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Truthfully, it was too early. The morning sun itself would have been too tired to rise at such an ungodly hour, around 2:30 in the morning. Time was stilling, however, in the presence of Sadik, knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the wooden table. Angry tears fell onto the linoleum floor and Heracles continued to clench and set his jaw in anticipation.
Embarrassment welled up within the chest of the latter, feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment of the other's life. There were few times in Heracles's life where he would ever find Sadik in such an occasion of pure vulnerability—a dumb, screenshot of youth and misery—and was deeply disturbed that he had ever been the cause to one.
"Did you ever really love him?"
The words were sharper than Sadık had intended them to be, or at least his tone was. His question was rasped, voice husky and words nearly incoherent as he choked on his sobs. If he would have been able to, the Turk would have reached across the table to hit Heracles—to slap him, to punch him, to strangle him, to fucking kill him.
To kiss him.
Sadık nearly slapped himself at the thought, but here he was, looking into the forcibly empty eyes of the man he loved, wishing and hoping and praying that the answer Heracles would give him would be the one he longed to hear. The moment of silence that hung in the air was quick to dissolve.
"Yes – I did, more than I can ever say."
Heracles was calm, stoic, unreadable, but as soon as the words left him, he flinched. He could feel the energy radiating from Sadık slap him across the face and could recognize his torment—or even just from the way his face crumbled in complete and utter anguish, how his shoulders slacked but at the same time he tensed, and his stance became defensive, how his gasping was suddenly cut short—and immediately regretted what he had said. In fact, the Greek wasn't even entirely sure that what he insisted to be true was true, anyways.
Heracles could think back, to the time where the hands that had traced every line and curve of his body had been soft, white one, and not the tan, calloused ones that had known work and sacrifice and was now gripping the wooden table in front of him; back to the time where the hair he would wake up to and kiss would be black and straight, not like Sadık's curls, disheveled now, unkempt, and matted down; and back to the time the voice that had proclaimed their love for him would be smooth and low and genuine, instead of the gruff voice that sounded like thunder during all the times besides the ones like now, where it was wracked and wavered with sobs and whimpers, and Heracles is crying now, wondering how he could've possibly felt that way then about somebody entirely different, and even now when the man who was the love of his life was right here, in front of him, damnit.
Heavy lidded, jade eyes narrowed to focus on Sadık but to no avail. Tears blurred his vision, and he stood, stretching an arm out to reach for the Turk across the table, but the other stepped back and snatched his arm away. Taken aback by the action, Heracles moved around the obstacle which separated them, bumping his hips against other kitchen wear, wanting to close the gap between them and get through to Sadik.
"I don't believe you," SSadık rasped, weakly.
His voice was different now, and jade eyes could finally see that Turkey was just so, so tired. Emotionally, mentally, and physically, Sadik was just so fucking exhausted with the feeling of being in the present, here in this moment where an open, honest conversation about what they truly were in terms of a relationship had turned sour over some bottled-up jealousy and tension that each had believed no longer resided with them. It was an idealistic belief, one that neither could have truly just dismissed but rather denied in hopes that it would just resolve itself, that maybe they could be something other than what they were before and even now.
But Sadık had believed that before, when Heracles was still just another irrelevant son of Hellas, and another time when Heracles began to fill his head with ideas that were finally his own.
"It's different now, though," Heracles insisted, voice rising almost with hysteria as he took his lover's face with his hands, shaking. The paleness of his fingers served as a stark contrast from Sadık's sun kissed skin, as a reflection of the differences between them. There were just too many that neither wanted to admit to. He pressed his lips against the other's and felt overwhelming relief when he could feel the other's breath steady and crying cease.
"I don't believe you," Sadık whispered, again.
Heracles had to bite his bottom lip to stifle a sob.
"It's you I love, really—you have to believe me when I tell you that I'm in love with you." The Greek nearly snapped, clawing at the other's shirt. His words were desperate, pleading for validation, that the other truly believed him and felt the same way. For a moment, he waited hopefully in anticipation as Turkey offered him a small, quiet smile, one that had been reserved for him when he had felt pity for him as a child.
Heracles felt sick.
"I don't believe you," Sadık said again, simply, and pulled back to begin walking towards the front door, leaving a crestfallen man in the kitchen.