It was harder to look at Turkey's face these days; in the past, it hadn't been that bad. Ironically, before he had gained his independence, it hadn't been that bad. A bit of sneering, granted, but live and let live, as Greece philosophized.

But, these days, it was harder than that; if his mask was off, when his cologne slowly permeated the room before Greece realized he was there, and, the younger country was suddenly transported to another time, another place, where the light would shine gold at seven o clock.

He would lay, idle, on a marble bench, and let the reflections off the pool dance on him, and would realize, with the abruptness of epiphany, that Turkey was there. He would descend upon Greece with the thoroughness and pervasiveness of a dream, arms braced on either side of the en repose youth, placing a deep kiss on his lips. And at eight, when the sun would set, and the world would be cloaked in a veil of charcoal, with the artificial light from indoors just failing to reach them, Greece would be gasping, on his back, the smell of patchouli dizzying him, and Turkey's green eyes looking with a very earnest, naked lust into his, whispering sweet-sounding words of promise.

Out of his entire selection, for Greece alone, he would remove the mask, the want in his eyes as he hung over Greece as naked to the world as his physical desire pressing into the youth (savoring the moment, this moment that he had waited thousands of years for) before rolling his hips leisurely, and Greece's back would buckle, his head snapping.

One more naive than Greece would think it was because Turkey, despite his cruel and brash nature, was actually in love, and wanted to convey his true feelings to a person he trusted. Greece knew better. He knew better than anyone that it was because Turkey wanted the younger man know exactly who was defiling him. Who, with every thrust and whispered word, with every long, firm stroke down Greece's body, was removing just slightly more of Greece's identity, until he no longer resembled the country he had been.

Which was why he could no longer look Turkey exactly in the face. Because Greece knew that everything he did today was now colored with what this man had done to him before. And nobody could be proud of that. It was just easier to fight.

And sometimes Turkey would smile at this, like he actually knew, and past the raucous words and grandstanding, he would step closer behind Greece, his hands resting on the younger man's hips, his lips brushing Greece's neck, and remind him of a veranda at seven-o-clock.