foreclosure (or, go for broke) [1/5]
anonymous
May 23 2009, 05:18:40 UTC
Original request: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/4567.html?thread=5766615#t5766615, dying soldier meets his country, has had at least six fills by now. I know there's already an America fill, but when I saw the prompt, I couldn't shake the idea. First time filling a request for the meme, nice to meet you lovely people.
ooc: Takes place on October 30, 1944, evening, somewhere in the Vosges Mountains.
He still remembered that damn questionnaire. Screwed him up and down, all the way from Maui to Manzanar, in that little two person shack where his dad repaired the leaky tin roof and his mom made boiled rice for Caroline and 'Jii-san and the Iematsus whenever they came back too late from their tailor's center in the camp; a dusty brick oven, despite all attempts to refer to it otherwise. They came back early on the day of the questionnaire, folding and unfolding the papers, futzing around, making quiet, yet pointed referrals to those two damn numbers. He was old enough for his own survey, his dad handing a copy to him quietly right after baseball practice, the carved crowsfeet lining his eyes as cracks in the side of mountains. The fibers of the paper vibrated with the significance that surely radiated from each word of official government-upchucked-and-approved prose. 27 asked him what he would do for his country. 28 questioned if he had the loyalty to do it at all.
Well, here he was. Bleeding out somewhere in France. (Vosges, what? He wasn't all too keen on geography.) Fucking ace.
Anyway.
They had found him, somehow; some of the guys in K company were wandering around and saw his left leg sticking out of the knee-high mountain grass that had caught his fall, and they sat him up and made sure he was breathing before they hiked him over to where they'd set up camp. When he'd asked about I company, they looked at each other, pretended he was delirious, and ignored him. Also, they completely neglected to tell him that he what he had mistaken as a case of overworked lungs was actually a six inch piece of shrapnel sticking out of his chest, just left of his sternum.
Screw K company, man. And the shrapnel.
They had rigged up the phonograph somewhere in the tent, and something swinging and saxophone smooth was floating through the air, catching on the coughs of men and distant gunfire, only to straighten out again and flow. They said that the medics would get here "soon, real soon, hang in there and don't croak on us." He'd felt a little dribble of something warm and liquid out the corner of his mouth as he nodded that he had sincerely hoped for the first time in his life was drool. They had turned away and then he was alone in his little partition.
Mighty Mike. He had a hoarse chuckle all to himself in that tent, rising and failing to crest a series of low, wet coughs. If only the guys could see him now. He didn't fall, is why he had that name in his company; he was the middle man, kinda old hat and humdrum until they realized that he was the last one to go down in anything. He just plain didn't want to give up. "Enough grandstanding, man. Who're you trying to impress, anyway?" He had shrugged and grinned, all teeth and no mercy, arm raised for another wrestle.
As the coughs subsided, his eyes flickered down to the man that had entered the tent, who had dragged a low stool in behind him and flopped down on top of it. He had the dress uniform on, but he looked like he'd walked all the way from Normandy in it. His CO was gonna murder him. He also yellow hair. Good for focusing on. Also, good for swearing at. "Th' fuck are you?"
The other guy lifted his head to him, and Mike's heart stuttered. He had, for the briefest of moments, a very distinct hallucination of the clear liquid blue of the Pacific Ocean behind the other guy's glasses, rolling and serene and alive.
foreclosure (or, go for broke) [2/5]
anonymous
May 23 2009, 05:26:41 UTC
"Hiya." Other Guy smiled briefly. "Gonna kick back here for a while, if that's all right with you."
"... I'm sort of dying here." Another flash of teeth. Keeping down the coughing was getting easier. "I might not be as pretty when rigor mortis sets in."
A laugh, tired but sincere. "Not planning on getting too cozy, private."
The jazz music tripped along a crooning voice, but the music was all there, soul melting and stealing through the openness and the night. The other soldier sat there, chin on clasped hands, looking through Mike's face in thought.
Mike stirred after a few minutes of intense scrutiny. "So, what do you want? You from the 141st?"
The other guy jumped a bit out of his thoughts, then shook his head. "You guys got through to 'em, though. They're all right."
"Better be, the pansies." Mike rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling, the drying blood on his chin tickling and cracking in the night air. "Don't think I'll be at dinner because of those bastards. Shinoda promised sloppy joes tonight too. Damn," he whuffed out a sigh, "I wanted a sloppy joe."
A raised eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah, haha, but no. Lost my appetite. Can't stand the sight of blood, you see?" Mike eyed his companion as warily as he could, but couldn't help relaxing just a little. There was something distinctly familiar about him. "Hey, uh... We meet somewhere before? I'm Mike. Michael Ishikawa. Mckinley High. Oahu?"
"Alfred F. Jones. I'm, uh. Sort of from the mainland."
"Oooh. Gotcha."
The soldier paused, then pressed on. "I... wanted to drop in on you. To say thanks. And, uh. Sorry."
"... Man, you just told me you're not from 141st. Whatever it was, it probably doesn't matter any more."
A barking laugh at that. Alfred scratched the back of his head. "That's not it."
Another silence. "No, really, you aren't from Oahu?" Michael closed his eyes. "You haven't even been there before?"
"I dunno." The voice said mildly over the rattling outside. "You might need to jog my memory. What's it like?"
"Gorgeous." Something tugged the corner of his mouth. "It's paradise, man. The girls too, I mean, but..." He struggled to find words in the dark, where his memory was patched and faded. "I'd... get up real early ever since I was little, bike a mile and watch the sun rise on the beach. It's like living at the edge of humanity. Just all that space, that water and sky... fading into each other. You just disappear in a place like that." A pang. "Haven't seen a sight like that since then."
"The camps," the other man stated quietly.
"S'that what you wanted to apologize for?" Mike lifted his head, studied his visitor with half-lidded eyes. "Like I said, it doesn't matter any more. Where I'm going, there's nothing you or I can do."
"Shikata ga nai."
His eyebrows shot up at that. "You know Japanese?"
A subdued laugh. "I know a lot of languages. I know that at every camp, there are thousands of men, women, mothers and fathers whispering the words to each other and their children. There's nothing that can be done. We've been rejected and abandoned and there's nothing that can be done about it." Another tired laugh; Alfred rested his chin in his palm and pinned Mike's eyes with ocean blue. "In another language, some people are patting each other on the back and congratulating themselves on a job well done, eliminating the foreign threat from me. In another, there are a few more people who are quietly thinking that the 'foreign threat' is getting the short end of the stick. I know a lot of languages."
"... Back up. From you?"
"Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door." He lifted his head and waved, flashed a smile. "I'm on the other side of the door."
Mike's mouth opened and closed a few times. Eventually, words fell out. "... You're supposed to be a gal. Gorgeous, kinda busty. Long flowing hair?"
"Uh. I wasn't the last time I checked. Marks for imagination, though?"
foreclosure (or, go for broke) [3/5]
anonymous
May 23 2009, 05:32:16 UTC
"I should be finding this really hard to believe."
"But," the other guy said, tilting his head, keeping hold of their eye contact, "you're not."
And he wasn't. He had never seen a spacious sky with amber waves of grain, but looking at this guy, he was small, insignificant, in rows and rows of rolling gold.
After a moment, Mike broke his gaze and gingerly leaned back, laughing to himself. "Perfect. I'm a fairy. That's just... fantastic."
"... Sorry."
"No, no." He closed his eyes again. The sharp edge of pain was receding to a steady throb. "There's still nothing-"
"No, you got it mixed up." Another laugh. As he (Alfred? USA? America? Al?) rested an arm on the sheets next to Mike's body, it suddenly occurred to Mike that the sound forced itself a little harder every time Alfred tried to make it. "No, I've got... a lot to think about. A lot to apologize for." His mouth moved in small, jerking movements as he spoke. "There's still... a lot in me that doesn't want to. Doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to speak to you at all. But it's something that has to be done, sooner or later. More likely later than sooner. So that's why I need to get to you now, before it's too late to... get it to you. After it matters."
"I know."
It was the other man's turn to look up in surprise. His hand was caught up in Mike's, the young man's head on the pillow turned and looking at his country over his shoulder. "You were scared. Scared and confused. I heard the explosions from clear across the island. I remember. I hid under the table with Caroline and begged for it all to stop. It's... easier to push people away than it is to trust them, easier to blame than it is to understand." A tiny smile. "It's okay. It'll be all right. And I definitely don't hate you. I'm here, aren't I?"
After resolving itself from a rather silly, slack position, Alfred's mouth curved back upwards, then laughed.
After a prolonged silence, Mike commented, "I'm dying."
A nod.
"How long do I have?"
"Enough."
"Oh. Okay." A pause, then, gingerly, around the liquid in his chest: "Is there something you can do for...?"
Alfred shook his head. "That's your CO's job. And after that, it depends on your family." A squeeze from his still entwined hand. "I'll do what I can, but to be honest, they've got your spirit, and that's..."
"... All right." Mike's eyes fluttered a little before they shut. "That's all I needed to know."
Alfred looked up at the vaulted tent cover, seemingly reviewing. "If there's something I can do right now, it'd be an honor to do it for you."
Some strains of the trumpet from the next enclosure, and without opening his eyes, Mike smirked and tugged at the hand. "C'mon, get over here," he whispered, coughed. Things were getting darker. Someone really ought to have replaced the flashlights by now. "I wanna tell you something."
foreclosure (or, go for broke) [4/5]
anonymous
May 23 2009, 05:34:41 UTC
He heard the grit under combat boots crunch as the country stood, and another two crunches as he walked forward, and a sigh of fabric as he leaned over. Mike opened his eyes, put his unoccupied hand on the shoulder directly above him and pulled, closed them again. His country tasted just a little Manifest-bitter, but warm, warm and encompassing as the Western sun. Mike lowered himself back onto the mattress, opened his eyes, winked once and recognizably, and focused on those eyes before shutting his for the last time. "Now that I'm officially a fairy, how 'bout you tell me a story. Something about the unforeseeable future, maybe?"
A laugh. "You want nothing but everything, huh?"
"That's the idea." He huffed, a cough more than a laugh, but they were the same thing by now. "You've made a monster, Al."
"Yeah, I can see that now." A metallic crunch as he sat back down, still laughing lightly over the jazz. Mike felt his hand being covered by both of his. "Well, let's see. Where do we start?
"I'm just as blind as the rest of me, Michael Shigeru Ishikawa. I can't forecast the future much better than a sideshow fortuneteller. I can figure, though. There's going to be just as much fighting, more or less; it'll just shift fields. Father against father, brother against brother. There'll be some, uh, what did that old fart say... disillusionment? Along later. Lots of rebellion. Haha, what's new? But I'll promise you one thing, private. I'll live. I'll grow, I'll change. I'll stick around for a good while yet. And, eventually, I'll be able to apologize. For real."
Mike was sinking away from the words. Distantly, though, he thought he heard America say, "Well, uh, your... Uhh... Japan's outside. He wanted to know if, you know..." He thought that's what he heard, anyway. The wet crash and the seagulls were growing closer.
His mouth moved. "Tell him... I appreciate the thought." His hand tightened one last time, and he tumbled out of the dark into the warm sunshine...
Re: foreclosure (or, go for broke) [done]
anonymous
May 24 2009, 23:36:03 UTC
This deserves so many more pretty words than I can give, but anon: know that I thought this was beautiful, and particularly how you touched upon Alfred and his multiculturalism.
ooc: Takes place on October 30, 1944, evening, somewhere in the Vosges Mountains.
He still remembered that damn questionnaire. Screwed him up and down, all the way from Maui to Manzanar, in that little two person shack where his dad repaired the leaky tin roof and his mom made boiled rice for Caroline and 'Jii-san and the Iematsus whenever they came back too late from their tailor's center in the camp; a dusty brick oven, despite all attempts to refer to it otherwise. They came back early on the day of the questionnaire, folding and unfolding the papers, futzing around, making quiet, yet pointed referrals to those two damn numbers. He was old enough for his own survey, his dad handing a copy to him quietly right after baseball practice, the carved crowsfeet lining his eyes as cracks in the side of mountains. The fibers of the paper vibrated with the significance that surely radiated from each word of official government-upchucked-and-approved prose. 27 asked him what he would do for his country. 28 questioned if he had the loyalty to do it at all.
Well, here he was. Bleeding out somewhere in France. (Vosges, what? He wasn't all too keen on geography.) Fucking ace.
Anyway.
They had found him, somehow; some of the guys in K company were wandering around and saw his left leg sticking out of the knee-high mountain grass that had caught his fall, and they sat him up and made sure he was breathing before they hiked him over to where they'd set up camp. When he'd asked about I company, they looked at each other, pretended he was delirious, and ignored him. Also, they completely neglected to tell him that he what he had mistaken as a case of overworked lungs was actually a six inch piece of shrapnel sticking out of his chest, just left of his sternum.
Screw K company, man. And the shrapnel.
They had rigged up the phonograph somewhere in the tent, and something swinging and saxophone smooth was floating through the air, catching on the coughs of men and distant gunfire, only to straighten out again and flow. They said that the medics would get here "soon, real soon, hang in there and don't croak on us." He'd felt a little dribble of something warm and liquid out the corner of his mouth as he nodded that he had sincerely hoped for the first time in his life was drool. They had turned away and then he was alone in his little partition.
Mighty Mike. He had a hoarse chuckle all to himself in that tent, rising and failing to crest a series of low, wet coughs. If only the guys could see him now. He didn't fall, is why he had that name in his company; he was the middle man, kinda old hat and humdrum until they realized that he was the last one to go down in anything. He just plain didn't want to give up. "Enough grandstanding, man. Who're you trying to impress, anyway?" He had shrugged and grinned, all teeth and no mercy, arm raised for another wrestle.
As the coughs subsided, his eyes flickered down to the man that had entered the tent, who had dragged a low stool in behind him and flopped down on top of it. He had the dress uniform on, but he looked like he'd walked all the way from Normandy in it. His CO was gonna murder him. He also yellow hair. Good for focusing on. Also, good for swearing at. "Th' fuck are you?"
The other guy lifted his head to him, and Mike's heart stuttered. He had, for the briefest of moments, a very distinct hallucination of the clear liquid blue of the Pacific Ocean behind the other guy's glasses, rolling and serene and alive.
Reply
"... I'm sort of dying here." Another flash of teeth. Keeping down the coughing was getting easier. "I might not be as pretty when rigor mortis sets in."
A laugh, tired but sincere. "Not planning on getting too cozy, private."
The jazz music tripped along a crooning voice, but the music was all there, soul melting and stealing through the openness and the night. The other soldier sat there, chin on clasped hands, looking through Mike's face in thought.
Mike stirred after a few minutes of intense scrutiny. "So, what do you want? You from the 141st?"
The other guy jumped a bit out of his thoughts, then shook his head. "You guys got through to 'em, though. They're all right."
"Better be, the pansies." Mike rolled his head back to stare at the ceiling, the drying blood on his chin tickling and cracking in the night air. "Don't think I'll be at dinner because of those bastards. Shinoda promised sloppy joes tonight too. Damn," he whuffed out a sigh, "I wanted a sloppy joe."
A raised eyebrow. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah, haha, but no. Lost my appetite. Can't stand the sight of blood, you see?" Mike eyed his companion as warily as he could, but couldn't help relaxing just a little. There was something distinctly familiar about him. "Hey, uh... We meet somewhere before? I'm Mike. Michael Ishikawa. Mckinley High. Oahu?"
"Alfred F. Jones. I'm, uh. Sort of from the mainland."
"Oooh. Gotcha."
The soldier paused, then pressed on. "I... wanted to drop in on you. To say thanks. And, uh. Sorry."
"... Man, you just told me you're not from 141st. Whatever it was, it probably doesn't matter any more."
A barking laugh at that. Alfred scratched the back of his head. "That's not it."
Another silence. "No, really, you aren't from Oahu?" Michael closed his eyes. "You haven't even been there before?"
"I dunno." The voice said mildly over the rattling outside. "You might need to jog my memory. What's it like?"
"Gorgeous." Something tugged the corner of his mouth. "It's paradise, man. The girls too, I mean, but..." He struggled to find words in the dark, where his memory was patched and faded. "I'd... get up real early ever since I was little, bike a mile and watch the sun rise on the beach. It's like living at the edge of humanity. Just all that space, that water and sky... fading into each other. You just disappear in a place like that." A pang. "Haven't seen a sight like that since then."
"The camps," the other man stated quietly.
"S'that what you wanted to apologize for?" Mike lifted his head, studied his visitor with half-lidded eyes. "Like I said, it doesn't matter any more. Where I'm going, there's nothing you or I can do."
"Shikata ga nai."
His eyebrows shot up at that. "You know Japanese?"
A subdued laugh. "I know a lot of languages. I know that at every camp, there are thousands of men, women, mothers and fathers whispering the words to each other and their children. There's nothing that can be done. We've been rejected and abandoned and there's nothing that can be done about it." Another tired laugh; Alfred rested his chin in his palm and pinned Mike's eyes with ocean blue. "In another language, some people are patting each other on the back and congratulating themselves on a job well done, eliminating the foreign threat from me. In another, there are a few more people who are quietly thinking that the 'foreign threat' is getting the short end of the stick. I know a lot of languages."
"... Back up. From you?"
"Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door." He lifted his head and waved, flashed a smile. "I'm on the other side of the door."
Mike's mouth opened and closed a few times. Eventually, words fell out. "... You're supposed to be a gal. Gorgeous, kinda busty. Long flowing hair?"
"Uh. I wasn't the last time I checked. Marks for imagination, though?"
Reply
"But," the other guy said, tilting his head, keeping hold of their eye contact, "you're not."
And he wasn't. He had never seen a spacious sky with amber waves of grain, but looking at this guy, he was small, insignificant, in rows and rows of rolling gold.
After a moment, Mike broke his gaze and gingerly leaned back, laughing to himself. "Perfect. I'm a fairy. That's just... fantastic."
"... Sorry."
"No, no." He closed his eyes again. The sharp edge of pain was receding to a steady throb. "There's still nothing-"
"No, you got it mixed up." Another laugh. As he (Alfred? USA? America? Al?) rested an arm on the sheets next to Mike's body, it suddenly occurred to Mike that the sound forced itself a little harder every time Alfred tried to make it. "No, I've got... a lot to think about. A lot to apologize for." His mouth moved in small, jerking movements as he spoke. "There's still... a lot in me that doesn't want to. Doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to speak to you at all. But it's something that has to be done, sooner or later. More likely later than sooner. So that's why I need to get to you now, before it's too late to... get it to you. After it matters."
"I know."
It was the other man's turn to look up in surprise. His hand was caught up in Mike's, the young man's head on the pillow turned and looking at his country over his shoulder. "You were scared. Scared and confused. I heard the explosions from clear across the island. I remember. I hid under the table with Caroline and begged for it all to stop. It's... easier to push people away than it is to trust them, easier to blame than it is to understand." A tiny smile. "It's okay. It'll be all right. And I definitely don't hate you. I'm here, aren't I?"
After resolving itself from a rather silly, slack position, Alfred's mouth curved back upwards, then laughed.
After a prolonged silence, Mike commented, "I'm dying."
A nod.
"How long do I have?"
"Enough."
"Oh. Okay." A pause, then, gingerly, around the liquid in his chest: "Is there something you can do for...?"
Alfred shook his head. "That's your CO's job. And after that, it depends on your family." A squeeze from his still entwined hand. "I'll do what I can, but to be honest, they've got your spirit, and that's..."
"... All right." Mike's eyes fluttered a little before they shut. "That's all I needed to know."
Alfred looked up at the vaulted tent cover, seemingly reviewing. "If there's something I can do right now, it'd be an honor to do it for you."
Some strains of the trumpet from the next enclosure, and without opening his eyes, Mike smirked and tugged at the hand. "C'mon, get over here," he whispered, coughed. Things were getting darker. Someone really ought to have replaced the flashlights by now. "I wanna tell you something."
Reply
A laugh. "You want nothing but everything, huh?"
"That's the idea." He huffed, a cough more than a laugh, but they were the same thing by now. "You've made a monster, Al."
"Yeah, I can see that now." A metallic crunch as he sat back down, still laughing lightly over the jazz. Mike felt his hand being covered by both of his. "Well, let's see. Where do we start?
"I'm just as blind as the rest of me, Michael Shigeru Ishikawa. I can't forecast the future much better than a sideshow fortuneteller. I can figure, though. There's going to be just as much fighting, more or less; it'll just shift fields. Father against father, brother against brother. There'll be some, uh, what did that old fart say... disillusionment? Along later. Lots of rebellion. Haha, what's new? But I'll promise you one thing, private. I'll live. I'll grow, I'll change. I'll stick around for a good while yet. And, eventually, I'll be able to apologize. For real."
Mike was sinking away from the words. Distantly, though, he thought he heard America say, "Well, uh, your... Uhh... Japan's outside. He wanted to know if, you know..." He thought that's what he heard, anyway. The wet crash and the seagulls were growing closer.
His mouth moved. "Tell him... I appreciate the thought." His hand tightened one last time, and he tumbled out of the dark into the warm sunshine...
Reply
Japanese American Internment - Loyalty questions and Segregation - clarification of the controversy can be found in George Takei's memoir To the Stars, an excerpt of which can be found here, and also in the novel Farewell to Manzanar.
Shikata ga nai
442nd Infantry Regiment (United States)
The Lost Battalion
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And the ending, with Japan... oh god I think I need a few tissues and to cry some more.
In short: you are a genius and I am a huge sap. Thank you for this.
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