#aphturkeyweek

Turkey looked around the room with building cheer as a few more guests shrugged out of their jackets and made their way to the buffet. Clearly such a good turnout so early was a positive indication of his increasing popularity- clearly it had nothing to do with the spread of free food and booze on offer. He had decorated the place for the occasion in a mixture of his old Ottoman style along with newer, more western furniture, and was making his way across the room with a glass of soda, stalking along beside the busy tables and listening for the praise about his cuisine first-hand.

“This is so great, Turkey!” Spain paused at Turkey’s side, dropping another meze onto his plate and jostling Turkey’s arm in the process. “Much better than Austria’s earlier where we had a strudel with tap water.”

“I am standing right here,” Austria stated.

“I know, silly, we were just talking!” Spain answered with a big smile.

“Glad you enjoy,” Turkey replied to Spain, beaming inside. “I chose the bottles of red wine with you in mind,” he winked.

“You did? You’re great, thanks!”

It was unclear if Turkey was being extra friendly to Spain in hopes of annoying Austria, but he did grin more when he noticed a slightly deeper frown in Austria’s features.

Austria gave his glass of wine a slow sip. “It is indeed a quite nice feast, but still its amount appears… uncalled for given the guest to food ratio.”

“Yer face is uncalled for.”

“Austria, it’s tradition,” Hungary piped in. “A good host must make the guests feel like kings.”

“Yep, like I always say,” Turkey replied, a bit surprised to see Hungary come take his side. “Ya turned into one fine, responsible lady. You were listenin’ after all.” That it was all thanks to him was a given, in his mind.

“Oh please,” the eyeroll could be heard even before Turkey’s eyes turned to Bulgaria, standing close by with some dessert.

“Now, don’t get all jealous,” Turkey joked.

“That was not jealousy!” Bulgaria protested. “Egotistical old man…”

Hungary chuckled. “That part is true.”

Egypt nodded, a movement that made him suddenly noticeable from the corner.

“Baba, your phone was ringing.” Everyone’s glances shifted lower to see a boy by Turkey offering him up a phone.

“Ah, must have forgotten it somewhere… Thanks, Kıbrıs” Turkey said, ruffling the kid’s hair. “Ya always look out for me, unlike some.”

Despite his glare he wasn’t mad, since he stayed in the company while checking his phone. He dialed the missed call and waited.

“Yeah? Ya needed someth- What?! How…? Dammit, told ya a hundred times this wasn’t a costume party…! Fine, fine, bye.” Turkey hung up with a huff. “Romania will be late, had the cops called on him cause he scared some old people with his creepy costume.”

“Hey cool idea, you should have made it a birthday-Halloween combo!” Turkey turned around and saw America holding a couple of boxes.

“Huh? Oh, hey America.” Turkey had included America in the general invitation list, but actually seeing the kid turn up was a surprise. “Haven’t seen ya here in a while.”

“I was doing business in the region and I figured, why not drop by?”

“I see, thanks for coming!” America was one of the few in there that Turkey hadn’t had a long relationship with; be it friendly, romantic, hostile, or a mixture of all, so he wasn’t as keen on being completely informal toward him.

“No problem. But even if I had missed it I could’ve come visit you at Thanksgiving instead. Hahaha, get it?”

“Baba, to ten.”

“…six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

“Anyway,” America said, unaware of Turkey’s mumbling “I got you a present and also delivered one from Greece, he said to hand it over to you.”

“…That brat got me something without comin’?” Turkey clicked his tongue, looking annoyed, but obviously he was curious as he took Greece’s box while letting the boy take America’s.

“Uh, Turkey…”

“One second Bulgaria, openin’ this and I’m com–!” His words were cut off as a puff of glitter exploded into his face.

The box was empty otherwise, minus a small handwritten card saying “Happy Birthday, you are old.”

Turkey took his phone out again, muttering an increasingly harsh string of insults under his breath. He paused, reading a new text saying “Don’t cause an international incident, I’ll get you kebab or something.”

“Dude, that stuff takes forever to get out, but you do look more festive now. So that’s why he told me to phone him before giving it…”

“Enough with that little shit,” Turkey huffed while dusting himself off in vain. “I’ll bring in the cake.”

“Hey I’m not late this time, right?!” Portugal’s voice echoed from the door, struggling to fit a box through it. “Don’t cut the cake yet, I brought a thousand candles or so for this old fogey.”

“Portugal, you really need that money,” Germany shouted from somewhere.

“…Is that so?” Turkey asked, before grinning and lifting his sleeves up. “Bring ‘em, I’ll blow em in one huff!”

Turkey wasn’t exactly an expert when it came to the sea. After all, he had spent most of his life in vast steppes, mountains and deserts. Only after his capital was settled on the coast of the Bosporus was he able to start learning how to deal with sailing and long sea campaigns, a tiresome skill, but one that he had been developing better with his new sultan.

Which meant that he could now harass Portugal much more.

Here in the Indian Ocean, Turkey had just plundered another Portuguese fleet after some careful sneaking and a surprise attack, as the ships were sailing on their way back to Europe.

He was pleased to find Portugal among the defending crew, sword in hand and rage in his eyes.

Turkey had dashed across the Portuguese deck, his scimitar raised high while shouting a warcry, urging his own crew to keep on cutting down their resisting enemies. Portugal had instantly noticed the charging Turk rushing his way, and instead of running away like others he stood his ground.

Now Portugal was lying in the ruined cabin of his own ship, scarred, clothes stained with blood. Turkey hadn’t bothered to tie him up, since he had gotten rid of the weapons, but he did shove him for good measure and took satisfaction at the sound of Portugal’s body hitting the floorboards.

But Portugal was undeterred, and only a moment later his voice drifted up, as collected as if they had been discussing the weather, “So, for just how long are you planning on staying in my cabin?” he asked as he sat up, rubbing his jaw. “Too old to remember the way out? I can help…”

“Yer askin’ for another smack? Keep being a smartass and I’m sinkin’ this ship as soon as my men load up the goods.”

“Ah, but if you sink me, then I won’t be able to return fast enough to tell my boss about your feat. That’s what your fragile ego craves, right?”

Turkey crossed his arms and stared down at him, expression hidden behind the mask. With practiced nonchalance, Portugal lifted himself to his feet, apparently assuming Turkey must not be angry. Or perhaps just as prone to provoke a beating as his brother, Turkey mused.

“Your boss? Oh, ya mean Spain?” Portugal‘s eyes lost their calm for the first time since the battle, making Turkey grin. “Indeed, must be missin’ his faithful hound.”

Portugal didn’t normally lose his composure so easily, but this always proved to be a touchy subject, so when the punch came Turkey was prepared for it. He grabbed onto Portugal’s forearm before he could make contact, raising his other arm to block the incoming blow to his head as well. The solid crash against Turkey’s arm caused Portugal to lose his grip on the golden terrestrial globe he’d picked up somewhere between entering the cabin and hitting the floor, carefully tucked away until the right moment and now lost too soon to be of use.

Turkey pulled both of his attacker’s arms behind his back in a swift move, a huff leaving Portugal’s mouth at the restriction of having himself bound tight against Turkey’s front.

“That’s the best you can do, Port—“

Turkey’s words were cut by a sudden, rough kiss. He found himself staring for a second, until the continuous pressure of lips against his made him shut his eyes and kiss back, grabbing the trapped arms tighter and pushing forward until he was pressing Portugal against a wall.

In the end Turkey was the first to pull back, groaning in pain after a sharp canine cut into his lip and loosening his hold on Portugal’s arms to lift a hand and wipe the blood. But despite the opportunity to escape presenting itself, Portugal stayed put, his self-satisfied grin growing at the annoyed curve of Turkey’s mouth, and his assured tone leaving Turkey wondering if perhaps he had planned this from the beginning.

“No matter how many times you raid my ships and settlements, the spice route is now mine, Mouro.”

The angry Italian child was pathetically dangling, weakly whining for help. His grandfather would have presented a much more interesting challenge, Turkey thought as he carried him away. So he was in no rush as headed to his wagon and tossed the kid inside, hoping for the screams to be heard and summon someone braver.

While his main purpose for setting foot on Spanish territory was to help France like the good, generous ally that he was, in the back of his mind he also recalled France’s long, dramatic, tearful letters about having suffered abuse most uncouth by the Spaniard, and truth be told be was curious to meet him in person.

Though he completed his capture with success, Turkey was a little disappointed that nobody tried to stop him. Of course it makes sense he thought, I’m the great, unstoppable Ottoman Empire and no one would dare to face me one on one.

His inner bragging stopped once he heard a telltale crack of branches coming from the forest, followed by the sight of a bull completely smashing his wagon in half, flinging South Italy into the air.

His interest in meeting Spain suddenly piqued.

He didn’t have long to wait before Spain made his appearance, red faced and shouting angrily, apparently ready for confrontation. Turkey kept his cool, observing his rival from head to toe.

…But where was the big, fearsome brute that France had described?

“Who’re you? Scrawny, aren’t ya?”

He tended to not filter his thoughts. As usual, it appeared France had grossly exaggerated.

“Shut up! I’m Spain, the country of passion, and I won’t let your vermin hands touch what’s mine!”

Feisty, that one. Turkey proceeded to inch closer and loom over, condescension in his voice.

“C'mon, just give him to me and nobody gets hurt, how’s that?”

Turkey taunted him on purpose and it worked well, because within seconds he was facing the end of Spain’s sword, its sharp edge shining.

Turkey smiled behind his veil. This one wasn’t just a foolhardy kid. Clearly Spain knew about his reputation, he knew the risks of challenging the Ottoman Empire. He wasn’t backing off, but Turkey could hear the waver in his voice between those threats, could read the alarm in his eyes.

And yet despite his fear, Spain was daring him to take one step closer, eyes –bright green- burning with rage, feet firmly planted in a fighting stance on the ground.

“A war declaration… Very well then, that suits me fine.”

Turkey stared down at him in silence, wondering how much effort it would take to beat the fight out of this one, feeling the idea run as a thrill up his spine. Maybe Spain could, again, surprise him.

But not today, so he calmly turned his back on Spain’s sword.

“But, for now I’ll just go home and eat some ashure! Later.”

“What?!”

Turkey paused, tilting his head back for one last glimpse of this interesting new challenge. He lowered his voice, feeling all the more powerful when Spain had to lean slightly toward him to catch the words.