Fic: Wings
Title: Wings
Rating: PG
Characters & Pairings: Greece/Japan
Warnings: References to a real-life aviation disaster
Notes: Originally written for little_pixie42
Summary: Japan can take care of himself all alone.
-
14th August, 1985
The slow, steady movements of Greece's hand, steering and dabbing with the little ball of soft cotton as delicately as his fingers can manage, falter for the first time. Japan, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder and watch, breathes a little easier at the sight despite his every effort - but when he turns his eyes up from Greece's hand to his face only to realise that the other nation is already gazing at him, eyes fixed on what portion of Japan's face he can see, Japan jumps a little nervously all over again.
"Japan," Greece says, his eyes not wavering - although despite their directness they appear far from unkind, "are you alright?"
Japan blinks twice, turns his gaze around and down to where his hands rest palms up on his knees, hunches over a little further towards them. "Y - yes."
"Does it still hurt?" Greece asks, and Japan hears a soft shuffle as he sets the cotton ball aside and takes a fresh one, dipping it in the bowl of warm water.
Japan's fingers twitch and he takes a deep silent breath, steeling himself. It does hurt, throbbing and burning and raw - and it hurts in the other way too, in the clamouring beneath his skin and across his chest and behind his eyeballs, in the sobbing and the anger he can feel in his bones - yet he cannot tell Greece this. He does not want to worry him.
"I'm fine," he says. "I have been through worse."
The fresh cotton ball dabs gently, stickily, at his back, across the peak of his shoulder blades, over and into the dark contours of the wound there, layers of weeping opened flesh. A line of water trickles down parallel to his spine, and the brush of Greece's thumb along his skin, brushing away the drip, makes him shiver.
"But I saw you flinch," Greece counters, his tone mild and entirely unoffended. "So what is it?"
Again, Japan takes a long breath: he has been trying so hard to hide his self-consciousness, fighting his body's attempts to recoil and masking what he cannot suppress with restless movement and occasional sighs. It would have been the height of rudeness to tell Greece that he is feeling uncomfortable, and the discovery that Greece has realised it despite his every effort is mortifying.
"It's alright," Greece says calmly, patting the last remnant of blackened blood and reddened water from Japan's back. "I can hardly see any bare skin."
Japan starts slightly, and then nods somewhat hesitantly. True enough, he does not enjoy being so exposed - and Greece has indeed been understanding, not raising a complaint or even a comment when Japan opted to keep his kimono almost entirely on and open it merely far enough to bare his shoulders and the upper part of his torso. Even that makes him want to writhe in embarrassment, his finely-honed sense of modesty suddenly affronted, but it was the minimum necessary for Greece to unwind the old set of bandages and clean the wounds, and Japan ought not to let himself be troubled by it.
No, it is not that which is making him wince and shift, which has his stomach contracting anxiously and his fingers twitching as if to ball into fists. And yet, Japan thinks, and closes his eyes with a wave of guilt, it is better not to tell Greece so. The truth, surely, would only cause still greater offense.
There is another rustle of cloth as Greece leans over to one side; out of the corner of his eye Japan sees that hand, fingers blunt yet still so very precise in their movements, reach out from behind him and grasp a clean roll of bandages. "You'll have to take your arms out of your sleeves," Greece says.
Upon hearing the almost apologetic tone in Greece's voice, Japan bites his lip hard. It is not proper for him to have made the other nation feel this way when he is dedicating his time to helping Japan - even though Japan had not asked for it, had in fact been gently but firmly pushed to sit on the floor and coolly informed that Greece was going to help him change his bandages no matter how he protested.
Japan had not protested.
Quickly, he pulls the overlapping sides of his kimono down around his waist and squirms his arms up out of it before his mind has a chance to think twice about it. Despite this tactic, his brain catches up fast enough for his cheeks to already be stained wine-red before Greece has even touched him: although only his back is visible to the other nation, Japan is suddenly helplessly aware of his naked chest, of the sheer amounts of skin he is now revealing - of every whitened scar and darkened abrasion marking his body.
Greece's fingertips brush along the insides of his forearms, elbow to wrist, and Japan jerks away before he can stop himself - the skin there is sensitive, so thin and delicate that every vein shows.
"Lift your arms," Greece urges; Japan hastens to obey, in the hope that it will disguise his abrupt recoil from the touch.
The firm press of gauze against his shoulder blade makes him wince, but he turns his head up and stares fixedly at the opposite wall, deliberately not looking down at Greece's hand as it emerges from behind him, unravelling the roll of bandages as it goes. When he has reached the centre of Japan's chest, Greece lifts his elbow and pauses; Japan ducks his head and hands down and allows the hand to pass over them, and for a split second Greece's arm is all that surrounds him. It makes the pit of his stomach give a bizarre sort of turn, too gentle and strangely warm to be fear. Even though there is tension in his body - it is all that his neck and spine and thighs are aware of - some part of his mind wonders, as the crook of an elbow brushes against the crown of his hair, whether Greece's arm would be warm if he placed his hands upon it.
The thought is enough to make even his scalp feel as though it is flushing.
Greece has wound the bandage in a complete loop, and Japan feels him lay it smooth against his skin all the way around and pull it flat, securing the loose end between the wound and the next layer of dressings. This allows him to take away his other hand, which emerges out from around Japan's left side and hovers. Greece threads the bandage around once more, passing it from one hand to the other in front of Japan's chest; for a moment, Japan is entirely encircled within the broad, solid enclosure of Greece's arms.
He wonders why, even though their bodies are not in contact, he can still feel the heat and presence of Greece's torso all along his back.
Greece's movements, as ever, are slow and methodical. His hands shift steadily back and forth, passing the bandage from palm to palm first behind Japan then in front of him. Every often he will brush a fingertip against bare skin, or he will place a broad palm flat upon Japan's back to keep the dressings secure, or he will hook a finger between layers of material and tug, smoothing out a crease - and every time, Japan feels his nerves give an involuntary start. He is not quite comfortable with Greece, not yet, not completely, but then he is not quite comfortable with anyone. Even this - sitting so close, in contact even, in Japan's house and in silence - is of itself a rare show of intimacy, and one that he has still not grown accustomed to. And yet it is not for that reason that he has to wrestle with himself merely to remain still, each brush of fingers seeming to scorch right down into him and making him want to curl in on himself just to conceal the effect that they have on him.
Eventually, after what feels like years of deep silent breaths and tensing his fingers so as not to pull away, Greece reaches the end of the roll. He slides his hand down behind the bandages, lifting the layers of crepe away from Japan's back so as to avoid pricking him as he pins the dressings in place; the sensation of the backs of his fingers, all smooth nails and rough knuckles, sliding against Japan's skin makes him bite hard into his lower lip.
The thought swells in his head that Greece has essentially put his hand inside Japan's clothing.
He screws his eyes up so tightly that the darkness twists back into inexplicable colour again, and at once begins fumbling with the folds of his kimono, trying to tug it back up around his elbows.
Greece's fingers fold themselves suddenly over his own and hold him still. The only thought that manages to manifest itself in his head as he stares downwards is how very small he feels, with both his fists entirely encased within Greece's hands.
He shifts a little; Greece moves with him but does not release his hold.
Japan coughs hesitantly, unsure how to react. "Greece-san, what -"
He breaks off as Greece tugs on his wrists, just a little, urging him back whilst himself shuffling forwards to settle with his chest almost in contact with Japan's back. Japan remains rigid, his posture stiffly impeccable, but out of the corners of his eyes he can see Greece's legs bent up casually on either side of him, and the mere knowledge of the way they are sitting has the colour rushing to his face and ears.
Greece's hands release his fists and slide upwards, over forearm and angled elbow and narrow bicep to sit snugly upon his shoulders, fingertips resting just beyond his clavicles. The hands are warm and dry; Japan can feel calluses along the fleshy ridges where fingers meet palm, evidence of their many hours spent digging the earth - the excavations, it seems, are endless.
He finds himself wondering whether Greece holds his tools the same way he is holding Japan himself - firm, solid, unassumingly confident, as if his hands were made to curl themselves around the wooden slats of spades or pale angles of shoulders.
"Greece-san," he murmurs, and then cannot think of anything further to say.
"Worried about you," Greece says just behind his left ear. "When I found out what happened..."
Japan licks his lips. If he is honest with himself, he too had been shaken by the accident - still is, in truth. In the depths of his skull, beneath his skin, he feels his people whispering - disaster - disgrace - danger - distrust. He feels questions and uncertainties, fear, reproach; he can sense the pain of the mourning and the injured sitting at the back of his tongue. The sensation of others around him, both tangible, on his land and in his flesh, and ethereal, glimmering presences in the eternal peripheral, is uneasy and claustrophobic. They make no comment - but the unending observation is enough to lend an alien quality to even his most private thoughts.
"Thank you for the concern," he says at last, and bows his head a little even though he is facing away from the other nation, "but there is no need to worry. I am capable of dealing with this by myself."
Greece's grip tightens fractionally, although he does not reply immediately. Japan feels his breath hitch at the tone in Greece's voice when he finally speaks: soft, protective, perhaps even a little hurt. "I already knew that, Japan. And America does too, if you were wondering."
Japan swallows thickly. "My apologies," he says, his tone stiff and formal; he would like to protest, to question - then why the offer of help? why the insistence on involvement? - but he holds himself back, not wanting to offend, even when he is not entirely convinced that he ought not feel offended himself.
"Just because you can take care of yourself all alone," Greece says, apparently having heard his objections all the same, "doesn't mean you should have to."
"Oh," Japan says. There is something wound and poised like clockwork in his chest.
Greece slips his hands downwards and across, sliding them past one another to wrap around Japan's shoulders; Japan, feeling stunned and inexplicably softened and with entirely no idea what to say, does not fight his body's natural urge to relax back just barely into the touch.
"I'm sorry," Greece says, mouth leaning against the back of Japan's hair, "if you wanted to be left alone. But... it might be too late for that."
Japan sighs softly through his nose and gives the opposite wall a small, rueful smile. "The world grows more interconnected, despite what an old man like me might think."
"There is that," Greece says; his voice is steady and calm and smiling, and the pad of his thumb is drawing slow circles over the rounded hollow beneath Japan's collarbone, where chest becomes shoulder. "But also, people already care about you."
Japan feels a shiver travel the length of his torso, from neck to navel, and he tells himself firmly that it is only because he is half-undressed but does not fully believe it.
One hand raises itself slowly to take hold of and toy with a lock of his hair, fine and dark and glossy against firm tanned fingers; the gesture is casual, and so much more intimate than Japan is used to, but there is something quiet and hesitant in Greece's voice, and he seems to be deliberating over his words even more than usual. "Of course, if you really want to be alone... I mean, if you really don't want me here..."
Japan shakes his head a few too many times than would be necessary merely for the sake of politeness, and his protests emerge rather less gracefully than he had hoped. "Not at all - that is, of course not - I hope you have not received the impression that -"
"That's good, then," Greece says matter-of-factly. "Since I like it when I'm with you."
Japan smiles softly and flushes across the bridge of his nose at the same time, and doesn't know which response to heed the most. There is something entirely familiar about the situation, and yet equally it is tenderly new, something barely finding its legs and not even fully conscious of its wings. After his throat has opened up a little, he looks to one side and mutters something about this disarming Western straightforwardness - but the arms around him are steady and warm the entire time. Greece is chuckling softly into one of his ears, and although Japan's raw reflexive thoughts go unspoken, they swell in the air between them all the same.
-
On 12th August 1985, Japan Airlines Flight 123 crashed on Osutaka Ridge after suffering mechanical failures. With 520 deaths, it is still the second deadliest aviation disaster in history, and the deadliest involving a single aircraft. Although a US crew from a nearby air base located the crash site shortly after impact, their offers to guide Japanese officials and assist in the rescue effort were rejected. When the Japan Self-Defense Forces found the site, poor visibility and difficult terrain prevented them from landing, delaying the rescue operation until the next morning. It is thought that of those killed, many in fact died overnight of their injuries, shock or exposure.
* Necessary disclaimer: As someone who gathered all her information online, I don't claim to have any particular knowledge of the incident, or of the reasoning behind the decisions made. What you see here is only my interpretation, in particular my attempts to explain the events by way of Japan's personality as a Hetalia character. It should also be noted that, as far as I know, Greece was never involved in the aftermath of the crash. That's where I invoke artistic license. *
Rating: PG
Characters & Pairings: Greece/Japan
Warnings: References to a real-life aviation disaster
Notes: Originally written for little_pixie42
Summary: Japan can take care of himself all alone.
-
14th August, 1985
The slow, steady movements of Greece's hand, steering and dabbing with the little ball of soft cotton as delicately as his fingers can manage, falter for the first time. Japan, craning his neck to peer over his shoulder and watch, breathes a little easier at the sight despite his every effort - but when he turns his eyes up from Greece's hand to his face only to realise that the other nation is already gazing at him, eyes fixed on what portion of Japan's face he can see, Japan jumps a little nervously all over again.
"Japan," Greece says, his eyes not wavering - although despite their directness they appear far from unkind, "are you alright?"
Japan blinks twice, turns his gaze around and down to where his hands rest palms up on his knees, hunches over a little further towards them. "Y - yes."
"Does it still hurt?" Greece asks, and Japan hears a soft shuffle as he sets the cotton ball aside and takes a fresh one, dipping it in the bowl of warm water.
Japan's fingers twitch and he takes a deep silent breath, steeling himself. It does hurt, throbbing and burning and raw - and it hurts in the other way too, in the clamouring beneath his skin and across his chest and behind his eyeballs, in the sobbing and the anger he can feel in his bones - yet he cannot tell Greece this. He does not want to worry him.
"I'm fine," he says. "I have been through worse."
The fresh cotton ball dabs gently, stickily, at his back, across the peak of his shoulder blades, over and into the dark contours of the wound there, layers of weeping opened flesh. A line of water trickles down parallel to his spine, and the brush of Greece's thumb along his skin, brushing away the drip, makes him shiver.
"But I saw you flinch," Greece counters, his tone mild and entirely unoffended. "So what is it?"
Again, Japan takes a long breath: he has been trying so hard to hide his self-consciousness, fighting his body's attempts to recoil and masking what he cannot suppress with restless movement and occasional sighs. It would have been the height of rudeness to tell Greece that he is feeling uncomfortable, and the discovery that Greece has realised it despite his every effort is mortifying.
"It's alright," Greece says calmly, patting the last remnant of blackened blood and reddened water from Japan's back. "I can hardly see any bare skin."
Japan starts slightly, and then nods somewhat hesitantly. True enough, he does not enjoy being so exposed - and Greece has indeed been understanding, not raising a complaint or even a comment when Japan opted to keep his kimono almost entirely on and open it merely far enough to bare his shoulders and the upper part of his torso. Even that makes him want to writhe in embarrassment, his finely-honed sense of modesty suddenly affronted, but it was the minimum necessary for Greece to unwind the old set of bandages and clean the wounds, and Japan ought not to let himself be troubled by it.
No, it is not that which is making him wince and shift, which has his stomach contracting anxiously and his fingers twitching as if to ball into fists. And yet, Japan thinks, and closes his eyes with a wave of guilt, it is better not to tell Greece so. The truth, surely, would only cause still greater offense.
There is another rustle of cloth as Greece leans over to one side; out of the corner of his eye Japan sees that hand, fingers blunt yet still so very precise in their movements, reach out from behind him and grasp a clean roll of bandages. "You'll have to take your arms out of your sleeves," Greece says.
Upon hearing the almost apologetic tone in Greece's voice, Japan bites his lip hard. It is not proper for him to have made the other nation feel this way when he is dedicating his time to helping Japan - even though Japan had not asked for it, had in fact been gently but firmly pushed to sit on the floor and coolly informed that Greece was going to help him change his bandages no matter how he protested.
Japan had not protested.
Quickly, he pulls the overlapping sides of his kimono down around his waist and squirms his arms up out of it before his mind has a chance to think twice about it. Despite this tactic, his brain catches up fast enough for his cheeks to already be stained wine-red before Greece has even touched him: although only his back is visible to the other nation, Japan is suddenly helplessly aware of his naked chest, of the sheer amounts of skin he is now revealing - of every whitened scar and darkened abrasion marking his body.
Greece's fingertips brush along the insides of his forearms, elbow to wrist, and Japan jerks away before he can stop himself - the skin there is sensitive, so thin and delicate that every vein shows.
"Lift your arms," Greece urges; Japan hastens to obey, in the hope that it will disguise his abrupt recoil from the touch.
The firm press of gauze against his shoulder blade makes him wince, but he turns his head up and stares fixedly at the opposite wall, deliberately not looking down at Greece's hand as it emerges from behind him, unravelling the roll of bandages as it goes. When he has reached the centre of Japan's chest, Greece lifts his elbow and pauses; Japan ducks his head and hands down and allows the hand to pass over them, and for a split second Greece's arm is all that surrounds him. It makes the pit of his stomach give a bizarre sort of turn, too gentle and strangely warm to be fear. Even though there is tension in his body - it is all that his neck and spine and thighs are aware of - some part of his mind wonders, as the crook of an elbow brushes against the crown of his hair, whether Greece's arm would be warm if he placed his hands upon it.
The thought is enough to make even his scalp feel as though it is flushing.
Greece has wound the bandage in a complete loop, and Japan feels him lay it smooth against his skin all the way around and pull it flat, securing the loose end between the wound and the next layer of dressings. This allows him to take away his other hand, which emerges out from around Japan's left side and hovers. Greece threads the bandage around once more, passing it from one hand to the other in front of Japan's chest; for a moment, Japan is entirely encircled within the broad, solid enclosure of Greece's arms.
He wonders why, even though their bodies are not in contact, he can still feel the heat and presence of Greece's torso all along his back.
Greece's movements, as ever, are slow and methodical. His hands shift steadily back and forth, passing the bandage from palm to palm first behind Japan then in front of him. Every often he will brush a fingertip against bare skin, or he will place a broad palm flat upon Japan's back to keep the dressings secure, or he will hook a finger between layers of material and tug, smoothing out a crease - and every time, Japan feels his nerves give an involuntary start. He is not quite comfortable with Greece, not yet, not completely, but then he is not quite comfortable with anyone. Even this - sitting so close, in contact even, in Japan's house and in silence - is of itself a rare show of intimacy, and one that he has still not grown accustomed to. And yet it is not for that reason that he has to wrestle with himself merely to remain still, each brush of fingers seeming to scorch right down into him and making him want to curl in on himself just to conceal the effect that they have on him.
Eventually, after what feels like years of deep silent breaths and tensing his fingers so as not to pull away, Greece reaches the end of the roll. He slides his hand down behind the bandages, lifting the layers of crepe away from Japan's back so as to avoid pricking him as he pins the dressings in place; the sensation of the backs of his fingers, all smooth nails and rough knuckles, sliding against Japan's skin makes him bite hard into his lower lip.
The thought swells in his head that Greece has essentially put his hand inside Japan's clothing.
He screws his eyes up so tightly that the darkness twists back into inexplicable colour again, and at once begins fumbling with the folds of his kimono, trying to tug it back up around his elbows.
Greece's fingers fold themselves suddenly over his own and hold him still. The only thought that manages to manifest itself in his head as he stares downwards is how very small he feels, with both his fists entirely encased within Greece's hands.
He shifts a little; Greece moves with him but does not release his hold.
Japan coughs hesitantly, unsure how to react. "Greece-san, what -"
He breaks off as Greece tugs on his wrists, just a little, urging him back whilst himself shuffling forwards to settle with his chest almost in contact with Japan's back. Japan remains rigid, his posture stiffly impeccable, but out of the corners of his eyes he can see Greece's legs bent up casually on either side of him, and the mere knowledge of the way they are sitting has the colour rushing to his face and ears.
Greece's hands release his fists and slide upwards, over forearm and angled elbow and narrow bicep to sit snugly upon his shoulders, fingertips resting just beyond his clavicles. The hands are warm and dry; Japan can feel calluses along the fleshy ridges where fingers meet palm, evidence of their many hours spent digging the earth - the excavations, it seems, are endless.
He finds himself wondering whether Greece holds his tools the same way he is holding Japan himself - firm, solid, unassumingly confident, as if his hands were made to curl themselves around the wooden slats of spades or pale angles of shoulders.
"Greece-san," he murmurs, and then cannot think of anything further to say.
"Worried about you," Greece says just behind his left ear. "When I found out what happened..."
Japan licks his lips. If he is honest with himself, he too had been shaken by the accident - still is, in truth. In the depths of his skull, beneath his skin, he feels his people whispering - disaster - disgrace - danger - distrust. He feels questions and uncertainties, fear, reproach; he can sense the pain of the mourning and the injured sitting at the back of his tongue. The sensation of others around him, both tangible, on his land and in his flesh, and ethereal, glimmering presences in the eternal peripheral, is uneasy and claustrophobic. They make no comment - but the unending observation is enough to lend an alien quality to even his most private thoughts.
"Thank you for the concern," he says at last, and bows his head a little even though he is facing away from the other nation, "but there is no need to worry. I am capable of dealing with this by myself."
Greece's grip tightens fractionally, although he does not reply immediately. Japan feels his breath hitch at the tone in Greece's voice when he finally speaks: soft, protective, perhaps even a little hurt. "I already knew that, Japan. And America does too, if you were wondering."
Japan swallows thickly. "My apologies," he says, his tone stiff and formal; he would like to protest, to question - then why the offer of help? why the insistence on involvement? - but he holds himself back, not wanting to offend, even when he is not entirely convinced that he ought not feel offended himself.
"Just because you can take care of yourself all alone," Greece says, apparently having heard his objections all the same, "doesn't mean you should have to."
"Oh," Japan says. There is something wound and poised like clockwork in his chest.
Greece slips his hands downwards and across, sliding them past one another to wrap around Japan's shoulders; Japan, feeling stunned and inexplicably softened and with entirely no idea what to say, does not fight his body's natural urge to relax back just barely into the touch.
"I'm sorry," Greece says, mouth leaning against the back of Japan's hair, "if you wanted to be left alone. But... it might be too late for that."
Japan sighs softly through his nose and gives the opposite wall a small, rueful smile. "The world grows more interconnected, despite what an old man like me might think."
"There is that," Greece says; his voice is steady and calm and smiling, and the pad of his thumb is drawing slow circles over the rounded hollow beneath Japan's collarbone, where chest becomes shoulder. "But also, people already care about you."
Japan feels a shiver travel the length of his torso, from neck to navel, and he tells himself firmly that it is only because he is half-undressed but does not fully believe it.
One hand raises itself slowly to take hold of and toy with a lock of his hair, fine and dark and glossy against firm tanned fingers; the gesture is casual, and so much more intimate than Japan is used to, but there is something quiet and hesitant in Greece's voice, and he seems to be deliberating over his words even more than usual. "Of course, if you really want to be alone... I mean, if you really don't want me here..."
Japan shakes his head a few too many times than would be necessary merely for the sake of politeness, and his protests emerge rather less gracefully than he had hoped. "Not at all - that is, of course not - I hope you have not received the impression that -"
"That's good, then," Greece says matter-of-factly. "Since I like it when I'm with you."
Japan smiles softly and flushes across the bridge of his nose at the same time, and doesn't know which response to heed the most. There is something entirely familiar about the situation, and yet equally it is tenderly new, something barely finding its legs and not even fully conscious of its wings. After his throat has opened up a little, he looks to one side and mutters something about this disarming Western straightforwardness - but the arms around him are steady and warm the entire time. Greece is chuckling softly into one of his ears, and although Japan's raw reflexive thoughts go unspoken, they swell in the air between them all the same.
-
On 12th August 1985, Japan Airlines Flight 123 crashed on Osutaka Ridge after suffering mechanical failures. With 520 deaths, it is still the second deadliest aviation disaster in history, and the deadliest involving a single aircraft. Although a US crew from a nearby air base located the crash site shortly after impact, their offers to guide Japanese officials and assist in the rescue effort were rejected. When the Japan Self-Defense Forces found the site, poor visibility and difficult terrain prevented them from landing, delaying the rescue operation until the next morning. It is thought that of those killed, many in fact died overnight of their injuries, shock or exposure.
* Necessary disclaimer: As someone who gathered all her information online, I don't claim to have any particular knowledge of the incident, or of the reasoning behind the decisions made. What you see here is only my interpretation, in particular my attempts to explain the events by way of Japan's personality as a Hetalia character. It should also be noted that, as far as I know, Greece was never involved in the aftermath of the crash. That's where I invoke artistic license. *