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nagy-bari · 25 days

Text

standards

aph hungary and romania have a little chat about a future project regarding an archeological find.

no human names used -if i did it right no country names used either.

cussing and swearing and the most awkward tension ever.

cause i still fall back to write semi-personal rants using these two horrid little portraits, and cause i should really focus more on my uni but it was kinda inspired by uni.

The small kitchen with the two chairs filled with old times, smoke and dust reminiscence of a battle or a wine cellar. The two figures in it looked more akin to a painting waiting for restauration or half way saved from the teeth of time dulling their colors. One sitting at the table, the other next to the counter, glass in hand looking out the window.

The lazy afternoon basked them in warm, familiar almost kind hues, soothing out the acid in their tone.

‘ so he’s back. And you invited him back.’

‘not exactly. He found out I found where he stored his precious little favourite toy for 42 days and now he wants a guest room for him there.’

‘that’s… and you’re gonna set up that guest room?’

‘yep.’ The woman took a gulp of her glass. ‘what would you do?’

‘not tell him in the first place?’

‘as if that was ever an option.’

‘yeah it is. You found something you don’t say shit, end of problem.’

‘even Mr. ‘Murika found out before I could finish the search, there was no chance in hell he wouldn’t find out about it.’

‘so you’re just gonna set up a guest room for him to march back whenever he feels like it.’

‘yep.’ Another gulp. ’politics don’t really care about historical sentiment.’

‘ya crazy? That’s all it cares about, how else do you think people gonna vote?’

‘to be honest I’m still hoping people will be so fed up at one point they just don’t go to vote. Like any of them.’

‘dream on.’

‘but you know the same shit as me, forgiveness is our cultural corner stone, and if I’m half a good a Christian as my government makes me out to be, I should really be happy to be in the position to set up that guest room – as a sign of good faith and forgiveness and cultural friendship.’

The other snorted an ugly laugh.

‘and you believe that bullshit?’

‘as much as you do.’

The two figures raised their glasses at each other and took a swig. The one standing reached for the bottle to pour another round. The wine looked amber gold in this light, the sour taste mixed with the smoke from outside still reminder of old times that were never quite there.

‘so what now?’

‘hm?’

‘you’re done with your little speech, I can go I assume?’ She smiles, a crooked smile.

‘thought you would love to ridicule the shit out of this clusterfuck.’

‘it really is just sad if anything.’

‘I’m trying to re-learn a bit of comedic sense here.’

‘by rolling over for an abusive ex?’

‘might as well get used to being the punchline.’

She’s laughing. He’s just looking somewhere with hooded eyes.

‘and why do you think I give a crap?’

‘I know you don’t. it’s the best practice.’

Silence. She shrugs and looks out the window enjoying the last rays hitting the building and he studies her from behind his glass. Then he takes a gulp, sits down his glass on the counter and rolls his shoulders.

‘you know this is exactly what fucks you up more right?’

She hums and turns with a smile, question in her movements.

‘and you know that this fucks me up as well.’

‘and?’

‘and I was never a good enough enemy to be such a supportive boxing bag. I don’t wanna deal with your bullshit of choices.’

‘I don’t want you to.’

‘you told me about it.’

‘yeah so you get the whole story and can laugh more.’

There’s real mirth in her eyes when she smiles, the ones he last only saw under the soviets. The absolute nonchalant acceptance of a grotesque reality. It makes him all the more angry.

‘what sort of heartless monster do you take me for?’

‘a lucky enough bastard to still have a better image in grand total globally.’

‘so you do want me to suffer.’

‘i thought you don’t care enough about me to have any kind of effect on you.’

‘you told me this whole thing.’

‘you can always leave.’

‘don’t pull that shit on me.’

She’s all smiles and he hates how serious he sounds. As if he cares. As if they are actually friends binding over past trauma.

‘why aren’t you telling this to your precious little phoenix friend? He would actually care.’

She looks at her glass.

‘he was more on the trading side of the Ottomans. I was more on the get fucked part.’

‘so what, this whole thing here is just a get fucked pity party?’

She looks out the window again.

‘like you’re actually want to get a fuck out of this or some shit?’

The neighborhood is still painted in soft glow of the afternoon but their building is already in the shadows.

‘no, I’m not gonna let you use me in some twisted self-depricating spiral, no. Jesus woman get a grip.’

‘this is me getting a grip.’

‘no, this is some toxic shit you’re too gone to notice and too sado-mazo to not enjoy.’

‘as if you don’t get a kick out of it.’

‘again, what kind of monster do you take me for.’

‘the same.’

‘the same what?’

She glances at him and smirks and he hates how it gets him to hyperfocus again on her lips and eyes and how actually this is ridiculously working for him too.

‘as me?’

And it’s gone. The light behind her is faded, the colors are an ugly gray her face is tired and wrinkled, her hands are calloused and her nails have seen better days. Her lips are chapped, her eyes are sunk in and her hair is just a bunch of brown strings knotted in the mother of all nests.

And it’s still working. Cause those tired eyes have some remnants from a by-gone time where they hid together in the market, a little time for themselves between errands. She looked way better then. Being forced into the palace and the garden did wonders for her look. The subtle smell of flowers and that wild fire in her eyes worked wonders all around. But her harsh humor stayed. And he got them in trouble and she got them in trouble and it was way back and they were maybe just kids, maybe never adults and maybe it doesn’t count this time as it didn’t count then cause who keeps records anyway. They can enjoy the stolen moments and still hate each other.

It's always been like this. They got each other in hell – if all fails, this remains.

‘so what, you want me to use that guestroom too? Are you inviting me over to be your next ex-tocix shitty partner?’

‘would you? Or am I beneath your standards?’

He straightens up, crossing his arms anger boiling all memories into nightmares.

‘you’re not gonna drag me into your fucked up pity party.’

‘okay.’

She smiles and turns back to her glass, turns back to the window, giving him a way out, giving him time to collect all he needs from the kitchen and leave. He knows. This is his chance. To stick to what he’s saying and remain clean from her mess. Saving himself weeks of headache and self-doubt, a migrane a-

He sits down across of her, hands laced over eyes piercing this mess of a woman across him.

‘I still hate you, and I love to see you suffer but you need to get some help. Some serious help.’

‘if you look at it this way it can be a little art-therapy. Cultural things are art in every form, if I can make that room pretty enough it might work out.’

She’s talking to herself and he accepts for now, it’s better than to have her eyes on him daring him to leave her or jump her. Her profile is still carrying something from her golden days centuries if a millennia ago. It’s not fair how good she looks exhausted. How she has something from those classical romantic paintings’ sadness, that melancholy etched into her lines, her form. She spares him the dilemma of saying anything as she rambles on.

‘maybe this way I can finally get some kind of closure as well. Naïve I know. But I hate how good it feels to be a woman and know that I can thank him for learning that. I hate how much stuff I adore in beauty he loves too. I hate how he still think we’re good friends enough to just ask me to set up a guest room. I hate how I have to forgive and he doesn’t even think there are things he should maybe ask for forgiveness. I hate how if I act upon my part of the story I’m a moody bitch who cannot ever give another chance to anyone and the tackles idiot who can’t appreciate culture. I hate-‘

He reminds himself to breath as her voice trails off, slight tremors, a telltale sign of tears to come but she’s just smiles sharper at the window, her eyes creaking with spiteful cheeriness as she marches on.

‘ cause I know it’s pointless. Cause even if I make a nice enough guestroom and all the media covers it as some archeological historical great point cause ‘oh my Gosh that sultan was buried HERE, in the middle of fucking nowhere for HOW many DAYS, why yes of course you have to make a whole ass museum to talk about that culture’ and not about the ACTUAL fuckin CULTURE that it destroyed and damaged on the way, the actual living fuckin planecrash of a clown culture still kickin and screemin in my own fuckin language hogy a jó büdős kibebaszott élet kurná szét az egészet, mert tényleg felesleges. Az egész. Annyira. Felesleges. De jól mutat.’

Her voice gets quiet at the end. She retorted back to her own language and he hates how he gets the swears but not the end. She chuckles with centuries of resentment and it sounds nice when it’s not aimed at him but he squashes out that thought. He waits to see if she’s done. If he can leave. If he still has a way out of this.

‘don’t you love to watch a trainwreck fumble around parading as some super railjet?’

He lost. She’s looking at him through bitter smile, and he wants to snarl back, to behave cool and collected to correct her, to drag her to shore cause this is fucked up, cause she cannot be right all the fuckin time, cause he got better, he stopped this nonsense why does she have to drag him down again-

‘you need help.’

‘yeah. But no one’s gonna go out of their way to do it.’

She laughs

‘and honestly I get it. Everyone has their plate full. Wars and genocide all around and here I am crying about a fuckin museum for a 5 hundred dead skeleton who’s not even here.’

‘you need help from professionals not fuckups like me.’

‘now, don’t say that. You’re dealing with this waaay better.’

‘you trying to be positive is the most horrifying thing I’ve seen. Don’t do it.’

‘afraid your perfect little hate-able image will get morphed?’

She’s riling him up cause she’s desperate for a simulation, anything to voice out the self hate he knows all too well.

‘if anything it made it permanent.’

‘don’t you find it funny how we give up everything for the empires.’

The tonal whiplash hurts more with her eyes back to the window. He lost his chance to leave. He still could just get up and walk out but it’s too late, she wormed herself into his thoughts and he hates how much he wants to act. How he has this urge to do anything to shake her out of this. How he knows the next steps in this little dance.

‘the once ruling wonders built on our blood and cries upkept by never-dying-myths of grandure and culture we made reality. And yet. And yet…’

She burries her fingers into her hair, hiding behind her arms, folding in on herself.

‘it’s so fucked up to search any solace in a culture you were taught to hate on principle, something that did and didn’t do any lasting damage and change on you, something you find wonderful and horrifying, alien and oh so familiar. It’s so fuckin wicked to celebrate the man and the culture that destroyed your own. Yet…’

She looks at him again, her eyes burning in a haste, a carnal hurry and he’s afraid it’ll scorch him beyond repair.

‘yet, if you cannot appreciate the true value of all of this you’re the stupidest of all to live.’

Her voice is soft again, her eyes holding him in place for a moment before his lips betray him.

‘just poison him.’

She blinks in surprise.

‘when he comes over to the guestroom and you get down again just poison him.’

‘in this economy?’ she barks a laugh.

‘if you hate this so much do something. Refuse. Twist it. You’re the woman, you know how to be oh so better than us, just kill him in his sleep.’

‘but still get in his bed. Is what you say.’

He stops, she looks at him with sharp unbearable smile.

‘you do agree that I should just endure this whole and be what I am. A whore.’

He ruffles his hair in frustration. She keeps the paper thin smile pointed at his neck like a poison blade.

‘cause that’s how it looks no matter what I do. It’s pointless. No matter how much personal growth and therapy I sneak into that room to help me, it’ll always be just a glorified holding cell for a bed to fuck me in.’

‘you talking like this is not helping you in any way. And you know it. I know you know it.’

‘What? It’s the 21th fuckin century, strong independent woman can’t talk about how she’s a sex worker in the same room as lawyers about paid healthcare and social benefits?’

She was riling him up again.

‘How has this anything to do with the museum and all?’

‘Don’t tell me you think now that whore is a diminutive thing to call a woman? You loved to call me a bitch. Still do.’

‘You calling yourself that too?’

This finally shuts her up a bit. But hey eyes are liquid acid and he hates how it thrills him.

‘I thought you don’t care.’

‘does it look like I don’t care? Does this whole conversation sound to you like I don’t give a fuck?’

‘well, do you give a fuck?’

He stops himself from just grabbing a shaking her. To just shout at her to finally tell him what to do, how to help right now, not on the long run, not throughout the horrid journey of healing but right now, in this cursed moment where she wants to hit rock bottom, what on earth does she want him to do in this damned scene.

‘will you make that guestroom?’

‘not my decision. Government wants it, looks good for the media, for diplomacy, for culture.’

He’s off the hook for now, her eyes averted back to her glass.

‘so just make it about you. Tell your side of the story.’

She looks up with genuine laughter hiding in her crushed eyes. She gave up long ago.

‘do what you’re doing to me with style. Make it art. Sell it. Make it more alluring than that dead man.’

‘how could one conquered part of an empire ever be more interesting than the man who created it.’

‘you killed him didn’t you? Maybe that’s the spice. The place that cost the empire its greatest.’

‘and what did I get out of that kill? Wasn’t even me, it was old age and sorrow and my suffering only started then. It was only the beginning.’

‘you are still here. With your own language, own land, own history, make it about survival, make it about how empires fall yet some things remain.’

‘the hate. That remains. The disdain, the miscommunication, the different narratives. The complexity of it all never trully explained, that’s what remains.’

‘you are clever enough to leave all the breadcrumbs for others to find.’

She looks at him amusement mixed with the acid that drips from all deliberate wrong choice in life.

‘isn’t it naïve to think people will have the attention to even look for the crumbs?’

‘they will.’ He doubles down, hoping his voice comes across as determined and unvavering and not hungry. He licks his lips. Tossing a coin and jumping in without the result. ’after all, who doesn’t love a good mystery.’

Her eyes turn two shades darker, the same hunger echoing in them. Neither of them move. Old memories flash in, with the descending shadows, the outside slowly turning from gray to black with fizzling oranges and yellows splattered in it. Neither of them move to flick on the light.

It might be the last stop before the fall. The last moment to steer back the conversation, to even continue the conversation in any way. The next would be only actions. So the kitchen remains in dark, cause movement is an action.

It goes like this.

The only light in the small kitchen comes from under the door and through the window. Two set of eyes stare at each other centuries old dares echoing in them.

To see who moves first. Or who looks away. Who breaks the rules to create the exception.

The window paints her in muted gold and murky greys, her dark circles all the more prominent. She parts her lips a bit, maybe trying to say something, maybe to just get some air, cause it’s a stalemate, and the kitchen is filled with dust like a wine cellar long abandoned. She decided long ago where this was going. Yet-

His eyes are like fire, twinkling embers turning to charred ash, if she wasn’t already burning from the rot inside, he would scorch her. She tries to bat away his voice from the beginning, the raw worry in it spoils her determination. She wanted to feel like shit, he would make her feel like shit, the sky was blue the grass is green, these things should never differ…

A part of her appreciates the irony of the situation. She wants to believe so hard in how things are complex and if given enough time people can understand, better yet accept those complexities, and here she is, clinging with all her claws into such childish rules set up by oh so many variables.

She doesn’t want to hear the worry in his voice, doesn’t dare to think about the what ifs, the meaning of her own words on forgiveness and Christian compassion. She wants to feel like shit. How she thinks she should.

All these slow stops and ways out freeze her. The shadows helped so far yet now she hesitates. If she goes for it, just simply does what she wants she’s no better than the problem she talked about.

But she was always a problem. So now what?

He closes his eyes with a sigh, taking a deep breath. One of his hands come up to smooth over his face blinking back at her again. Shoulders slumped, exhausted.

The stalemate is broken. The tension – no. the moment is gone.

She blinks as well, still burning from the rot festering inside but biting back on the stench. He warned her multiple times, he wouldn’t do it. She’s almost proud for him. If she was anymore collected she would say it to him. Now all she does is reminding herself to blink, to quiet the fires, to get a grip.

He moves to stand up, taking her glass to move it to the sink.

‘you up for some hot chocolate?’

She shrugs, looking out the window, trying to focus on anything besides the rapidly approaching disappointment. Cause she’s gonna vomit all that bitter acid on to him. She’s gonna be that bitch who never appreciates a good deed. She just wanna feel like shit in a different way.

Hah. Ain’t she needy to boot.

He’s trying to busy himself with the process of heating up milk and dissolve the cocoa in it.

‘sweet or salty?’

‘bland.’

‘you mean bitter.’

She doesn’t trust herself with an answer. She’s looking out the window, he’s turned towards the counter. After some clinking with a spoon his voice is hesitant.

‘you need help. Not from me, not from the eu, not from the higher ups. Not politically or culturally. You need – fuck, it were so much easier if we were just humans – but you need simple humanitarian help. Like with compassion and shit. And I’m the last person you want this from but right now a simple hug and a real cry-out would help you more than you getting me to fuck you raw.’

He doesn’t turn towards her as he puts the two cups into the micro to bake the chocolate a little bit. Her voice is as dusty as the air.

‘Humanitarian help is what needed in Ukrain and Gaza and all those other places no news station can reach.’

‘yeah but you also gotta live. You made it this far. Would be a pretty miserable joke to give up now. It’s just a museum. You had worse.’

‘I have worse.’

She sighs, finally letting a tiny bit of tension out of her shoulders, hand trying to rake through her locks. She lays down on her folded hands over the table, still looking out.

So far the nicest rejection she got from him. Another one for the exceptions.

‘look what I try to mumble is that you deserve help. Isn’t that also in that ridiculous bible of ours?’

She closes her eyes muttering some half assed retort. The darkness is familiar behind her eyes, the quiet beeping of the micro is the next thing she focuses on cause if she let her emotions check in she will cry. And that would be just annoying at this point.

He places the mug down the table, slightly nudging her crossed arms as he sits down across, taking a sip. She doesn’t move. He feels like he ran a marathon and managed to knock over a blind kids sandcastle at the last step. He doesn’t know if he’s okay, if he can walk out now and he fears he’ll ramble something stupid so he tries to concentrate on the sweet warm drink in his mug. Not sure if it helps with anything. He tries not look at her crumpled form on the table basked in the lights from outside. Too much, too heavy, too… simple.

The air is still dusty and smells like old times, the silence almost domestic and her mug slowly stops steaming.

His voice is gentle if a bit croacked.

‘it’s gonna go cold.’

She finally moves to cup it in her hands, her head like a sad soggy sack of potatoes hung low as she gazes into the mug, not trusting herself to look at him. He clears his throat.

‘should I call a friend over?’

Her head moves a tiny bit, before a sullen shake tells him no. He takes another sip, trying to let the warmth of the drink solve this gordian knot.

She finally takes her first sip of the drink. Shoulders dropping, a sigh mumbled into the mug and he pretends to not see the tears and the snot on her nose.

‘thanks.’

‘yeah… just… just get help.’

‘you’re kind. Too kind.’

He ignores the acid around the words, how he knows it could have also played out and takes a sip again.

‘when the guestroom is ready you’re also welcome. To test if my little art-therapy worked.’

He cannot fight off the smirk.

‘you want to piss him off?’

She chuckles, her voice hoarse and crooked.

‘within survival reasons.’

He dares to look at her again and she has her eyes closed, a wobbly smile on her lips.

‘you’re gonna be okay.’ He tells her, surprised at how warm his voice is but chalks it up for the exceptions. ‘mixing high culture and history with passive aggressive narrative sounds like a fun task.’

‘yeah.’ She doesn’t open her eyes, just clutches her mug closer, sniffing as quietly as she can.

He imagines kissing her forehead for a moment but doesn’t move. They are too far apart, and anything like that would drag him dangerously close to just give into her despite his resolve. Instead when he’s done with his mug he searches for a napkin. Washing his own mug, putting the napkin next to her he stands, one hand on the doorhandle. He’s hesitant.

She blows her nose and it’s eerily soundless but she sighs again, a bit more straightened up and glances at him. His hand find the back of his neck, unsure what to say.

She cracks one of the saddest smiles he seen, nodding with her head.

‘run along, you outdid yourself tonight.’

‘you sure you don’t want a friend around?’

‘what, just cause you rejected to have sex with me and made me a pity choco we are friends now? How cheep do you think I am?’ the snark in her voice is shacky but back, her head held a little higher. ‘I’m quite picky with my friends, unlike my hookups.’

She’s finally smirking at him and there’s an itch to just march back and kiss her senseless cause she wanted this so bad, he’ll show how he’s above a cheep hookup but stops and just laughs a little snort.

‘well unlike you, I have standards for my friends and hook ups. But don’t worry, there’s always time to raise them some more.’

‘like only hookin up in a place dedicated to memorate a long gone empire you were partially slave of?’

‘sounds like a date.’

He winks and opens the door, seeing her wave an uncertain hand after him.

#aph hungary #aph romania #fanfic #semi-personal rant woven into a fanfic #rohun adjacent stuff #cause it's still my favorite toxic couple but i never let them get it on?#like they are too proud to give into stuff? kinda?#hetalia fanfic vaguely mentioning real history #i'm really bad at tagging.#also this was supposed to be the work that pushed me out of the procastination freeze i have for weeks now #not sure if it did it's job

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