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Sadiq has been very excited about today. It feels like the light at the end of the tunnel, almost, though with the added fact that he knows that tunnel continues on long and long after that and this light will only be a drop of reprieve among an ocean of change and pain — but he'll take what he can get, even if that thing is simply finally meeting Poland again.
When he heard the Slav was reestablished at the end of the Great War, he immediately dove into trying to set up a meeting and his boss wasn't so incredibly opposed to the idea. The obstacles came in the forms of Poland not exactly being in the state to leave his home for quite some time — the reason wasn't explained, though Sadiq guesses it's the matter of rebuilding, both the country and the Nation, the wars he's been fighting over his borders, and trying to stabilize his government — and himself being rather busy with his own problems, such as shifting from an empire to a republic, but finally, finally , about six years after the war — they had it.
So now, he waits in the meeting room, wringing his hands together, and he wonders, how much has the other changed ? Is he still the proud, almost arrogant Nation he remembers? Or has the past century changed him entirely? It's so incredibly hard for a Nation to avoid change.
The door opens and he turns a formal smile at the humans coming in. He drops his hands to his sides and straightens up, discreetly correcting his suit, because this is politics now, and while he , as Sadiq, simply wants to see Poland again, Turkey wants to establish a good relationship with the other country. So, he greets every man that enters, tries to remember their names — he might end up seeing some of them quite a bit in the near future — and waits.
And then, finally, he arrives.
Poland looks– haggard. He's clean — golden hair with not a lock out of place, pale face with not a particle of dust, crisp suit with not a trace of a wrinkle — but his green eyes are shadowed, lacking the brightness he remembers, and his lips are pulled into a taut line. A fresh scar mars the underside of his jaw on the right side, slathered in makeup. In his hand, he clutches the handle of a walking cave, carved into his eagle's head, and he leans on it heavily but carefully with every step — he's trying to hide his limp and the slight buckling of his arm under his weight but Sadiq is looking and sees it all clearly. He gets the impression that there should be at least a trace of a slouch in Poland's posture, but the man's back is stiff and straight as a board, and not in the way Sadiq recalls ( draped in leopard skin and jewels with blood-stained wings casting a long shadow, emerald eyes look down on him from a great white horse, and Sadiq briefly thinks a warrior angel has taken a human form to visit him on his deathbed ). There is exhaustion in the lines of his face, in the tenseness of his shoulders, in the partly-lidded eyes and the bruising underneath them.
He looks as proud as ever.
His chin is held high and while his posture may be stiff, it's open, daring, and a near-perfect picture of how he held himself whenever Sadiq defeated him — a challenge and a promise, and it's one that he always took seriously. His eyes may be missing the self-confident look they held before, but they keep the shine of something powerful — it may be dimmed some, buried beneath a century of constant pain and defeat, but it's far from gone, and he has a feeling that if Poland's given a year or two of having a stable country again, it'll come back out completely.
Sadiq grins, ignoring the disapproving noise next to him.
The Nation he's respected ever since their first clash on the battlefield has returned and the Deputy of Lechistan has made it at last.
They do not get to speak until after all the humans have left but they are alone now and they are standing at arm's length facing each other. It's silent — not quite awkward as much as it is overwhelming. They haven't seen each other in so long and it's hard to know what to say to your friend-that's-sometimes-your-enemy.
Finally, after a minute or two, Sadiq speaks, lightly, a trace of self-consciousness flaring up in his mind: "Long time no see, huh, Lechistan?"
The sounds are clunky in his mouth, too soft and too harsh at the same time. They're ill-fitting and strange, his mouth not suited for them. There's the gentle thrumming of wrong wrong wrong in the back of his mind that appears anytime he speaks a language that is not his own and his tongue prickles with discomfort but Poland's eyes widen and his lips split open just so and he's looking at Sadiq as though he had hung the stars and he decides the time he spent learning the Slav's language was worth it.
Poland blinks, clearing his throat, and smooths out his face to a look somewhere between friendliness and professionalism — the excited spark in his eyes remains, though, and it chases away some of the shadows.
"Quite a bit, yes," he says, and his voice is hoarse and wrong , like there's something blocking his throat–
Oh .
There's a thick scar peeking out from under Poland's collar, and it looks almost like a seam on a stuffed toy, as though his head has had to be sewn onto his neck. Sadiq's eyes dart to the other's arms and legs and he thinks, they really did carve him up and tear him limb from limb. Maybe he truly had been dead in the time he was off the map ( he will forever refuse to recognize it as his death ).
"You look well," he finally says, after a pause that feels a few seconds too long. Poland raises a brow, taking a long, meaningful look at his cane. Sadiq snorts. "Better than me, at least."
And– yeah, Sadiq knows what he looks like — bloodshot eyes rimmed with exhaustion, bandaged hands itching for a fight as a chance to prove he's still powerful, stained with traces of blood from trying to cover up coughing fits, and more. Poland, at the very least, doesn't seem actively hurt, even if he's clearly dealing with leftover pain. Admittedly, though, suits can hide quite a lot, and Nations are masters at hiding their pains.
"Considering why that is, I'm not sure I take much comfort in that." Poland's voice is deceptively light and Sadiq can see the flames that flare up in his eyes as his grip on his cane tightens until his knuckles turn white. He winces. Ultimately, he's had quite enough politics of any sort in recent years, and he doesn't want to be getting into anything relating to the Great War — just the thought makes him ache all over. His government is in shambles, trying to adjust to the shift in policies, and that change may be good but it's painful and he wants to forget about it, if at least for a little bit.
This moment is, somehow, the moment that it finally strikes Sadiq — this is the first proper conversation between him and Poland in all their centuries of knowing each other. Everything has always been poor attempts at pantomime, translated correspondence, and excitement when they actually managed to understand what the other was saying. Now, even if so far it's only been a few simple sentences… now, they're actually speaking with each other.
Giddiness warms his chest, pushing back the thoughts about his future to deal with at a later date. Right now, he has a friend to entertain.
"We don't need to talk about that right now, I'm sure we both need a break from it all. There's a really good coffee place a few minutes away if you'd like?"