#get comfy

"I'm not scared, no—"

"Then stop trying to avoid me, and let's talk!"

"Sure," Sadık scoffs, "let's talk, not shout for the whole damn building to hear!"

"Yeah, well, some things," Antonio returns, barely lowering his voice as his tone turns more harsh, "are hard to be quiet about!"

"Even for five minutes?"

"You really want me to stop?"

"Yes!"

"Then make me! Go on, make me!"

The demand (or is it a challenge?) creates a brief stalemate. Sadık stares at Antonio, and the other stares right back. 

Then, Antonio takes a slow breath.

And then—

"I'm not going to act like it didn't happen," he proceeds, his voice finding an almost normal volume. "You and I had quite the night, and I'm frankly seriously offended that you're now ignoring me. That isn't fair!"

"I'm not trying to ignore it, or you," Sadık replies. While he is grateful that the other has at least quietened down, he knows that he's far from safe. "This isn't the time or place to talk about last night, Antonio. Not while we're around people we know. Other nations. People who might misinterpret our actions."

Antonio appears to not be quite convinced by such an excuse, however. "Am I misinterpreting last night…?"

"N— No—"

"Then don't mess me around," he warns. "If last night meant anything to you, you should know better than to do that to me."

He's right. Sadık does know better. And he knows that, right now, the other is doing a very good job of holding himself back.

In the past, a confrontation such as this one could end in blows, in a verbal scuffle, in a trip and tumble onto a bed (in which the viciousness of both participants erupted into a coping method—a method of loving). He can feel them now, the ghosts of fingers, hands, limbs and lips. Not-so-distant memories and memories from centuries ago, too.

Now that he stands there, and Antonio stands before him, he realises that they have stood together like this repeatedly throughout a shared history. Harsh whispers, cruel words. Daring gazes, silent threats. Sadık finds it a shame that old habits die hard, but Antonio, at least, seems to be calming down somewhat now that he has gotten his words out.

He even looks… a little bit sad… or hurt…

"You don't want to talk," the other continues, "and fine, I get it. But we have to talk at some point."

Sadık concurs and assures him that, "We will. We can talk later on, once all of this—" He jabs a thumb towards the conference room, half-full of nations while they're all on recess. "—is over."

Antonio hesitates—his eyes search Sadık's face for any hint of dishonesty.

"You mean that?" he asks in the end, semi-accusatory. "You won't run off and disappear when the day's up?"

"No," he says, shaking his head. "If you want to talk, then that's what we'll do."

Antonio hums. "Right," he says, short, blunt. "But do you want to talk?"

"I just said that—"

"That I want to talk, and I do. But I don't want to have a one-way conversation, either," Antonio explains to him, which in turn makes Sadık feel… bad. Like he hasn't listened, or hasn't understood, even if he has. Hasn't he…? "If you want this—" And he gestures between the pair of them. "—to be something more than a single night in a hotel room, then you'll have to tell me. I just— I'll let you think about it… I don't want to force you into anything if you're not sure…"

So, Antonio walks away. Somehow, and so much more controlled than he was moments ago, he walks back around the corner and towards where refreshments have been provided in order to kill what time remains of the break. 

Sadık feels a tug for no more than a split second. He feels a tug to stop him, to grab him again, to pull him back and tell him exactly how he feels with brazen actions rather than words. But the tug fades as fast as it arrives when Antonio makes it more than three steps away, and Sadık is left alone in his silence.