[APH] Hotaru no Yume
Title: Hotaru no Yume
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: Greece/Japan, America
Genre/Rating/Warnings: general/PG/historical inaccuracies?
Summary/Excerpt: After the war, Kiku retreats to a place not many people know, in the hopes of healing himself.
A/N: Written for aph_fluffathon. Prompt was A firefly-lite date, where one of them catches fireflies in jars and hangs them all around.
Hotaru no Yume
It happened after the war.
Kiku Honda, the personification of Japan, lay in bed, bleeding black and thick from two cities. Half of his frighteningly gaunt face was obscured by the oxygen mask. He hadn’t woken up since the fall of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Noonday sunlight pouring from the open hospital window seemingly passed through his bone-thin arm and paper skin. The steady beep of the heart monitor was all America could hold on to, if only to stop his hands from shaking while he drafted food rations to be dispatched from Okinawa.
There was hot guilt gurgling in the pit of his stomach. Who knew how long it would take for it to go away? Everyone was still hurt in heart, body and mind. They had no time to stop and break down in bitter tears somewhere. Restoration efforts were to be swift and short, like air raids.
Japan couldn’t afford to be unconscious. His people needed him. The world needed him. America needed him. Alfred removed his glasses and placed his head in his hands.
No one tried to look for Kiku in dreams.
He was in Edo at night again. The streets were lit yellow with old paper lanterns strewn from one dojo’s roof to the next. A plethora of stars dotted the sky infinitely high above their heads. The clack of a rickshaw’s wheels sounded strangely foreign and Kiku retreated to the fields behind the residences. The farmers and their families lay sleeping in wooden houses. Cicadas called desperately to each other for mates.
He was standing on a red bridge connecting the fields to a shrine surrounded by a lake. He knew this place well. An unnamable ease and comfort settled in Kiku’s chest as he watched fireflies flit in and out of tall reeds. He named them one by one-pain, honor, envy, coldness, pride, arrogance, ignorance, sorrow, grief, sincerity, apology-and watched as they took to the sky, swirling in lazy green circles.
He closed his eyes and saw Tokyo burning before him. From Kansai to Hokkaido, they all lay in suffering and ruins. He opened his eyes again and looked at his hands, glowing green from the exodus of light around him on tiny little wings. What was he trying to do? Forget?
There were too many days he wished he wasn’t a nation. There was nothing beautiful about war. There was nothing to take pride in from hearing your leaders telling you to attack friends and family you had known long before their grandparents were even born. There was nothing amazing about immortality and having to watch your children die one generation after the next without being able to see their relatives cry for them, because they too failed to live long enough. By Kiku’s hands, Japan had slain a thousand hopes and dreams, a thousand lives and a thousand loves. All he could do was weep bitterly for his enemies.
It was envious, a human life that had an end.
There was a rustle behind him and the earthy sound of boot hitting old wood. The red bridge creaked and Kiku turned.
Herakles Karpusi, the personification of Greece, stood before him, looking calm and pensive like he always did. Kiku didn’t know if this was an illusion of his dream or something else. Nor was he surprised; it felt too long since he saw Herakles again. It seemed his heart wanted nothing more than to see friends again. He had cut so many of them off.
A pang of guilt shot through his abdomen.
“What are you doing here?” This is my dream.
I came to look for you, bright eyes seemed to say. “It’s a big place, dreams.”
Kiku looked around and saw the fireflies drifting upward. He hummed in agreement. “That’s a good thing, perhaps.” His gaze shifted to the Greek beside him. The man was dressed in his usual white shirt and work pants, as if having come from a rousing excavation in his mother’s ruins. “You look well.”
“And so do you,” Herakles returned lightly.
Kiku laughed and adjusted his blue yukata, pressed and clean. “You kid,” he said. “I am not well. You won’t be able to recognize me if you saw me.”
Herakles smiled, small and sad. “I can say the same, I guess. My people are fighting amongst themselves. I can’t wake up without lashing out at the person next to me, or breaking out in sores and wounds.”
Japan didn’t want to think about it but dared not close his eyes against the horrible image, unless Greece disappeared right then and there. He watched as the other man leaned on the railing of the bridge, looking at the fireflies.
“Are these yours?” They were too many and they blocked Kiku's view of Herakles.
He nodded, waving them away with his hand. “Memories,” Japan said. “I’m tired of holding them all.”
Herakles picked up an oval jar from the grass, unseen in the shadow of afterglow. “I think this might help.”
Kiku blinked and stared before taking the jar with both hands and unscrewing the top. Unsure why he did so, he proceeded to sweep the air with it, catching seven fireflies within the jar and closing it tightly. They didn’t fight for release, thinking they were still in the night air as they watch their fellows through the transparent glass.
It’s a gorgeous thing, isn’t it? The night looks brighter and clearer. You could keep yourself in little glass jars and shine parts of yourself forever like novelty. You could bottle all of yourself and start with a clear night.
You’re long overdue for dawn but the fireflies won’t leave.
Kiku shook his head to clear his thoughts. Herakles peered curiously at his face and he laughed.
“It’s very pretty,” he said. “Come, help me bottle them all. I want to.”
Herakles looked surprised. “Won’t that be sad for them? They won’t be able to fly.”
“They’re not meant to fly.” Japan stated.
For a few moments, they acted like children, jumping here and there, catching fireflies that flew high out of their reach as if in playful mocking. The quaint oval jars piled up around them, lighting the red bridge like slow motion firework-explosions.
Panting and laughing, Herakles and Kiku sat down on the old wood, looking around in awe of their handiwork. A sweet breeze blew from the east.
“Thank you, Hera,” Kiku said quietly, taking the Greek’s hand in his and tracing the nerves on the back of his hand. “I wanted to see you.”
“I missed you too,” Herakles replied and gently pressed a kiss to his forehead. Kiku snuggled closer for warmth. “Ah, look. The stars are brighter.”
Kiku looked up too and couldn’t help but stare instead at the Greek’s white throat contrasted against the blue black of the evening. He couldn’t find any longing more powerful than to be alive again and touch this man in person, no matter how badly they both looked in waking.
In waking…
“I’m scared to leave, Herakles-san,” Japan said, breathing easily in the comforting glow of the fireflies.
“But we must,” Greece replied. “Eventually. I mean, the evening looks good but if we stay here too long, we might forget what the sun feels like.”
Of course, they’re both children of the sun. It’s a natural affinity. The fireflies stir around them. Greece stood up and held out his hand.
Japan took it and joined him on the grass. The dew soaked into his tabi socks.
“Shall we come back here again?” he asked, smiling.
The pair turned to behold the red bridge shining green in the light of bottled memories. They weren’t going to leave, but at least they weren’t scattered in the water. They weren’t all happy memories but at least they weren’t going to be forgotten. It’s cruel, Japan agreed, but he valued such scars as proof of his being human. He keeps them so someone won’t forget and would learn from them, hopefully.
“In the morning, perhaps?” Greece offered.
Hand in hand, they walked back to the village. Somewhere on the way, they both disappeared and rose to the stars.
Back in the hospital, America couldn’t hold back his tears as Japan finally finally opened his eyes.
END
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: Greece/Japan, America
Genre/Rating/Warnings: general/PG/historical inaccuracies?
Summary/Excerpt: After the war, Kiku retreats to a place not many people know, in the hopes of healing himself.
A/N: Written for aph_fluffathon. Prompt was A firefly-lite date, where one of them catches fireflies in jars and hangs them all around.
Hotaru no Yume
It happened after the war.
Kiku Honda, the personification of Japan, lay in bed, bleeding black and thick from two cities. Half of his frighteningly gaunt face was obscured by the oxygen mask. He hadn’t woken up since the fall of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Noonday sunlight pouring from the open hospital window seemingly passed through his bone-thin arm and paper skin. The steady beep of the heart monitor was all America could hold on to, if only to stop his hands from shaking while he drafted food rations to be dispatched from Okinawa.
There was hot guilt gurgling in the pit of his stomach. Who knew how long it would take for it to go away? Everyone was still hurt in heart, body and mind. They had no time to stop and break down in bitter tears somewhere. Restoration efforts were to be swift and short, like air raids.
Japan couldn’t afford to be unconscious. His people needed him. The world needed him. America needed him. Alfred removed his glasses and placed his head in his hands.
No one tried to look for Kiku in dreams.
He was in Edo at night again. The streets were lit yellow with old paper lanterns strewn from one dojo’s roof to the next. A plethora of stars dotted the sky infinitely high above their heads. The clack of a rickshaw’s wheels sounded strangely foreign and Kiku retreated to the fields behind the residences. The farmers and their families lay sleeping in wooden houses. Cicadas called desperately to each other for mates.
He was standing on a red bridge connecting the fields to a shrine surrounded by a lake. He knew this place well. An unnamable ease and comfort settled in Kiku’s chest as he watched fireflies flit in and out of tall reeds. He named them one by one-pain, honor, envy, coldness, pride, arrogance, ignorance, sorrow, grief, sincerity, apology-and watched as they took to the sky, swirling in lazy green circles.
He closed his eyes and saw Tokyo burning before him. From Kansai to Hokkaido, they all lay in suffering and ruins. He opened his eyes again and looked at his hands, glowing green from the exodus of light around him on tiny little wings. What was he trying to do? Forget?
There were too many days he wished he wasn’t a nation. There was nothing beautiful about war. There was nothing to take pride in from hearing your leaders telling you to attack friends and family you had known long before their grandparents were even born. There was nothing amazing about immortality and having to watch your children die one generation after the next without being able to see their relatives cry for them, because they too failed to live long enough. By Kiku’s hands, Japan had slain a thousand hopes and dreams, a thousand lives and a thousand loves. All he could do was weep bitterly for his enemies.
It was envious, a human life that had an end.
There was a rustle behind him and the earthy sound of boot hitting old wood. The red bridge creaked and Kiku turned.
Herakles Karpusi, the personification of Greece, stood before him, looking calm and pensive like he always did. Kiku didn’t know if this was an illusion of his dream or something else. Nor was he surprised; it felt too long since he saw Herakles again. It seemed his heart wanted nothing more than to see friends again. He had cut so many of them off.
A pang of guilt shot through his abdomen.
“What are you doing here?” This is my dream.
I came to look for you, bright eyes seemed to say. “It’s a big place, dreams.”
Kiku looked around and saw the fireflies drifting upward. He hummed in agreement. “That’s a good thing, perhaps.” His gaze shifted to the Greek beside him. The man was dressed in his usual white shirt and work pants, as if having come from a rousing excavation in his mother’s ruins. “You look well.”
“And so do you,” Herakles returned lightly.
Kiku laughed and adjusted his blue yukata, pressed and clean. “You kid,” he said. “I am not well. You won’t be able to recognize me if you saw me.”
Herakles smiled, small and sad. “I can say the same, I guess. My people are fighting amongst themselves. I can’t wake up without lashing out at the person next to me, or breaking out in sores and wounds.”
Japan didn’t want to think about it but dared not close his eyes against the horrible image, unless Greece disappeared right then and there. He watched as the other man leaned on the railing of the bridge, looking at the fireflies.
“Are these yours?” They were too many and they blocked Kiku's view of Herakles.
He nodded, waving them away with his hand. “Memories,” Japan said. “I’m tired of holding them all.”
Herakles picked up an oval jar from the grass, unseen in the shadow of afterglow. “I think this might help.”
Kiku blinked and stared before taking the jar with both hands and unscrewing the top. Unsure why he did so, he proceeded to sweep the air with it, catching seven fireflies within the jar and closing it tightly. They didn’t fight for release, thinking they were still in the night air as they watch their fellows through the transparent glass.
It’s a gorgeous thing, isn’t it? The night looks brighter and clearer. You could keep yourself in little glass jars and shine parts of yourself forever like novelty. You could bottle all of yourself and start with a clear night.
You’re long overdue for dawn but the fireflies won’t leave.
Kiku shook his head to clear his thoughts. Herakles peered curiously at his face and he laughed.
“It’s very pretty,” he said. “Come, help me bottle them all. I want to.”
Herakles looked surprised. “Won’t that be sad for them? They won’t be able to fly.”
“They’re not meant to fly.” Japan stated.
For a few moments, they acted like children, jumping here and there, catching fireflies that flew high out of their reach as if in playful mocking. The quaint oval jars piled up around them, lighting the red bridge like slow motion firework-explosions.
Panting and laughing, Herakles and Kiku sat down on the old wood, looking around in awe of their handiwork. A sweet breeze blew from the east.
“Thank you, Hera,” Kiku said quietly, taking the Greek’s hand in his and tracing the nerves on the back of his hand. “I wanted to see you.”
“I missed you too,” Herakles replied and gently pressed a kiss to his forehead. Kiku snuggled closer for warmth. “Ah, look. The stars are brighter.”
Kiku looked up too and couldn’t help but stare instead at the Greek’s white throat contrasted against the blue black of the evening. He couldn’t find any longing more powerful than to be alive again and touch this man in person, no matter how badly they both looked in waking.
In waking…
“I’m scared to leave, Herakles-san,” Japan said, breathing easily in the comforting glow of the fireflies.
“But we must,” Greece replied. “Eventually. I mean, the evening looks good but if we stay here too long, we might forget what the sun feels like.”
Of course, they’re both children of the sun. It’s a natural affinity. The fireflies stir around them. Greece stood up and held out his hand.
Japan took it and joined him on the grass. The dew soaked into his tabi socks.
“Shall we come back here again?” he asked, smiling.
The pair turned to behold the red bridge shining green in the light of bottled memories. They weren’t going to leave, but at least they weren’t scattered in the water. They weren’t all happy memories but at least they weren’t going to be forgotten. It’s cruel, Japan agreed, but he valued such scars as proof of his being human. He keeps them so someone won’t forget and would learn from them, hopefully.
“In the morning, perhaps?” Greece offered.
Hand in hand, they walked back to the village. Somewhere on the way, they both disappeared and rose to the stars.
Back in the hospital, America couldn’t hold back his tears as Japan finally finally opened his eyes.
END