A/N: This is a rather old piece of mine I thought I'd post here. It's GreecexCavafy, a Greek poet who lived 1863-1933 and spent most of his life in Alexandria, Egypt. Many of his poems are on Greek themes, however, and considering the sensuality and homosexual sensibility of many of his poems it just seemed too perfect. His poetry is stunning and you should all go read some! The poem I quote at the beginning is "Desires." I heavily reference a few other poems throughout the work, however, and I suggest reading them too. They are "At the entrance of the cafe," "The tobacconist's window," "So long I gazed-," and "To sensual pleasure." (To any of you who have read my "Obsession" series, this may sound a little familiar...)

Warnings: yaoi (as in gay, man on man, though not too explicit), historical figure used.

Disclaimers: I don't own Hetalia. Or Cavafy's work. God, if only I were so genius...

"Like beautiful bodies of the dead who did not grow old,

and were shut away with tears in a splendid mausoleum,

with roses at their head and jasmine at their feet—

that is what those desires are like, which have passed

without fulfillment; not one of them ever granted

a pleasure's night, or a pleasure's radiant morn."

-Constantine P. Cavafy

…

Greece let his eyes linger on the motionless face. A used body, a withered body, no longer beautiful. When had his beloved poet grown so old? And yet, so peaceful; basking in the warmth of that peace one could not be sad. There were no tears for this day. Not when they were to put Cavafy to rest in his humble grave.

The Greek examined a face lined with age, with wisdom, with memories. Past the wrinkles he could glimpse the shadow of forgotten youth, which only Greece remembered. He remembered the handsome face like it was yesterday. The noble line of the nose, the sculpted lips, the smooth brow, the infinite depths of dark eyes, the graceful curls, all could have been from one of his mother's statues. They were imprinted in his mind the moment he set sight on the young man…

…

Constantine felt a nudge at his side. His companion directed his gaze to the entrance of the café where a figure appeared.

"Is that him?" Constantine asked.

"That's him."

He was… ethereal. Limbs of an athlete caught in marble repose, on the brink of sleep even as he stood. Calm brow, languid lips, eyes pools of mystery.

He caught them with his own.

Was that the trace of a smile dusted across those lips? The slightest incline of an angel's head? A halting step. And another.

Constantine mirrored his actions.

They drew together through the crowd.

…

"Where are we going?"

The man only looked at him from under heavy lids, through dark lashes.

The closeness of the carriage pressed them against each other on the seat. Every shared inch of their bodies Constantine felt with an electric sensitivity.

Long fingers closed over his own. A jolt to the heart. The man leaned in, lips seeking. Constantine met the request.

…

Herakles could feel the man's hot breath on his lips. They met. For marble, they were so soft. Beyond, a sea of churning passion.

…

The rhythm was steady, like the pounding of waves on the cliffs. Two breaths panted as one in the seclusion of thin white linen, their sails. Straining timbers, their ship, groaned under them with their voices. The waves swelled beneath them, they rose higher and higher, to the crest—then the crash on the rocks, the swirling white salt spray, the dizziness of the undertow, no up, no down, only currents caressing every inch. Then two tangled, browned bodies, laid out to dry and fill their lungs.

…

Herakles trailed the pad of a finger down the ridge of his spine.

"Speak to me in your poetry. No one uses my language as you do."

Constantine turned to him, placed a sweaty palm on his smooth cheek.

"But what should I say? Should I say that your beauty is all I see? Should I say that your red lips taste of honey, that I would drink from that well between them as long as it does not run dry? That your limbs ensnare me like a spider's web, and I a most willing moth? That your hair…" here he smiled, "your hair reminds me of your statues. You don't need to comb the tangles of love from those locks. The way it falls forward just here, over the ears…" He brushed light fingertips over Herakles' silken curls and each line of his face. "That you are the joy and balm of my life."

"Is it true?"

"Every word."

"Then yes, say that."

Constantine stared into his eyes, the window to the soul that possessed his soul so they were forever entwined.

"I'll say it as often as you like."

Herakles' eyes closed in pure, drowsy bliss. His arms folded over the man, this rare treasure who understood his soul and gave it voice.

Over their heads, the first rays of a radiant morning sun peeked through the window.

"It's alright, I already know."