Entry tags:
fic: the things you tell yourself to make yourself forget
Title: the things you try and tell yourself to make yourself forget
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: Greece/Japan
Word count: 1507
Rating: R
Author's note: kink meme: snow angst with a Greece/Japan bonus. Why look, it's (almost)![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
disownmereturns's birthday! Title comes from "Anna Begins"by Counting Crows which sums up the mood of this piece pretty much.
Seeing the moonlight
spilling down
through these trees,
my heart fills to the brim
with autumn.
-omo no komachi
"It's not usually this cold," Japan says. He looks out at the golden gingko leaves, now crusted in frost and snow.
Greece has a coat pulled tight around him. His breath makes white clouds in the air which evaporate into the grey sky. Japan thinks of paintings: mountains and cranes, winter snow on trees. Greece closes his eyes and for a moment, Japan thinks that he has fallen asleep. But a few moments later, he opens them again.
Japan does not know if it was a prayer, a memory or a regret.
He doesn't ask.
*
When it falls dark they fall silent. Greece is languorous, the cold seems to slow him down, make him even more drowsy. When it is time for bed, Japan shows Greece his room. Without a word, he takes off the coat he wears on his kimono. The lamp burns low, and there is a faint, earthy scent to the air.
Greece doesn't ask if this is how Japan treats all of his diplomatic visitors. Japan wonders if he wonders, but neither speak aloud. The windows are frosted over, turning the light into fractals.
Greece's on his back. Japan wets his fingertips and paints in this invisible ink kanji on Greece's chest. Ai, and then koi as if he has any claim to these human owned emotions.
For a moment Japan's hands falter. There's the strangest sensation, a tightness in his chest. He shakes his head, but it's still there. Greece looks at him with an intense, studying gaze. For a moment, they pause, surprised at what they have discovered.
"What is it?" Greece asks.
"A...a ward. To protect from evil," Japan says.
"I see..."
A breath, a few racing heartbeats and Greece reaches out and pulls him beside him. Greece wears nothing, even in the cold. There's gooseflesh over his arms. His touch is always so hot, burning, like the Mediterranean sun. He begins to undress Japan–or at least tries to. Japan hides his smile between his hands.
"Allow me," he says.
Greece watches him undress, curious and patient. He leans his cheek on his palm, his arm propped on the futon. Japan carefully takes off his thing and hangs them up, instead of letting them slip to the floor. Passion has never been his element.
Now it is Greece that seems faintly amused as he takes Japan in his arms. He's strong, and solid, and yet with a softness to his edges that other countries, like Netherlands never had.
As always, he is passive. He allows himself to be taken, used even as a tool for diplomacy. He closes his eyes as Greece kisses down his neck, and begins to touch over his body. He doesn't bother with preparation to penetrate Japan, only continues his languid, unhurried study of his body. A kiss there, a touch of his hand there. It isn't an orderly act, with a beginning, and a direct end. Unlike others he as taken to his bed, Greece is not obsessed in merely reaching climax. His hands are steady. Japan finds in spite of himself, he is reacting. It is less business agreement, ritual of countries and more an actual act of love.
His climax seems an afterthought to Greece's attentions, as if he could catnap through the night and wake to kiss and touch him again until morning came and forced them back into their roles as country.
It wasn't any less powerful for its languor, however. The rush was long and slow, like a Mediterranean summer. Greece falls asleep with his hand still loosely gripping Japan's member, his body resting closely nestled into him.
Japan lets his hand linger on Greece's chest to those two little words he shouldn't have written, shouldn't have even thought.
*
Japan wakes alone. The feel of his feet on the tatami is a shock. Greece's things aren't packed away, so he hasn't left—not that Greece would be the sort to flee in the night, anyways. Japan begins to brew tea and look for his guest. Pochi follows after him, happily sniffing at his heels.
He isn't washing himself, or getting dressed. Japan checks the corners to see if he's fallen asleep in some corner like a cat looking for a pool of sunlight, but to no avail.
He finally finds him in the gardens, looking out towards the teahouse. The sky is grey, filled with future snow. The leather of his boots is damp with the new snow from the night. Japan pulls the coat of his kimono closer around him.
"Greece-san, is something the matter? You've always seemed to be a late sleeper," Japan says.
"I was just listening for the sea," Greece murmurs.
"Ah. We're too far off for that," Japan says. "I apologize."
"No...it's no matter. I slept on the ride, so I didn't realize we were that far off..." Greece looks far off.
"I promise that next time I will show you the coastline," Japan says. He says it before he can censor himself, to filter out the emotions that have been unwillingly stirred in him.
He assumes too much, that there will be a 'next time'.
"I'll look forward to it," Greece says.
The apology withers in his throat, and from its ashes blooms the stirring of what he shouldn't be feeling: hope.
*
Instead they head out to the nearby temple. The roof is covered in frost-laced golden gingko leaves. A young attendant to the priests sweeps at the door. Japan watches as Greece ties paper strips upon the trees. Last time he wished for Turkey's death, but this time he seems more solemn.
Japan wishes for what he always wishes for. Success for his country, a warm Spring. Nothing more. His fingers tremble slightly as he ties his wishes. The snow covered branches bend under his touch, and snow breaks free and falls over them. He reaches up to brush the flecks from Greece's hair, but it melts on contact. Drops of water drip from his chin as if he's been caught in a downpour. Japan stays paused there, his hands almost touching Greece's hair, his face.
It's a public place. Japan flushes as he drops his hands and murmurs an apology. But when Greece asks what for? he cannot say why.
*
Greece leaves the next morning. The goodbye is quiet, a short exchange of pleasantries. Greece slouches off, sleepily taking his things up. Japan cannot tell if the sadness is Greece's perpetual melancholy thoughtfulness, or a show of feeling; whether he's mourning the loss of Homer, or himself.
When he looks at Greece's back, facing away to the ship, he feels a profound sadness. How many others will visit him and see his bed? Feel his touch, even his kiss? Was this just this to him? It isn't the first time Greece has visited him, but it feels as if something has broken free between them, or perhaps just himself.
No, he has no right.
When he arrives at home Japan brews himself a pot of oolong tea. He reminds himself the facts he has always known: Love is owned by the humans in all their transience. Countries have no place for love. Love to humans can only bring sorrow at their death, and other countries may one day break away and become enemies.
He thinks of the teachings of Buddha. Love, connection and affection are only things which will keep him in the suffering of the world. But then, for the nigh immortal there are no incarnations, no promise of release.
He is half owned by Buddha, half by Amaterasu and Raijin, the kami of his country down to the smallest spirits in the stones. For a while, Christ almost came to take residence between the sun goddess and the Enlightened One. But Christ was an Anglo god, and soon his people turned on him, cutting off the converts like a malignancy.
He stares out the window a long time, his tea gradually becoming cold on a fall day that felt like winter.
He wonders how long he can fight a battle against his heart and win.
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: Greece/Japan
Word count: 1507
Rating: R
Author's note: kink meme: snow angst with a Greece/Japan bonus. Why look, it's (almost)
disownmereturns's birthday! Title comes from "Anna Begins"by Counting Crows which sums up the mood of this piece pretty much.spilling down
through these trees,
my heart fills to the brim
with autumn.
-omo no komachi
"It's not usually this cold," Japan says. He looks out at the golden gingko leaves, now crusted in frost and snow.
Greece has a coat pulled tight around him. His breath makes white clouds in the air which evaporate into the grey sky. Japan thinks of paintings: mountains and cranes, winter snow on trees. Greece closes his eyes and for a moment, Japan thinks that he has fallen asleep. But a few moments later, he opens them again.
Japan does not know if it was a prayer, a memory or a regret.
He doesn't ask.
*
When it falls dark they fall silent. Greece is languorous, the cold seems to slow him down, make him even more drowsy. When it is time for bed, Japan shows Greece his room. Without a word, he takes off the coat he wears on his kimono. The lamp burns low, and there is a faint, earthy scent to the air.
Greece doesn't ask if this is how Japan treats all of his diplomatic visitors. Japan wonders if he wonders, but neither speak aloud. The windows are frosted over, turning the light into fractals.
Greece's on his back. Japan wets his fingertips and paints in this invisible ink kanji on Greece's chest. Ai, and then koi as if he has any claim to these human owned emotions.
For a moment Japan's hands falter. There's the strangest sensation, a tightness in his chest. He shakes his head, but it's still there. Greece looks at him with an intense, studying gaze. For a moment, they pause, surprised at what they have discovered.
"What is it?" Greece asks.
"A...a ward. To protect from evil," Japan says.
"I see..."
A breath, a few racing heartbeats and Greece reaches out and pulls him beside him. Greece wears nothing, even in the cold. There's gooseflesh over his arms. His touch is always so hot, burning, like the Mediterranean sun. He begins to undress Japan–or at least tries to. Japan hides his smile between his hands.
"Allow me," he says.
Greece watches him undress, curious and patient. He leans his cheek on his palm, his arm propped on the futon. Japan carefully takes off his thing and hangs them up, instead of letting them slip to the floor. Passion has never been his element.
Now it is Greece that seems faintly amused as he takes Japan in his arms. He's strong, and solid, and yet with a softness to his edges that other countries, like Netherlands never had.
As always, he is passive. He allows himself to be taken, used even as a tool for diplomacy. He closes his eyes as Greece kisses down his neck, and begins to touch over his body. He doesn't bother with preparation to penetrate Japan, only continues his languid, unhurried study of his body. A kiss there, a touch of his hand there. It isn't an orderly act, with a beginning, and a direct end. Unlike others he as taken to his bed, Greece is not obsessed in merely reaching climax. His hands are steady. Japan finds in spite of himself, he is reacting. It is less business agreement, ritual of countries and more an actual act of love.
His climax seems an afterthought to Greece's attentions, as if he could catnap through the night and wake to kiss and touch him again until morning came and forced them back into their roles as country.
It wasn't any less powerful for its languor, however. The rush was long and slow, like a Mediterranean summer. Greece falls asleep with his hand still loosely gripping Japan's member, his body resting closely nestled into him.
Japan lets his hand linger on Greece's chest to those two little words he shouldn't have written, shouldn't have even thought.
*
Japan wakes alone. The feel of his feet on the tatami is a shock. Greece's things aren't packed away, so he hasn't left—not that Greece would be the sort to flee in the night, anyways. Japan begins to brew tea and look for his guest. Pochi follows after him, happily sniffing at his heels.
He isn't washing himself, or getting dressed. Japan checks the corners to see if he's fallen asleep in some corner like a cat looking for a pool of sunlight, but to no avail.
He finally finds him in the gardens, looking out towards the teahouse. The sky is grey, filled with future snow. The leather of his boots is damp with the new snow from the night. Japan pulls the coat of his kimono closer around him.
"Greece-san, is something the matter? You've always seemed to be a late sleeper," Japan says.
"I was just listening for the sea," Greece murmurs.
"Ah. We're too far off for that," Japan says. "I apologize."
"No...it's no matter. I slept on the ride, so I didn't realize we were that far off..." Greece looks far off.
"I promise that next time I will show you the coastline," Japan says. He says it before he can censor himself, to filter out the emotions that have been unwillingly stirred in him.
He assumes too much, that there will be a 'next time'.
"I'll look forward to it," Greece says.
The apology withers in his throat, and from its ashes blooms the stirring of what he shouldn't be feeling: hope.
*
Instead they head out to the nearby temple. The roof is covered in frost-laced golden gingko leaves. A young attendant to the priests sweeps at the door. Japan watches as Greece ties paper strips upon the trees. Last time he wished for Turkey's death, but this time he seems more solemn.
Japan wishes for what he always wishes for. Success for his country, a warm Spring. Nothing more. His fingers tremble slightly as he ties his wishes. The snow covered branches bend under his touch, and snow breaks free and falls over them. He reaches up to brush the flecks from Greece's hair, but it melts on contact. Drops of water drip from his chin as if he's been caught in a downpour. Japan stays paused there, his hands almost touching Greece's hair, his face.
It's a public place. Japan flushes as he drops his hands and murmurs an apology. But when Greece asks what for? he cannot say why.
*
Greece leaves the next morning. The goodbye is quiet, a short exchange of pleasantries. Greece slouches off, sleepily taking his things up. Japan cannot tell if the sadness is Greece's perpetual melancholy thoughtfulness, or a show of feeling; whether he's mourning the loss of Homer, or himself.
When he looks at Greece's back, facing away to the ship, he feels a profound sadness. How many others will visit him and see his bed? Feel his touch, even his kiss? Was this just this to him? It isn't the first time Greece has visited him, but it feels as if something has broken free between them, or perhaps just himself.
No, he has no right.
When he arrives at home Japan brews himself a pot of oolong tea. He reminds himself the facts he has always known: Love is owned by the humans in all their transience. Countries have no place for love. Love to humans can only bring sorrow at their death, and other countries may one day break away and become enemies.
He thinks of the teachings of Buddha. Love, connection and affection are only things which will keep him in the suffering of the world. But then, for the nigh immortal there are no incarnations, no promise of release.
He is half owned by Buddha, half by Amaterasu and Raijin, the kami of his country down to the smallest spirits in the stones. For a while, Christ almost came to take residence between the sun goddess and the Enlightened One. But Christ was an Anglo god, and soon his people turned on him, cutting off the converts like a malignancy.
He stares out the window a long time, his tea gradually becoming cold on a fall day that felt like winter.
He wonders how long he can fight a battle against his heart and win.