technically late but not really -- kinda. Hah.
So late for Christmas and it's already past New Year, but the deadline's today so HAH! /o/ Anyways, AsaKiku 2010 Christmas Exchange~ first time joining and I'm minutes away from failing. I'm awesome like that. Come to think of it, this is also the first time I'm posting a fanfic for Hetalia. Hee~
Lastly, I'm so stealing this clichéd story title. orz;
REQUEST:
- highschool AU (they can be either students or teachers or both) Japan, Black Japan and England
- wise, albeit fluffy old man talk on a warm peaceful night
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers
Summary: He watches him and the other, and them together, and it is poetry.
Smoke & Mirrors
They meet in the library, and Arthur smiles, cordial and gentlemanly as he reaches for the book the other could not. His reward is a smile that is shy and grateful, and the Englishman finds himself admiring the pretty blush on the smaller boy’s cheeks. Surrounded by a triad of bookshelves and away from prying eyes, their place is in the far corner with thick references, browning papers and a dusty smell. Kiku often stays there, and he reads, he studies, and he makes notes, and sometimes, he even draws. He is always there when Arthur seeks his company.
Their camaraderie is, though quiet, one with its many repercussions. Kiku is always graciously polite, almost faultlessly so. Arthur blames his upbringing, the culture, as many times as he appreciates it for the same reasons his friend cannot be so casual: his gaze, his smile, his speech, his gesture will always be so respectful, and so seductive all at once. His hair, cropped short and straight and dark and veiling his eyes like smoke after the fireworks, the clouds when the sun is hiding. Or maybe like mist -- purplish, grayish. Black. And dazed, and beautiful. Unattainable.
In their private moments, he tries to get Kiku to speak his name (A-Asa... Asa--ru). Sometimes, Arthur corrects him gently, and other times he does not bother. He thinks -- anyway, that -- it is endearing, the way those soft-looking pale lips would curve in a disappointed pout or a sheepish smile when a word is mispronounced or his fingers would twitch and tug and curl minutely against the constricting sleeves of his uniform. It is endearing because each word Kiku speaks is like a pale pink petal of a cherry blossom falling silently to the ground. He tries it again (..Asaaru. Ar-.. Asa---), but he is interrupted, and Arthur starts, when his name is instead said like a vile curse (Arthur Kirkland).
He turns to see an identical Japanese youth: short black hair, slanted black eyes and pale porcelain skin, but the glacial indifference would be so alien on Kiku's pretty face. 'Gaijin', this other one sneers, and again (like the times before it), the utter difference confounds the Briton. This one's English had been perfect, if not crisp and cold, and his gait was strong and artlessly elegant as he walks past -- not disrespectful, never disrespectful, but always impersonal and imperious.
This other one pulls his twin to him, and they do not clash, but blend:
the boundaries between black and white nonexistent,
monotonous
like the spark before the blaze
or the smoke after the final crackle;
fey children embracing,
and the other calls his name, (Arthur), tasting it in his mouth, rolling it with his tongue (Arthur, Arthur, Arthur--), and he is pulled away with an abrupt goodbye.
(Arthur---)
Is, as always, intrigued.
•
•
•
•
Honda usually spends his afternoons in the dojo, and once Arthur had chanced upon his training, the Briton is there when he fancies it. And the fancy beckons to him often. It could be because while the boy wears indifference like a mantle over his strong shoulders, the way he holds the bokken is the same as if one would clasp hands in prayer. Honda's form is the most flawless Arthur has ever seen, and his sword work is the same as his smiles -- brief flashes like the glint of sunlight on the edge of a blade. He does not see it as frequently as he would like, but the firm grip and the dark eyes and a dance like the flight of a dragonfly compensates with how
they leave him
breathless
wanting
and insatiable.
If Kiku’s eyes are like the gray wisp of smoke against the purple of a tranquil night, then Honda’s are the fire.
fin.
Just for a bit of clarification, since I couldn't think of a name that would give justice to black!Kiku, I just had England refer to him as Honda, and Japan Kiku.
And yes, Arthur is an English teacher.
*Gaijin: It means 'foreigner', but literally, it's translated to 'outsider'.
*bokken: wooden sword, usually used for kendo. It's heavier and a lot more painful than the usual shinai, which is made from bamboo.
Anyways, that's it.
Thank you for reading! Hope I didn't mess up that badly, since I've been getting rusty x__X
Now if I can only work on my other unfinished fanfics... >u>);;
Those of other fandoms, included. orz;
Lastly, I'm so stealing this clichéd story title. orz;
REQUEST:
- highschool AU (they can be either students or teachers or both) Japan, Black Japan and England
- wise, albeit fluffy old man talk on a warm peaceful night
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Hetalia Axis Powers
Summary: He watches him and the other, and them together, and it is poetry.
Smoke & Mirrors
They meet in the library, and Arthur smiles, cordial and gentlemanly as he reaches for the book the other could not. His reward is a smile that is shy and grateful, and the Englishman finds himself admiring the pretty blush on the smaller boy’s cheeks. Surrounded by a triad of bookshelves and away from prying eyes, their place is in the far corner with thick references, browning papers and a dusty smell. Kiku often stays there, and he reads, he studies, and he makes notes, and sometimes, he even draws. He is always there when Arthur seeks his company.
Their camaraderie is, though quiet, one with its many repercussions. Kiku is always graciously polite, almost faultlessly so. Arthur blames his upbringing, the culture, as many times as he appreciates it for the same reasons his friend cannot be so casual: his gaze, his smile, his speech, his gesture will always be so respectful, and so seductive all at once. His hair, cropped short and straight and dark and veiling his eyes like smoke after the fireworks, the clouds when the sun is hiding. Or maybe like mist -- purplish, grayish. Black. And dazed, and beautiful. Unattainable.
In their private moments, he tries to get Kiku to speak his name (A-Asa... Asa--ru). Sometimes, Arthur corrects him gently, and other times he does not bother. He thinks -- anyway, that -- it is endearing, the way those soft-looking pale lips would curve in a disappointed pout or a sheepish smile when a word is mispronounced or his fingers would twitch and tug and curl minutely against the constricting sleeves of his uniform. It is endearing because each word Kiku speaks is like a pale pink petal of a cherry blossom falling silently to the ground. He tries it again (..Asaaru. Ar-.. Asa---), but he is interrupted, and Arthur starts, when his name is instead said like a vile curse (Arthur Kirkland).
He turns to see an identical Japanese youth: short black hair, slanted black eyes and pale porcelain skin, but the glacial indifference would be so alien on Kiku's pretty face. 'Gaijin', this other one sneers, and again (like the times before it), the utter difference confounds the Briton. This one's English had been perfect, if not crisp and cold, and his gait was strong and artlessly elegant as he walks past -- not disrespectful, never disrespectful, but always impersonal and imperious.
This other one pulls his twin to him, and they do not clash, but blend:
the boundaries between black and white nonexistent,
monotonous
like the spark before the blaze
or the smoke after the final crackle;
fey children embracing,
and the other calls his name, (Arthur), tasting it in his mouth, rolling it with his tongue (Arthur, Arthur, Arthur--), and he is pulled away with an abrupt goodbye.
(Arthur---)
Is, as always, intrigued.
•
•
•
•
Honda usually spends his afternoons in the dojo, and once Arthur had chanced upon his training, the Briton is there when he fancies it. And the fancy beckons to him often. It could be because while the boy wears indifference like a mantle over his strong shoulders, the way he holds the bokken is the same as if one would clasp hands in prayer. Honda's form is the most flawless Arthur has ever seen, and his sword work is the same as his smiles -- brief flashes like the glint of sunlight on the edge of a blade. He does not see it as frequently as he would like, but the firm grip and the dark eyes and a dance like the flight of a dragonfly compensates with how
they leave him
breathless
wanting
and insatiable.
If Kiku’s eyes are like the gray wisp of smoke against the purple of a tranquil night, then Honda’s are the fire.
fin.
Just for a bit of clarification, since I couldn't think of a name that would give justice to black!Kiku, I just had England refer to him as Honda, and Japan Kiku.
And yes, Arthur is an English teacher.
*Gaijin: It means 'foreigner', but literally, it's translated to 'outsider'.
*bokken: wooden sword, usually used for kendo. It's heavier and a lot more painful than the usual shinai, which is made from bamboo.
Anyways, that's it.
Thank you for reading! Hope I didn't mess up that badly, since I've been getting rusty x__X
Now if I can only work on my other unfinished fanfics... >u>);;
Those of other fandoms, included. orz;