[Fic] Upon the Grass of My Garden
Upon the Grass of My Garden
Japan was . . . nervous. He was nervous all through dinner, and his heart jumped into his throat when Greece reached out and took his hand, folding his palm warmly over Japan’s knuckles.
It was a pleasant feeling, of course, Greece’s hand solid and gentle and surprisingly broad over Japan’s smaller fingers (Japan had never thought of his hands as delicate, as callused and hard as they were from holding a sword, a gun, from working every day in the fields, with auto parts, but compared to Greece’s hands they felt somehow delicate, elegant and slender), but even how pleasant he found it, the tingle it sent sparking along under Japan’s skin, made his pulse pound hard in his throat and his mouth grow dry. Greece just smiled at him and sipped his tea, his eyelids heavy-lidded as always.
Looking at him made Japan feel calmer, even though he knew his cheeks were burning. He took a deep breath, smiled back, and took several bites of his sashimi, telling himself that there was no reason to be anxious, and embarrassingly intimate as it was to be holding Greece’s hand in public, there was no real reason for him to pull away. No one was looking at them, after all; they were in a secluded corner of the small restaurant.
He and Greece had been . . . going out on dates together for some time now. It was perfectly natural for Greece to hold his hand, to want to touch him, even to slip his arms around him. And it wasn’t as if Japan didn’t want him to do those things. He did, so much it was difficult for him to entirely believe it. His heart skipped in its cadence whenever Greece touched him, and he felt too warm and a bit dizzy.
But he was certain that Greece would eventually want more than that. Greece had a very high sex rate, after all, and it made sense to Japan, simply looking at him-his languid stare, the sensuous curve of his mouth, even the lack of personal modesty that had allowed Japan some knowledge of how very much like one of the ancient statues of his people Greece’s body looked-all of it seemed to suggest that not only did Greece have a great deal of sex, he was very good at it.
Much better than Japan, who had had sex with Greece the once and, he was certain, shamed himself through it, and quite possibly his ancestors as well. Not . . . that he had had sex with Greece, no, there was nothing at all . . . wrong about that.
But he had been terrible in bed. He knew it. His ears and the back of his neck burned simply thinking about it. The thought of subjecting Greece to his abject and humiliating failure as a lover all over again was . . . intolerable.
But he had no doubt Greece would want them to have sex again. That was part of being lovers, wasn’t it?
Greece came back to Japan’s small apartment-so small, it was embarrassing, but he had a television now, and a refrigerator, and he knew he was inordinately proud of that, but nearly every one of his people had those things now, and it sent a small, pleased glow through him to think of that-after dinner, and one thing led to another, and before long Greece’s mouth was on his, those broad warm fingers tangled gently in Japan’s hair, and he was tilting his head back, and Japan was lost in sensation, his fingers clutching desperately at Greece’s shoulders, lost in the dizzying, swirling sensation of the kiss, the heat of Greece’s mouth, the smallest movements of his body against him. He could lose himself in moments like these, the closeness and the pleasure, and he let his eyes slide closed. Greece kissed him thoroughly, always, slowly, deeply, carefully, as if he had eternity just for that kiss.
A moment later he had slipped a hand into under Japan’s shirt, quickly undoing his buttons to skim over his side, his chest, tingling trails of warmth following along wherever his hand touched. His mouth was on Japan’s neck, nibbling at his ear, and the feeling sparked pleasantly within him, made his breath come heavier, his stomach tighten, but then Greece slid his hand around to Japan’s back, into the waistband of his slacks, and Japan couldn’t help it, he jerked back, startled and alarmed, feeling his cheeks burning unpleasantly.
“Hmm?” was all Greece said. He reached up and ran his thumb along Japan’s cheek. The gesture felt soothing, but Japan didn’t feel soothed.
“I’m sorry,” he managed tightly, and bowed his head forward, not wanting to look Greece in the eyes. “I don’t mean . . . I . . . that is . . . .” His shame curdled sickeningly in his belly at his inability to even get out his words. “I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably.
“Don’t be,” Greece said slowly. “You’re a little shy, that’s all.”
“N-no,” Japan managed, steeling himself to look up at him, forcing his spine to straighten, his shoulders to square. “I . . . I don’t want to . . . let you down again. And I . . . I don’t know if I can manage what you would prefer, i-in . . . .” He covered his face with his sleeve, an old embarrassed habit resurfacing. “I would like to please you,” he whispered. “I just . . .”
“Hmm,” Greece said. “Well.” He sat up, then kissed Japan’s burning forehead softly. “I wouldn’t worry about that. You please me fine just like this.”
“But what if I am never able to . . . satisfy you . . . in such matters?” Japan asked after a brief moment, when it became apparent that Greece didn’t intend to say anything else.
He knew, of course, a great deal about sex. His people had never been strangers to it, and he had seen a great many erotic prints and hentai manga in his time. He had even experienced pleasure by his own hand, in solitude. But somehow the thought of it being with someone else . . . the possibility of him not living up to another’s expectations, another who was so very experienced and competent and beautiful, was too much. Japan had always wondered, what sex must be like, as his people seemed to put such a great deal of energy into it (and whether one could really copulate with octopi, but that was a different matter altogether). With a partner, surely the sexual act could be transcendent. But he had resigned himself to never truly understanding that pleasure, especially after his disastrous first time with Greece.
He stared down at his fists, clenching and unclenching against his Western-style trousers, and tried to relax his hands. It was unseemly that he be so unsettled.
There was a moment of silence, and then Greece said, “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
Japan stared at him, shocked. “Why not?” he demanded.
Greece smiled at him. “Because you satisfy me,” he said.
Japan found himself leaping to his feet and starting for the kitchen. “I-I’ll make you some tea,” he stammered out.
Greece smiled up at him and shook his head. Japan felt his face burning, and his stomach was twisting itself into knots. He fled.
He had only been heating water for a moment before Greece came up behind him and slid his arms around Japan. He stiffened. His heart pounded in his throat again, and the skin felt absurdly fragile, as if the beat might break through the skin.
Greece pulled him close against his back, which was absurdly strong and rippling with muscle for someone who never seemed to do much other than sleep. But then, maybe it was all the exertion he got in the bedroom-
Japan cut off that thought ruthlessly, swallowing with some difficulty, so hard it hurt.
“Japan,” Greece said gently against the back of his neck. He slid his hands around to Japan’s stomach and pulled his shirt out of his trousers, then moved his hands up, resting them gently against Japan’s stomach, pulling him back when Japan’s body seized with tension and he would have pulled away. Japan let him, but he couldn’t seem to relax. He traced a small circle just about Japan’s hip then ran his palm upward. His fingers ran softly, gently, over the ugly, horrible scars that wouldn’t fade and still burned sometimes, like the burning would never stop, one on his side, by his hip, the other near his shoulder. Japan bit his lip against a whimper and turned his head away. “Japan, don’t you trust me?” Greece said in that same soft voice.
“I’m not certain,” Japan said after a moment, his heart thudding in his chest. “Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Greece said after another moment, smiling into his hair. “You’re ancient and beautiful, Japan. You could never disappoint me, you know.”
“But I did,” Japan pointed out with a stubborn determination to hold to the practicality despite the ache it brought him.
Greece’s hands moved out from under his shirt and Japan squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lip against a sound of protest at the loss of their gentle warmth, the shimmering softness of the sensation of touch over the sensitive, aching scar-tissue, the contrast to the feeling of his warm, roughened fingers brushing the rest of his skin. But Greece’s hands just came up and tugged at Japan’s tie, loosening it, unbuttoning his top button. His thumb rested against the hollow of Japan’s throat for a moment and Japan shuddered at the feeling.
“I can show you,” Greece said after a moment, “if you’ll let me. But if you’re anxious, we can wait.”
“We can?” Japan breathed. His throat felt absurdly thick. He wished Greece would let go of him so he could busy himself serving him tea, give himself some kind of steadiness, or emotional distance, or . . . .
“I want you,” Greece said, and Japan’s skin felt as if it were on fire with his embarrassed flush, “more than anyone else I have ever met. You did not disappoint me. You were beautiful.” He held Japan close against his heart. “I like you very, very much.”
Japan managed to take a breath, eventually. He thought it was some minutes later.
“I would be honored to wait,” Greece said after another moment. He kissed the back of Japan’s head.
Japan closed his eyes. “I think,” he said, and steeled himself for a long moment. It couldn’t be that difficult, he reminded himself. He had done much more difficult things. He had defeated the Mongols. He had surrendered in the war.
He turned around, and looked up into Greece’s eyes. They were warm, soft, and understanding. Beautiful.
He reached up and took Greece’s cheeks in both his hands. “I think you should show me some more of what it was you were doing,” he said, and leaned up to kiss Greece, hesitantly, on the lips.