A Poverty of Self (1/7)
anonymous
July 13 2010, 05:46:46 UTC
Little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth. For a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love. -Sir Francis Bacon
3. Igirisu
There’s a story that England remembers on his last night in Nagasaki.
“There’s a girl,” he says, sitting stiffly as Japan blinks an impassive eye. “And she’s stuck in a tower.”
“Is this tower in your home country?” he asks, all seriousness.
“No, nothing like that. This happened a long time ago. In France. Or Germany- I don’t know.” He forgotten the once-upon-a-time. England swallows, shakes himself. “Once upon a time, there was a girl trapped in a tower by a horrible witch. And so she never saw the outside world her entire life, because she was trapped so far away.”
Kiku nods -isn’t that sad?-shuffling to the corner of the room and lighting a candle. He fans the flames and his skin glows in the welcoming light. Arthur watches him move, entranced by the shadows that flicker across the tatami mats like moths drawn drunkenly to candle-flame. Even after a month here, England has not been permitted to leave Nagasaki, to see more than a glimpse of his host.
Japan sits before him on the engawa, expression politely level. “And then what, England-san?”
His throat is dry, good God; with a swift curse Arthur coughs it clear. “Well,” he continues, “a prince arrives at the tower and hears her singing. And... he sees the witch call out to the girl, ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair’, and she does, and the witch climbs up the girl’s hair into the tower.”
“Her hair must be very long then, England-san. Or the tower very low indeed.” Japan smiles, brow furrowed in amused confusion as England flushes. He doesn’t think that Japan knows that he is being overly literal; it’s that difference in culture, that fascinating, delicious difference, and Japan can’t know the frustrating humour behind his action.
Can he? “It’s long. Yes.”
A click of the tongue. “It must,” he replies flatly, “be terribly impractical.”
“That’s not really the point, Japan,” England stresses, excited, frustrated, losing patience with himself because this is important. “The point is, the prince falls in love with the girl, and so he climbs up her hair to save her, and-“
Japan interrupts again. “But the prince has only met her. How is it he falls in love with her when he knows nothing about her?”
He sighs. “It’s a love story, Japan.”
“But did the prince really love her?’ Innocence, cocked heads. Japan in a tease in frills and silk finery. So England thinks. “Did they really end up happy? When the newness and the novelty wore off, did the prince know anything about the girl at all? For that matter-”
“They live happily ever after,” he retorts sharply. “That’s it.”
Kiku just looks at him, pale with nervousness or apathy or fear or anger. It’s hard to tell with Kiku. “…For that matter, what if the girl never wanted to leave the tower in the first place?”
England understands that they’re not talking about fairy tales anymore, and perhaps they never were. He can’t answer.
Japan gathers his silks and although his face remains as impassive as ever, his eyes recall endless oceans, and they make England think that somehow they’ve moved further and further apart. “We have a story too, England-san. Once, an old man found a baby girl in a bamboo forest. Because she was from the moon she was more beautiful than any in the land, and as she grew older five suitors came to claim her love. But she sent them on impossible quests to prove their devotion, and not one of them succeeded. They all gave up and, so, the girl returned to the moon where she came from, abandoning the old man and old woman who had taken her in.”
Japan stops. England stares. “That’s it?”
“Yes. You were expecting something more?”
He lets out an explosive breath, watching him speak, helpless. He doesn’t want to leave like this, this isn’t how it’s meant to be-
A Poverty of Self (2/7)
anonymous
July 13 2010, 05:52:47 UTC
“No,” Kiku whispers, eyes clouded with what could be regret (or anything, really; England doesn’t know because Japan won’t let him in). “And I…I don’t think this is a love story.”
Trade proposal rejected, Arthur leaves the islands of Japan floating behind him as he sails off home, wondering, guessing at himself and his own feelings. Ever mysterious, Kiku stands on the dock to watch him go.
-
5. Doitsu
Ludwig notices Japan staring at him during training when they’re running laps in the dusty roads around his house, where trains run loaded with conscripts to Manchuria. He’s looking at the lines of Germany’s own uniform so hard and with so much focus that Ludwig wonders whether he can even hear the cries of widows and daughters on the platform around them. Ludwig swallows, but says nothing.
The past few months have changed the two of them.
The night hangs thick with unspoken words and the ghost of what is to come. When they’re all watching the fireflies dip and dance, when Italy is asleep and dreaming, Kiku says clearly, “This war is revenge.”
Germany tips his head. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” They stand, alone, together. “For all the monsters. The secrets we keep from each other.”
This is not how Germany remembers Japan, but it is how he sees him now- always quiet, with a thrumming intensity under his skin radiating in waves, terrifying and yet familiar and captivating beneath the surface.
“You were watching me,” he says with a dry want beginning to stir in his throat.
He pauses at that, and then he shuffles an inch closer, white uniform whispering. They watch each other, not quite uneasily, as Japan’s hand rises to fiddle with the collar of Ludwig shirt. A slow exhale; Ludwig knows what this is, and he never had expected it from Japan, but in this odd atmosphere between them it suddenly feels as natural as breathing. “It is because you are beautiful,” he murmurs, “like this.”
Japan is power, beneath his fingertips so deep that it feels like Germany is looking at himself in some twisted fun-house mirror. Germany is power by extension, because they’re axis-alone but not alone and where Italy is flashy parades and skin-deep fascism, bless his soul, their pride and anger is deep-deeper-deepest. It comes from the feeling of being cheated something important. A crowd is not company. Talk is not dialogue.
They are both strong enough- smart enough- to know it.
Kiku is close enough that Ludwig’s breath ruffles his hair just so. Tentatively (and how strange, for it to be only tentative when he’s meant to all Blitzkrieg and bomb-blasts) he slips his hand onto Japan’s waist where it hangs, hot and heavy and at Kiku’s slowly flushing face Ludwig’s insides slip like they never have.
“I bombed the Nanking railway last night,” Japan says. It’s not really a statement and more of a question.
“…Would I not have done the same?” he asks him. It’s not really a question and more of a statement.
-and Japan kisses him. Japan kisses him. Japan kisses Germany and Germany responds, because this is something like acceptance, and it doesn’t feel like something wrong anymore, amidst the bombs and the annexing, not between two countries such as they. Not now. And like he has been waiting for this, somehow, Germany shifts his hands and with one smooth tug Japan’s silks are off and pooling around them and all that seems to matter is the fact that together, the heat and the feeling is so great that it stops them thinking about the fact that maybe it’s not really them, and more the absence of others.
Germany is smart enough- alone enough- to know it.
It’s furious and vicious and fast and at one point when Kiku’s face is level with his chest and his cock hard against Germany’s own, Ludwig hears Italy’s soft sigh of sleep. They say nothing, but Japan’s face is taught with concentration and his fingers are reaching for the back-room-abortion thoughts behind Ludwig’s stoic-pained face. He finds them. With a staggered moan, Germany’s mind flashes with a million thoughts- Austria’s tightly drawn face; France in his power, that dirty, fucking slut; punching America’s fucking face in-
A Poverty of Self (3/7)
anonymous
July 13 2010, 05:57:02 UTC
“You were wrong,” snarls Japan, angry and low and so unlike the Japan anyone sees. “You were all wrong- I never wanted any of you-“
When they finally collapse, heart thudding in his ears, Kiku winds fingers into his hair to let it down in gentle strokes. Possession, or trust, or the lack of it. Knowing Japan, knowing himself, it is all three at once.
In a way, Germany is aware, then, that he loves Japan. Because of the world, and the railway, and Francis and Ivan and anger. Germany has his own revenge to take. In Europe, surrounded, Ludwig had been somehow just as alone as Kiku had.
“We are the same, you and I,” Japan murmurs above him. His eyes are on his face but they see beyond him, blank and troubled.
They are alike, Japan and he. “America will show you no mercy in the Pacific,” he whispers.
The grip in Ludwig’s hair tightens. “No,” he agrees, “he never has.”
Italy, asleep, unaware and happy, remains just out of reach.
-
4. Amerika
“Love,” says America, “is a wonderful thing. When two people love each other, oh, it’s the best thing in the world, Japan. It’s great.” He lets a trickle of sand escape his fingers, eyes bright and glasses brighter with dying sunlight. In his suit, Alfred is an assassin lounging on the shore, murder painted in the curve of his hand.
The black shadow of the kurofune hangs in Nagasaki Harbour above them, like a cloud.
From his seat on a pile of drift wood, Kiku watches America build sandcastles in the sky like no one before him. “So England told me.”
The old man? Alfred jerks to look at Japan with a laugh on his lips. “England? He’s not a great romantic- he’s too old! What did he say?”
Staring out at the horizon, Japan answers, “A story. About princesses and towers.”
The year is 1853 and Alfred is moored in Tokyo Bay where no foreign ship has ever been before. Perry is a brave man on a mission, and Alfred is a hero, after all. They’ve landed with gifts and treaties for trade and goodwill, with a navy fleet far superior to Kiku’s outdated wooden ships; they’re confident that Japan will listen to reason and stop being such an isolationist.
Japan himself is a strange one with the closed shutter eyes and the overly formal manner. Every time Alfred leans closer to take a good look at him he freezes and tells him to be appropriate. Nagasaki is where he’s 'supposed' to go.
He chucks a stick into the ocean, watches the ripples. “That’s not love,” he scoffs. “…Have you ever been courted, Japan?”
Kiku looks uncomfortable and says nothing.
“You haven’t?” America turns, young eyes wide. He can’t believe it. “You’ve never been in love?” Japan lowers his eyes and tightens his robe around himself as Alfred rises to his feet. “Then why do you turn everyone away?”
“I’m happy the way I am. I see no need for love,” he says under his breath, uncommonly blunt.
America rummages in his pockets as he crosses the sand. Kneeling before him, he produces him a flower, a chrysanthemum, and places it carefully in hair. Kiku blushes and looks scandalised, wary. His fingers crawl up to feel it. “I picked it while we were walking. I thought it would look pretty in your hair, you know?”
Japan swallows. “Thank you, but this is unnecessary.”
“I’ve got more! You ever been serenaded?” Good-natured, motivated, America won’t take no for an answer. “Oh, Japan, I love you more than words can express, more than life itself! Each morning is made brighter by your smile. If I could stay here for eternity by your side I would die a happy man. Please, let me in so I can understand and feel your beauty- your bewitching gaze haunts me, your gentle blush is as a blooming rose-“
“You are making me feel foolish,” he mumbles, faces close now. “I don’t need rescuing.”
Alfred places a soft hand on his shoulder. “But if you never open up, Japan, you’ll never experience anything new!”
A Poverty of Self (4/7)
anonymous
July 13 2010, 05:59:48 UTC
A rattling breath. Japan’s eyes flicker to his face, down, back up, away. “Love…others are not what I need,” he says weakly.
Firmly, kindly, he pulls him to his feet and presses his forehead against his. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” America quips, an eager child, sotto voce. “That could be love.”
“America,” he gasps, struggling only the slightest. “America-san, please don’t do this. This is inappropriate-“
It’s for Japan’s own good, what Alfred’s about to do. “Cut loose a little, Japan.”
“Please,” he whispers, whimpers. His eyes are narrowed, trembling. “Don’t make me, let me stay here, please, don’t-“
Alfred breaks the kiss, expecting to see Kiku’s face flushed, maybe scandalised, but Japan is not looking at him. Japan is crying brokenly with the intensity of a small child, like he has been violated, not kissed, and this isn’t the romance that America had promised at all. All they can do is stand on the shore as the sun sets, America holding him and Japan sobbing and sobbing until night falls because he loves him, and his world has opened.
-
2. Porutogaru
Portugal is instructed to kneel and bow to the man by the courtesans, and knowledgeable about local reactions to breaches of etiquette, at least from China, he complies. It is only when a low voice tells him to rise that Portugal casts the first European eyes on the illusive Japan in history.
He’s beautiful. Portugal smiles at the small man in the flowing white silks, folding fan in one hand and attendants knelt at his other. It is the most beautiful picture Portugal has seen, culture and way of life so different and opulent. Japan, in kind, seems entranced by his very being; his gaze lingers on his sandy hair and the cloak he wears, affronted and fascinated all at once.
They are different. Portugal knows that difference breeds curiosity; he’s a victim of its charms himself.
“Oh, Great Island nation of Japan,” he intones, lowering his head with his eyes turned up. “I come in peace as the seafaring nation of Portugal, seeking audience and bearing trinkets from my own country and from the land of Han.” China. Japan leans forward.
“Of course.” He nods, eyes still wide and staring. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Closer, Japan has the fine features of an aristocrat and the pale, pale skin of one who stays indoors. They take cake in the tearooms and Kiku stares at the simple sponge he procures. Portugal admires the statues and the lines of calligraphy festooned on the wooden beams.
“You are unlike any being I have ever seen.” Japan shakes his head. “Do all from your land appear so? With such skin, and such…hair like gold?”
Portugal, easy going and just as curious, laughs. “Yes! Do all of your children have hair like the finest silk?” And Japan blushes, hiding his face with his sleeve, making Portugal laugh all the more.
Weeks pass. Japan shows him Nagasaki town, a port city with houses of thatch and gilded temples to Buddhist idols. “Such beauty after so much ocean!” Portugal remarks easily, gazing at the temples and the townsfolk. They talk about their customs, about cake and tea and about Yao. He lets his fingers linger on buildings, on Japan’s skin, entranced and entrancing by parts.
Portugal has never met anyone like Japan before.
“Will you accompany me to see the firework display?” Japan asks one night as Portugal prepares to set sail again. In the dying light Portugal thinks Japan is the prettiest he’s seen in white silk; impulsive, he kisses him quickly and says yes.
Flares light up the night sky as Portugal reaches for his hand and basks in the beauty.
“This is why I’ve always loved to travel,” Portugal explains brightly. “The newness. I love it. Everything is so wondrous and amazing when you discover it.”
“Will you stay?” Japan asks him, then, under the stars. “Will you stay a while longer?”
“Oh, Japan.” Portugal smiles ruefully and places a hand on the shorter man’s head. Kiku is warm in the summer night and smells like tea leaves. “I wish I could. But I need to go. You wouldn’t want to tie me down, would you? Life's an adventure.”
Eyes still plaintive, Japan nevertheless nods and his mouth tightens. “I…I understand.”
A Poverty of Self (5/7)
anonymous
July 13 2010, 06:03:04 UTC
“No, Japan, you don’t. This isn’t about what happened this month, this week, today! I love you, I do. You’re so beautiful, fascinating, captivating! How could I not?” He pulls him closer and presses a kiss to the top of his head; Kiku makes a small noise like a mouse being trod on. He laughs.
Then, he sobers. “But Japan, I’m not a man who can stay in one place. I have to go, because I…I live for the colonies and the navigation and that discovery. Without that, I am not half the man you think I am. This,” he tightens his arm around Japan’s body, “is what it is because we are so different and this is all new. I…I don’t really know you, Japan. You don’t really know me. And as much as I’d love to stay and learn everything about you, we don’t have that time.”
“You will leave me alone?”
Portugal lowers his head. He knows he’s not the greatest of men, and he wishes he could make Japan understand what he’s afraid of, what he lives for. The thrum of adventure and the call of the sea is strong in his veins; Japan seems afraid to look beyond his own horizon. “I’ll visit. I’ll bring more goods to trade, more gifts. Others from Europe desire to meet you. I promise.”
They stay like that for long hours as the fireworks explode in the sky. Finally, Japan nods and looks at Portugal’s illuminated face. “I would like that,” he says evenly, smiling to cover what Portugal thinks is disappointment.
-
6. Taiwann
The first time Taiwan sees Japan after the war begins, he comes in, hugs her and chuckles low as she grins. She hasn’t seen much of him for long years, not since she’d been a gangly child. “Oh Taiwan,” he cajoles. “You’ve grown!” They’re family, she’s happy to see him, and they spend the day making dumplings in her kitchen.
The second is not long after. Taiwan gives a cry- Japan has a bandage around his sword arm but he brushes off her concern. He’s in a different uniform and his eyes are serious and sharp like blade-edges. “It is good to see you,” he says fondly. “It is good to see beauty after so much ocean.” And Taiwan blushes prettily and hugs him, telling him to be careful.
“Taiwan, Taiwan,” he breathes the third time, as the world comes crumbling down around them. He strokes her hair and nimble fingers remove her ribbons. It falls in curtains of black silk. “My princess. Let down your hair.” His leg is broken and sitting in seiza pains him. Taiwan feels sorrow as she watches him leave, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Forth. He comes bearing gifts, one eye blind and bandaged. “Oh, Taiwan, I love you more than words can express, more than life itself, each morning is made brighter by your smile. If I could stay here for eternity by your side I would die a happy man.” She doesn’t want Japan to die, but her heart beats fast as he leans in and just barely brushes her lips with his own. Fifth and he gasps low words into her neck and holds her close and they go, because Japan has started to tremble in her arms and she thinks he might break if she doesn’t.
Japan’s wrists are bloodied the sixth time, and Taiwan has stopped pretending the world is still standing.
“It never used to be this hard,” he says, voice breaking. “It never used to be hurt like this before-“ He stops and lowers his head into her lap, muffling the words on his tongue. Japan is proud on the inside, despite his modest shell of a skin, and Taiwan is aware that this admission is no easy thing. “We are the same, you and I.”
Gazing down at his bandaged wrists, Taiwan swallows, steeling herself. “What do you mean?”
“That’s why I love you,” he muses, sick. “It must be. We’re the same. Yao abandoned us both.”
“Yao did not abandon me,” she retorts with no fire. She still hears his cries across the ocean and she holds hands against her ears.
Japan tilts his head to watch with empty eyes. “But you did not love him. And so he left you.”
A Poverty of Self (6/7)
anonymous
July 13 2010, 06:06:26 UTC
She opens her mouth to retort, no wilting flower, but a bomb blast shatters their peace. Taiwan feels the impact hit low and deep as the window frames of their house rattle like thunder. Japan doesn’t flinch anymore.
“I love you,” he tells her presently.
“I believe you,” she whispers back, cradling him.
But Taiwan wonders what the word means to Japan, to him, the tortured war-groom to her tortured war-bride. Why he keeps changing and trying and fighting in the Pacific against Alfred, why he whispers Yao’s name as he sleeps and dreams nightmares, why sex with him is always silent and angry, why he always wants her hair down.
“What’s going to happen, Japan?” Taiwan finally says, gazing out onto sugar-cane fields with her face lined with worried tragedy.
Kiku rises to his knees and grips her shoulders, blood and mud and a desperate mad expression on his face. “I’m going to love you,” he announces like his life depends on it.
Taiwan closes her eyes as the sadness and helplessness fills the back of her mouth. Her surrogate brother is dooming himself. Not through war, but through this foolish need to prove himself, this crazy need to love as if his identity depended on others.
“You’ll never be able to love another if you don’t learn to love yourself,” she whispers as the bombs fall.
-
1. Chuugoku
China finds Japan in a bamboo forest.
“Aiyaa, you are so small!” Yao remarks with a smile on his face. “Aren’t you lonely by yourself?”
He just blinks, and in a small, unfrightened voice, asks, “Lonely?”
China kneels before him and reaches out to trace the round lines of his face with gentle fingers. “Are you hungry? I live nearby, aru.”
Japan doesn’t answer that. He’s suddenly shy, a pair of eyes behind silk sleeves. So, well-meaning and caring, Yao picks him up in warm arms and tells him he must be lonely, he must be hungry, and takes him home. He sits on the front steps of his house with Korea; Yung Soo talks, Japan listens and nods, excited, quiet, as China scuttles in his kitchen and makes a batch of dumplings. They eat together and Japan graces the world with a smile like the rising sun.
“Korea,” Yao says, introducing them at the dinner table with a happy grin. “This is Japan.”
“Japan?” When Kiku doesn’t understand something he has a disarming habit of parroting in a particular thoughtful voice.
China nods. “That’s where you come from.”
Something changes in Japan’s gaze, then. As if he didn’t realise where he was and where he’d come from, Japan looks frantically around him, taking in the foreign house.
Then, he bursts loudly into tears.
“Don’t cry, Japan- what’s wrong?” China, confused, immediately starts to fret. Japan just shakes his head in stubborn anguish. “Here, Korea will go play with you outside, aru!
“I don’t want to! Take me home! Take me home! I want to go home-“
Panicking, Yao lifts him up and strokes his fine hair, cooing and soothing. “Hush, little one! It’s alright, we’re here, we’re a family, we love each other, it’s alright-“
“No!” he cries shrilly, wiping his wet little face against China’s robes frantically. “I want to go home! I don’t like this place!I want to go home, I want to go home- and finally China has to relent and walk back to the bamboo forest from whence he came. He sets the boy down, wipes his sniffing face. His heart feels like it might burst, looking at Japan like this.
“I’m sorry, Japan- I care about you, I do! Don’t cry now, please.” He does care about him- that’s why he’s taken him in, that’s why he’ll let him go. “I don’t want you to be lonely, aru.”
Again, that look flashes across his face through the tears. “Lonely?” he wavers.
“How you feel when you’re by yourself. How you feel when nobody’s there to love you.”
A Poverty of Self (7/7)
anonymous
July 13 2010, 06:09:03 UTC
Face wet and scrunched and shuddering with sobs and something like lost innocence, perhaps, this strange child shakes his head and gazes up at China, wanting, not understanding.
And he asks, “Is loneliness a bad thing?”
“Yes.” China frowns. “Why would you even ask such a thing?”
-
7. Nihon
Ask Japan about love and he, invariably, will flinch.
He’ll blush too, after that.
It could be because he never really understood the concept until others came and showed him, indeed, what love is meant to be.
Japan’s idea of love is of princesses waiting to be rescued from tall towers; of romantic gestures that lead to angry, bitter, lonely sex; of video games and predictable, cause-and-effect 2D lovers; of foreign affairs and war brides that live happily-ever-after, or would if their princes didn’t die tragically; of Valentines Day and White Day and money; of idyllic first loves and childhood sweethearts in dysfunction, maid-robots and don’t-leave-me-don’t-abandon-me-don’t-KILL-me.
And they all laugh at Japan’s awkward attempts to relate to other countries, and they all feel a little sick at what goes on in his head when it comes to sex and pornography. And Japan knows that something’s not quite right, but for him (what’s happened, Japan? What happened to you?) this concept of love may just be the best he can do.
For Japan, love is something ultimately foreign. It is the presence of others. It is the absence of loneliness.
It’s hard when you’ve always been alone, to understand even this-
“Japan!” he hears England call as he gathers his notes to leave the conference. “You’re coming, right?”
A group of them are waiting by the door, chatting and laughing. Japan places a smile onto his face. “Where to, England-san?”
“The meeting’s over! Drinks, of course!” cheers America with an arm around Holland and Denmark.
Alfred still seems as young and as foolishly magnetic as ever. Kiku finds himself swallowing down the things climbing in his throat. “I am quite busy, America-san. I’m sorry.” He dips his head in polite shame.
“Geez, you have to let your hair down some time, Japan,” America teases.
It’s just a figure of speech.
But still, Japan says, “I’ll think about it Alfred,” and means no. He makes his way back through the halls of the UN building, bows to his dignitaries and the civil servants, and then he’ll close his door again.
And, drinking green tea in business hotel arm chairs, old and young and somehow still that little boy, that princess in waiting, that lover, that warrior, that island-
(You’ll never be able to love another if you don’t learn to love yourself)
author's note
anonymous
July 13 2010, 06:30:48 UTC
Oh Japan, baby. It's not your fault you're so screwed up. Only a little.
Did you know?
Japan's relationships have historically been unhealthy, at least in the long run.
IN chronological, not actual, order-
1. China/Japan, familial: Relations formally began in the Kofun period (~250AD). Japan would pay tribute to China regularyl, and their culture became sinicised (chiniseafied) to a certain point int eh following centuries. However, Japan experienced a backlash towards China during the sengoku periods and eventually in the Edo period, when he became a hikikomori afraid of everyone. D:
2. Portugal Japan, first love: Portugal was the first European nation to come into contact with Japan in 1543. It is from Portugal that Japan procured firearms. Portugal also traded between China and japan, because, by this time Japan was not talking to China and vica versa.
3. England/Japan, unrequited (on England's part): in 1673. An English ship visited Nagasaki harbour, and asked for a new trading agreement. Japan rejected it. The government blamed it on Charles II of England for marrying Catherine of Braganza, who was from Portugal. OOOh. Catty- getting protective over past boyfriends?
4. America/Japan, romantic: nothing really romantic aboutit at all. D: BAsically Perry came along with some streamboats, sat in Tokyo bay and told Japan, "HEY! COME OUT AND PLAY YOU BIG BABY!" There was fierce debate in japan about whether to listen or not. Eventually they did, they opened up and the meiji period began.
5. Germany/Japan, lustful: Yup. This alliance was basically the meeting of two powers hungry to start a war. because Germany'd been screwed over by versailles, and because Japan wanted revenge on China. (OVERSIMPLIFYINGMUCH!?) My poor, poor, tragic OTP.
6. Taiwan/Japan, doomed: Japan wrested Taiwan from Chinese control when some soldier shipwrecked on the island and were EATEN by the aboriginal taiwanese. japan WTF!ed to China, who said it wasn't their fault because Taiwan wasn't under their jurisdiction. Then Japan thought, "Aha!" and so took Taiwan for itself. loophole ftw. Taiwan became an important submarine base for Japan in the war, and even today some taiwanese have a soft spot for Japan because it basically singlehandedly built its economy.
7. Japan/Japan, true love Japan will never have healthy relations with its neighbours or international peers until it has a good, long, hard look at itslef and comes to terms with what it's done.
Re: author's note
anonymous
July 13 2010, 12:29:39 UTC
Anon, I seriously have no words for how much I just enjoyed this. I was just expecting some cute/sexy/sad anecdotes -- just simple moments in time -- but this really, really moved me. I don't even know what to say right now, but thank you for writing this. <3 I'll be back to reread this and make a longer comment later, I think, but I have to wake up the kids, etc. Argh.
Re: author's note
anonymous
July 13 2010, 15:30:41 UTC
Love anon <3 You deserve much of it, especially for filling with Japan-- I always find him hard to grasp. Honestly, I wasn't sure what to expect but these were wonderful to read and you did a great job~
Re: author's note
anonymous
July 13 2010, 22:18:49 UTC
Incredibly wonderful. I clicked this out of vague curiosity to see which Japan pairings you'd choose, and I was not disappointed, especially with that last one. I think that you have a very solid understanding of both Japan's history and his character, in Hetalia and in the real world, and it shows very clearly. Well done.
Re: author's note
anonymous
April 23 2011, 07:46:52 UTC
This is how I would characterise Japan if I could write him in anything other than brief, amusing shorts at the end of my fics.
The thing that I think really make this a brilliant piece of work is the fact that it is historically correct and yet fits perfectly with both the canon and (decent) fanon characterisation of Japan.
-Sir Francis Bacon
3. Igirisu
There’s a story that England remembers on his last night in Nagasaki.
“There’s a girl,” he says, sitting stiffly as Japan blinks an impassive eye. “And she’s stuck in a tower.”
“Is this tower in your home country?” he asks, all seriousness.
“No, nothing like that. This happened a long time ago. In France. Or Germany- I don’t know.” He forgotten the once-upon-a-time. England swallows, shakes himself. “Once upon a time, there was a girl trapped in a tower by a horrible witch. And so she never saw the outside world her entire life, because she was trapped so far away.”
Kiku nods -isn’t that sad?-shuffling to the corner of the room and lighting a candle. He fans the flames and his skin glows in the welcoming light. Arthur watches him move, entranced by the shadows that flicker across the tatami mats like moths drawn drunkenly to candle-flame. Even after a month here, England has not been permitted to leave Nagasaki, to see more than a glimpse of his host.
Japan sits before him on the engawa, expression politely level. “And then what, England-san?”
His throat is dry, good God; with a swift curse Arthur coughs it clear. “Well,” he continues, “a prince arrives at the tower and hears her singing. And... he sees the witch call out to the girl, ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair’, and she does, and the witch climbs up the girl’s hair into the tower.”
“Her hair must be very long then, England-san. Or the tower very low indeed.” Japan smiles, brow furrowed in amused confusion as England flushes. He doesn’t think that Japan knows that he is being overly literal; it’s that difference in culture, that fascinating, delicious difference, and Japan can’t know the frustrating humour behind his action.
Can he? “It’s long. Yes.”
A click of the tongue. “It must,” he replies flatly, “be terribly impractical.”
“That’s not really the point, Japan,” England stresses, excited, frustrated, losing patience with himself because this is important. “The point is, the prince falls in love with the girl, and so he climbs up her hair to save her, and-“
Japan interrupts again. “But the prince has only met her. How is it he falls in love with her when he knows nothing about her?”
He sighs. “It’s a love story, Japan.”
“But did the prince really love her?’ Innocence, cocked heads. Japan in a tease in frills and silk finery. So England thinks. “Did they really end up happy? When the newness and the novelty wore off, did the prince know anything about the girl at all? For that matter-”
“They live happily ever after,” he retorts sharply. “That’s it.”
Kiku just looks at him, pale with nervousness or apathy or fear or anger. It’s hard to tell with Kiku. “…For that matter, what if the girl never wanted to leave the tower in the first place?”
England understands that they’re not talking about fairy tales anymore, and perhaps they never were. He can’t answer.
Japan gathers his silks and although his face remains as impassive as ever, his eyes recall endless oceans, and they make England think that somehow they’ve moved further and further apart. “We have a story too, England-san. Once, an old man found a baby girl in a bamboo forest. Because she was from the moon she was more beautiful than any in the land, and as she grew older five suitors came to claim her love. But she sent them on impossible quests to prove their devotion, and not one of them succeeded. They all gave up and, so, the girl returned to the moon where she came from, abandoning the old man and old woman who had taken her in.”
Japan stops. England stares. “That’s it?”
“Yes. You were expecting something more?”
He lets out an explosive breath, watching him speak, helpless. He doesn’t want to leave like this, this isn’t how it’s meant to be-
“You’re not from the moon, Japan.”
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Trade proposal rejected, Arthur leaves the islands of Japan floating behind him as he sails off home, wondering, guessing at himself and his own feelings. Ever mysterious, Kiku stands on the dock to watch him go.
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5. Doitsu
Ludwig notices Japan staring at him during training when they’re running laps in the dusty roads around his house, where trains run loaded with conscripts to Manchuria. He’s looking at the lines of Germany’s own uniform so hard and with so much focus that Ludwig wonders whether he can even hear the cries of widows and daughters on the platform around them. Ludwig swallows, but says nothing.
The past few months have changed the two of them.
The night hangs thick with unspoken words and the ghost of what is to come. When they’re all watching the fireflies dip and dance, when Italy is asleep and dreaming, Kiku says clearly, “This war is revenge.”
Germany tips his head. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.” They stand, alone, together. “For all the monsters. The secrets we keep from each other.”
This is not how Germany remembers Japan, but it is how he sees him now- always quiet, with a thrumming intensity under his skin radiating in waves, terrifying and yet familiar and captivating beneath the surface.
“You were watching me,” he says with a dry want beginning to stir in his throat.
He pauses at that, and then he shuffles an inch closer, white uniform whispering. They watch each other, not quite uneasily, as Japan’s hand rises to fiddle with the collar of Ludwig shirt. A slow exhale; Ludwig knows what this is, and he never had expected it from Japan, but in this odd atmosphere between them it suddenly feels as natural as breathing. “It is because you are beautiful,” he murmurs, “like this.”
Japan is power, beneath his fingertips so deep that it feels like Germany is looking at himself in some twisted fun-house mirror. Germany is power by extension, because they’re axis-alone but not alone and where Italy is flashy parades and skin-deep fascism, bless his soul, their pride and anger is deep-deeper-deepest. It comes from the feeling of being cheated something important. A crowd is not company. Talk is not dialogue.
They are both strong enough- smart enough- to know it.
Kiku is close enough that Ludwig’s breath ruffles his hair just so. Tentatively (and how strange, for it to be only tentative when he’s meant to all Blitzkrieg and bomb-blasts) he slips his hand onto Japan’s waist where it hangs, hot and heavy and at Kiku’s slowly flushing face Ludwig’s insides slip like they never have.
“I bombed the Nanking railway last night,” Japan says. It’s not really a statement and more of a question.
“…Would I not have done the same?” he asks him. It’s not really a question and more of a statement.
-and Japan kisses him. Japan kisses him. Japan kisses Germany and Germany responds, because this is something like acceptance, and it doesn’t feel like something wrong anymore, amidst the bombs and the annexing, not between two countries such as they. Not now. And like he has been waiting for this, somehow, Germany shifts his hands and with one smooth tug Japan’s silks are off and pooling around them and all that seems to matter is the fact that together, the heat and the feeling is so great that it stops them thinking about the fact that maybe it’s not really them, and more the absence of others.
Germany is smart enough- alone enough- to know it.
It’s furious and vicious and fast and at one point when Kiku’s face is level with his chest and his cock hard against Germany’s own, Ludwig hears Italy’s soft sigh of sleep. They say nothing, but Japan’s face is taught with concentration and his fingers are reaching for the back-room-abortion thoughts behind Ludwig’s stoic-pained face. He finds them. With a staggered moan, Germany’s mind flashes with a million thoughts- Austria’s tightly drawn face; France in his power, that dirty, fucking slut; punching America’s fucking face in-
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When they finally collapse, heart thudding in his ears, Kiku winds fingers into his hair to let it down in gentle strokes. Possession, or trust, or the lack of it. Knowing Japan, knowing himself, it is all three at once.
In a way, Germany is aware, then, that he loves Japan. Because of the world, and the railway, and Francis and Ivan and anger. Germany has his own revenge to take. In Europe, surrounded, Ludwig had been somehow just as alone as Kiku had.
“We are the same, you and I,” Japan murmurs above him. His eyes are on his face but they see beyond him, blank and troubled.
They are alike, Japan and he. “America will show you no mercy in the Pacific,” he whispers.
The grip in Ludwig’s hair tightens. “No,” he agrees, “he never has.”
Italy, asleep, unaware and happy, remains just out of reach.
-
4. Amerika
“Love,” says America, “is a wonderful thing. When two people love each other, oh, it’s the best thing in the world, Japan. It’s great.” He lets a trickle of sand escape his fingers, eyes bright and glasses brighter with dying sunlight. In his suit, Alfred is an assassin lounging on the shore, murder painted in the curve of his hand.
The black shadow of the kurofune hangs in Nagasaki Harbour above them, like a cloud.
From his seat on a pile of drift wood, Kiku watches America build sandcastles in the sky like no one before him. “So England told me.”
The old man? Alfred jerks to look at Japan with a laugh on his lips. “England? He’s not a great romantic- he’s too old! What did he say?”
Staring out at the horizon, Japan answers, “A story. About princesses and towers.”
The year is 1853 and Alfred is moored in Tokyo Bay where no foreign ship has ever been before. Perry is a brave man on a mission, and Alfred is a hero, after all. They’ve landed with gifts and treaties for trade and goodwill, with a navy fleet far superior to Kiku’s outdated wooden ships; they’re confident that Japan will listen to reason and stop being such an isolationist.
Japan himself is a strange one with the closed shutter eyes and the overly formal manner. Every time Alfred leans closer to take a good look at him he freezes and tells him to be appropriate. Nagasaki is where he’s 'supposed' to go.
He chucks a stick into the ocean, watches the ripples. “That’s not love,” he scoffs. “…Have you ever been courted, Japan?”
Kiku looks uncomfortable and says nothing.
“You haven’t?” America turns, young eyes wide. He can’t believe it. “You’ve never been in love?” Japan lowers his eyes and tightens his robe around himself as Alfred rises to his feet. “Then why do you turn everyone away?”
“I’m happy the way I am. I see no need for love,” he says under his breath, uncommonly blunt.
America rummages in his pockets as he crosses the sand. Kneeling before him, he produces him a flower, a chrysanthemum, and places it carefully in hair. Kiku blushes and looks scandalised, wary. His fingers crawl up to feel it. “I picked it while we were walking. I thought it would look pretty in your hair, you know?”
Japan swallows. “Thank you, but this is unnecessary.”
“I’ve got more! You ever been serenaded?” Good-natured, motivated, America won’t take no for an answer. “Oh, Japan, I love you more than words can express, more than life itself! Each morning is made brighter by your smile. If I could stay here for eternity by your side I would die a happy man. Please, let me in so I can understand and feel your beauty- your bewitching gaze haunts me, your gentle blush is as a blooming rose-“
“You are making me feel foolish,” he mumbles, faces close now. “I don’t need rescuing.”
Alfred places a soft hand on his shoulder. “But if you never open up, Japan, you’ll never experience anything new!”
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Firmly, kindly, he pulls him to his feet and presses his forehead against his. “I’ve seen the way you look at me,” America quips, an eager child, sotto voce. “That could be love.”
“America,” he gasps, struggling only the slightest. “America-san, please don’t do this. This is inappropriate-“
It’s for Japan’s own good, what Alfred’s about to do. “Cut loose a little, Japan.”
“Please,” he whispers, whimpers. His eyes are narrowed, trembling. “Don’t make me, let me stay here, please, don’t-“
Alfred breaks the kiss, expecting to see Kiku’s face flushed, maybe scandalised, but Japan is not looking at him. Japan is crying brokenly with the intensity of a small child, like he has been violated, not kissed, and this isn’t the romance that America had promised at all. All they can do is stand on the shore as the sun sets, America holding him and Japan sobbing and sobbing until night falls because he loves him, and his world has opened.
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2. Porutogaru
Portugal is instructed to kneel and bow to the man by the courtesans, and knowledgeable about local reactions to breaches of etiquette, at least from China, he complies. It is only when a low voice tells him to rise that Portugal casts the first European eyes on the illusive Japan in history.
He’s beautiful. Portugal smiles at the small man in the flowing white silks, folding fan in one hand and attendants knelt at his other. It is the most beautiful picture Portugal has seen, culture and way of life so different and opulent. Japan, in kind, seems entranced by his very being; his gaze lingers on his sandy hair and the cloak he wears, affronted and fascinated all at once.
They are different. Portugal knows that difference breeds curiosity; he’s a victim of its charms himself.
“Oh, Great Island nation of Japan,” he intones, lowering his head with his eyes turned up. “I come in peace as the seafaring nation of Portugal, seeking audience and bearing trinkets from my own country and from the land of Han.” China. Japan leans forward.
“Of course.” He nods, eyes still wide and staring. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Closer, Japan has the fine features of an aristocrat and the pale, pale skin of one who stays indoors. They take cake in the tearooms and Kiku stares at the simple sponge he procures. Portugal admires the statues and the lines of calligraphy festooned on the wooden beams.
“You are unlike any being I have ever seen.” Japan shakes his head. “Do all from your land appear so? With such skin, and such…hair like gold?”
Portugal, easy going and just as curious, laughs. “Yes! Do all of your children have hair like the finest silk?” And Japan blushes, hiding his face with his sleeve, making Portugal laugh all the more.
Weeks pass. Japan shows him Nagasaki town, a port city with houses of thatch and gilded temples to Buddhist idols. “Such beauty after so much ocean!” Portugal remarks easily, gazing at the temples and the townsfolk. They talk about their customs, about cake and tea and about Yao. He lets his fingers linger on buildings, on Japan’s skin, entranced and entrancing by parts.
Portugal has never met anyone like Japan before.
“Will you accompany me to see the firework display?” Japan asks one night as Portugal prepares to set sail again. In the dying light Portugal thinks Japan is the prettiest he’s seen in white silk; impulsive, he kisses him quickly and says yes.
Flares light up the night sky as Portugal reaches for his hand and basks in the beauty.
“This is why I’ve always loved to travel,” Portugal explains brightly. “The newness. I love it. Everything is so wondrous and amazing when you discover it.”
“Will you stay?” Japan asks him, then, under the stars. “Will you stay a while longer?”
“Oh, Japan.” Portugal smiles ruefully and places a hand on the shorter man’s head. Kiku is warm in the summer night and smells like tea leaves. “I wish I could. But I need to go. You wouldn’t want to tie me down, would you? Life's an adventure.”
Eyes still plaintive, Japan nevertheless nods and his mouth tightens. “I…I understand.”
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Then, he sobers. “But Japan, I’m not a man who can stay in one place. I have to go, because I…I live for the colonies and the navigation and that discovery. Without that, I am not half the man you think I am. This,” he tightens his arm around Japan’s body, “is what it is because we are so different and this is all new. I…I don’t really know you, Japan. You don’t really know me. And as much as I’d love to stay and learn everything about you, we don’t have that time.”
“You will leave me alone?”
Portugal lowers his head. He knows he’s not the greatest of men, and he wishes he could make Japan understand what he’s afraid of, what he lives for. The thrum of adventure and the call of the sea is strong in his veins; Japan seems afraid to look beyond his own horizon. “I’ll visit. I’ll bring more goods to trade, more gifts. Others from Europe desire to meet you. I promise.”
They stay like that for long hours as the fireworks explode in the sky. Finally, Japan nods and looks at Portugal’s illuminated face. “I would like that,” he says evenly, smiling to cover what Portugal thinks is disappointment.
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6. Taiwann
The first time Taiwan sees Japan after the war begins, he comes in, hugs her and chuckles low as she grins. She hasn’t seen much of him for long years, not since she’d been a gangly child. “Oh Taiwan,” he cajoles. “You’ve grown!” They’re family, she’s happy to see him, and they spend the day making dumplings in her kitchen.
The second is not long after. Taiwan gives a cry- Japan has a bandage around his sword arm but he brushes off her concern. He’s in a different uniform and his eyes are serious and sharp like blade-edges. “It is good to see you,” he says fondly. “It is good to see beauty after so much ocean.” And Taiwan blushes prettily and hugs him, telling him to be careful.
“Taiwan, Taiwan,” he breathes the third time, as the world comes crumbling down around them. He strokes her hair and nimble fingers remove her ribbons. It falls in curtains of black silk. “My princess. Let down your hair.” His leg is broken and sitting in seiza pains him. Taiwan feels sorrow as she watches him leave, the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Forth. He comes bearing gifts, one eye blind and bandaged. “Oh, Taiwan, I love you more than words can express, more than life itself, each morning is made brighter by your smile. If I could stay here for eternity by your side I would die a happy man.” She doesn’t want Japan to die, but her heart beats fast as he leans in and just barely brushes her lips with his own. Fifth and he gasps low words into her neck and holds her close and they go, because Japan has started to tremble in her arms and she thinks he might break if she doesn’t.
Japan’s wrists are bloodied the sixth time, and Taiwan has stopped pretending the world is still standing.
“It never used to be this hard,” he says, voice breaking. “It never used to be hurt like this before-“ He stops and lowers his head into her lap, muffling the words on his tongue. Japan is proud on the inside, despite his modest shell of a skin, and Taiwan is aware that this admission is no easy thing. “We are the same, you and I.”
Gazing down at his bandaged wrists, Taiwan swallows, steeling herself. “What do you mean?”
“That’s why I love you,” he muses, sick. “It must be. We’re the same. Yao abandoned us both.”
“Yao did not abandon me,” she retorts with no fire. She still hears his cries across the ocean and she holds hands against her ears.
Japan tilts his head to watch with empty eyes. “But you did not love him. And so he left you.”
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“I love you,” he tells her presently.
“I believe you,” she whispers back, cradling him.
But Taiwan wonders what the word means to Japan, to him, the tortured war-groom to her tortured war-bride. Why he keeps changing and trying and fighting in the Pacific against Alfred, why he whispers Yao’s name as he sleeps and dreams nightmares, why sex with him is always silent and angry, why he always wants her hair down.
“What’s going to happen, Japan?” Taiwan finally says, gazing out onto sugar-cane fields with her face lined with worried tragedy.
Kiku rises to his knees and grips her shoulders, blood and mud and a desperate mad expression on his face. “I’m going to love you,” he announces like his life depends on it.
Taiwan closes her eyes as the sadness and helplessness fills the back of her mouth. Her surrogate brother is dooming himself. Not through war, but through this foolish need to prove himself, this crazy need to love as if his identity depended on others.
“You’ll never be able to love another if you don’t learn to love yourself,” she whispers as the bombs fall.
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1. Chuugoku
China finds Japan in a bamboo forest.
“Aiyaa, you are so small!” Yao remarks with a smile on his face. “Aren’t you lonely by yourself?”
He just blinks, and in a small, unfrightened voice, asks, “Lonely?”
China kneels before him and reaches out to trace the round lines of his face with gentle fingers. “Are you hungry? I live nearby, aru.”
Japan doesn’t answer that. He’s suddenly shy, a pair of eyes behind silk sleeves. So, well-meaning and caring, Yao picks him up in warm arms and tells him he must be lonely, he must be hungry, and takes him home. He sits on the front steps of his house with Korea; Yung Soo talks, Japan listens and nods, excited, quiet, as China scuttles in his kitchen and makes a batch of dumplings. They eat together and Japan graces the world with a smile like the rising sun.
“Korea,” Yao says, introducing them at the dinner table with a happy grin. “This is Japan.”
“Japan?” When Kiku doesn’t understand something he has a disarming habit of parroting in a particular thoughtful voice.
China nods. “That’s where you come from.”
Something changes in Japan’s gaze, then. As if he didn’t realise where he was and where he’d come from, Japan looks frantically around him, taking in the foreign house.
Then, he bursts loudly into tears.
“Don’t cry, Japan- what’s wrong?” China, confused, immediately starts to fret. Japan just shakes his head in stubborn anguish. “Here, Korea will go play with you outside, aru!
“I don’t want to! Take me home! Take me home! I want to go home-“
Panicking, Yao lifts him up and strokes his fine hair, cooing and soothing. “Hush, little one! It’s alright, we’re here, we’re a family, we love each other, it’s alright-“
“No!” he cries shrilly, wiping his wet little face against China’s robes frantically. “I want to go home! I don’t like this place!I want to go home, I want to go home- and finally China has to relent and walk back to the bamboo forest from whence he came. He sets the boy down, wipes his sniffing face. His heart feels like it might burst, looking at Japan like this.
“I’m sorry, Japan- I care about you, I do! Don’t cry now, please.” He does care about him- that’s why he’s taken him in, that’s why he’ll let him go. “I don’t want you to be lonely, aru.”
Again, that look flashes across his face through the tears. “Lonely?” he wavers.
“How you feel when you’re by yourself. How you feel when nobody’s there to love you.”
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And he asks, “Is loneliness a bad thing?”
“Yes.” China frowns. “Why would you even ask such a thing?”
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7. Nihon
Ask Japan about love and he, invariably, will flinch.
He’ll blush too, after that.
It could be because he never really understood the concept until others came and showed him, indeed, what love is meant to be.
Japan’s idea of love is of princesses waiting to be rescued from tall towers; of romantic gestures that lead to angry, bitter, lonely sex; of video games and predictable, cause-and-effect 2D lovers; of foreign affairs and war brides that live happily-ever-after, or would if their princes didn’t die tragically; of Valentines Day and White Day and money; of idyllic first loves and childhood sweethearts in dysfunction, maid-robots and don’t-leave-me-don’t-abandon-me-don’t-KILL-me.
And they all laugh at Japan’s awkward attempts to relate to other countries, and they all feel a little sick at what goes on in his head when it comes to sex and pornography. And Japan knows that something’s not quite right, but for him (what’s happened, Japan? What happened to you?) this concept of love may just be the best he can do.
For Japan, love is something ultimately foreign. It is the presence of others. It is the absence of loneliness.
It’s hard when you’ve always been alone, to understand even this-
“Japan!” he hears England call as he gathers his notes to leave the conference. “You’re coming, right?”
A group of them are waiting by the door, chatting and laughing. Japan places a smile onto his face. “Where to, England-san?”
“The meeting’s over! Drinks, of course!” cheers America with an arm around Holland and Denmark.
Alfred still seems as young and as foolishly magnetic as ever. Kiku finds himself swallowing down the things climbing in his throat. “I am quite busy, America-san. I’m sorry.” He dips his head in polite shame.
“Geez, you have to let your hair down some time, Japan,” America teases.
It’s just a figure of speech.
But still, Japan says, “I’ll think about it Alfred,” and means no. He makes his way back through the halls of the UN building, bows to his dignitaries and the civil servants, and then he’ll close his door again.
And, drinking green tea in business hotel arm chairs, old and young and somehow still that little boy, that princess in waiting, that lover, that warrior, that island-
(You’ll never be able to love another if you don’t learn to love yourself)
Japan is still happy.
Japan is still alone.
-
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Did you know?
Japan's relationships have historically been unhealthy, at least in the long run.
IN chronological, not actual, order-
1. China/Japan, familial: Relations formally began in the Kofun period (~250AD). Japan would pay tribute to China regularyl, and their culture became sinicised (chiniseafied) to a certain point int eh following centuries. However, Japan experienced a backlash towards China during the sengoku periods and eventually in the Edo period, when he became a hikikomori afraid of everyone. D:
2. Portugal Japan, first love: Portugal was the first European nation to come into contact with Japan in 1543. It is from Portugal that Japan procured firearms. Portugal also traded between China and japan, because, by this time Japan was not talking to China and vica versa.
3. England/Japan, unrequited (on England's part): in 1673. An English ship visited Nagasaki harbour, and asked for a new trading agreement. Japan rejected it. The government blamed it on Charles II of England for marrying Catherine of Braganza, who was from Portugal. OOOh. Catty- getting protective over past boyfriends?
4. America/Japan, romantic: nothing really romantic aboutit at all. D: BAsically Perry came along with some streamboats, sat in Tokyo bay and told Japan, "HEY! COME OUT AND PLAY YOU BIG BABY!" There was fierce debate in japan about whether to listen or not. Eventually they did, they opened up and the meiji period began.
5. Germany/Japan, lustful: Yup. This alliance was basically the meeting of two powers hungry to start a war. because Germany'd been screwed over by versailles, and because Japan wanted revenge on China. (OVERSIMPLIFYINGMUCH!?) My poor, poor, tragic OTP.
6. Taiwan/Japan, doomed: Japan wrested Taiwan from Chinese control when some soldier shipwrecked on the island and were EATEN by the aboriginal taiwanese. japan WTF!ed to China, who said it wasn't their fault because Taiwan wasn't under their jurisdiction. Then Japan thought, "Aha!" and so took Taiwan for itself. loophole ftw. Taiwan became an important submarine base for Japan in the war, and even today some taiwanese have a soft spot for Japan because it basically singlehandedly built its economy.
7. Japan/Japan, true love
Japan will never have healthy relations with its neighbours or international peers until it has a good, long, hard look at itslef and comes to terms with what it's done.
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... <3
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Insightful.
Beautiful.
...I have no more words for this.
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The thing that I think really make this a brilliant piece of work is the fact that it is historically correct and yet fits perfectly with both the canon and (decent) fanon characterisation of Japan.
Really, a brilliant piece altogether.
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I can't seem to think of any other words to say.
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