousand years hiding what he truly felt from conquerers.
Egypt finished eating and started to wash the dishes. Sadik finished shortly after and stacked his by the sink before starting to dry. He wasn't sure if he should leave, but they were still in his house. How did you even go about that?
When Sadik finished putting the last dish away, he turned around to find Egypt standing in front of him, a soft, uncertain look on his face. Sadik waited and Egypt stepped into his body, kissing him lightly on both cheeks, lips brushing skin.
“Thank you for coming to get me,” he repeated.
“You're welcome,” Sadik said. “I meant it that you don't owe me. You know that, right?”
Egypt sighed tiredly and leaned his head against Sadik's shoulder, hugging him lightly around the waist. Sadik hugged him awkwardly back, abruptly aware that Egypt had not a single piece of jewellery on and no makeup either. Egypt looked and felt naked against him and Sadik held him tighter as he remembered the night before.
“I got arrested. They thought I... accused me of being a prostitute, because of how I was dressed.”
Sadik swallowed the lump in his throat. “Has it been this bad since you left? Getting arrested, I mean.”
“Only since the British took over,” Egypt said dully. “My government had... it had lessened, for a while. It's not constant. It's just been getting worse again of late.”
Sadik exhaled hard. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I just wanted to go somewhere I could feel safe from them. This is enough.”
Sadik closed his eyes at a flash of memory, of Egypt kneeling on the floor and the feel of the horsewhip in his own hand. He pushed the memory away, feeling sick.
Not now, not again. He wasn't like that anymore.
“Alright,” Sadik said hoarsely. “I promise you can come here anytime. I won't let you get hurt. If you want... if you want me to, I'll go out with you so no one bothers you, or – or you can just come over to get away from things.”
Egypt relaxed and nodded against his chest. Rage filled Sadik's mind. Whoever had hurt Egypt so badly it was worth the risk to come back to him deserved to die. He reined it in, knowing he couldn't talk: he'd done worse things to him. It was his own fault he was a risk. But, insha Allah, he'd be damned before he made Egypt regret coming back.
“Do you...” Sadik cleared his throat. “Do you want to just stay here for a little while longer? I mean, you made breakfast for me. I could make you lunch.”
Egypt turned his head to look up at him. “You can cook?”
Sadik cracked a smile. “I learned how.”
Egypt's eyes softened, the lids going low and heavy in a way that didn't need any amount of kohl to make him beautiful. “I would love to see you prove it. Perhaps I should come more to make you practice.”
“It's not really lunch yet. We'll have to find something to do until then. I have some new books?”
Egypt took a step back from his chest and tilted his head. “Show me?”
Sadik took his hand and brought it to his lips to kiss his knuckles and led the way.