[APH] One Who Listens
Title: One Who Listens
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: Japan/Greece
Genre/Rating/Warnings: romance/PG/implied sex
Summary/Excerpt: Greece and Japan tell each other tales of folklore before they sleep off their afterglow.
A/N: This is kinda rushed and also turned out somewhat weird/lame. I'm sorry ^^; dkgjhdkfjghd I hope you enjoy! :D I dunno much Japanese folklore lolwhut If there are typos, please forgive them! New Years was going on while I was typing ^^;
One Who Listens
In the time between the tingles rush and numb his legs to the moment he comes, screaming the name of a flower, Herakles sees, through divine fog expanding in circles above his forehead, how exactly the world began.
"Tell me a story," Kiku breathes against the nape of his neck and Herakles rumbles like a sated cat.
"Mine or my mother's?" he asks as he feels his partner pull out and rolls over to face him.
"Greece's," Kiku replies. "Your mother is a part of you, is she not?"
Chaos swirls in a lazy void like honey bread batter mixed with lumps of flour and stone from the earthenware pot. He explodes in a brick oven and on broken ceramic lies Lady Earth, Lady Night and the Underground Darkness. They copulate on instinct, like eating and breathing fire, as if to populate the sprawling realms was of the utmost urgency. As if the heart of every and all beings in existence was to avoid being alone.
Herakles would like to say that he has only imagined his mother's myths as she has told them, artfully, as if it were gossip from the neighbors, and perhaps they were. He's never seen nor spoken with any divinities even ever since he was young. She had wanted to distract him from her fears and her weakening body. And after she died and Herakles was teetering before a sea of struggles he had to face, his mother's stories kept him sane.
"There was once a king who had three daughters," Herakles begins and sits up straighter on the pillows as Kiku moves to settle by his chest, tracing aimless lines on sweat-sheened skin. "The youngest one was named Psyche and she was the most beautiful of the sisters."
"How beautiful?" Kiku asks and the Greek smiles at the hint of envy he thinks he hears in his tone.
"Our beautiful now wasn't their beautiful then," Herakles muses. "I'm guessing of marrying age. Hair in amber ringlets. Smooth, toffee skin, almond shaped eyes. A slight figure, probably a bit overworked from household duties. Plump cheeks and child bearing hips."
Kiku laughs, gaze bright. "I can imagine. Please go on."
"She was so beautiful that when she walked in town, people strewed flowers upon her feet instead of Aphrodite's. It made the goddess burn with jealousy. Mother used to say how pitiful Aphrodite looked when she was upset," And at this, the Greek smiles. "She'd go to Dionysius and get butt drunk. But when he'd get too violent, she'd fly to Hephaestus and demand admiration."
"A modern lover," Kiku remarks and his partner continues.
"In her jealousy, Aphrodite calls her son Eros to carry out her revenge. She tells him to go with Psyche to the fountains in her garden and inspire her with their waters to fall in love with a crass, lowly man. But when Cupid sees Psyche in deep sleep, he too, is captivated by her beauty and spares her from all but drinking a sleeping drought from a sacred river.
"Naturally, Aphrodite gets pissed and Psyche is plagued by misfortune. Her sisters marry powerful princes while no one comes for her hand. Eventually, her parents consult an oracle. I can't remember which one but it must have been Aprhodite's because they're advised to send Psyche to the top of a mountain, where a monster of immortal heritage awaits her as her husband."
"A beast?" Kiku asks, meeting Herakles face with open curiosity.
"Perhaps," he says and thinks of Kiku's monsters, of bony spirits, sacred dogs, sky tigers, talking foxes and sheet-like guardians of paper spells that bound even the largest of divine heads, the fastest of cursed wheels.
"Mourning," Herakles continues. "Psyche's family dresses her as a bride abandons her to her fate. But Zephyrus, the West Wind, lifts Psyche to a fragrant valley and there, amidst flowers, stood a palace of pure gold. She enters it in amazement and is welcomed by her very own barrage of servants, ready to do as she asked.
"Then a voice, a deep tenor that seemed to come from the very walls tells her, 'I am your husband. This house and all that is in it are yours, but on one condition. You must never attempt to see my face.' Psyche at first was happy. She and her husband spent their nights together and while she heard his voice and felt his breath, she never saw his face."
Herakles catches a smile tugging on Kiku's lips and figures he must know what was to come next. He inhales as Kiku drags a finger from his navel to his chest to his shoulders and down his arms in quiet awe and preoccupation, like a student doodling on his notebook with one ear to the teacher.
"Tell me another."
Herakles blinks. "Another?"
"Something I haven't heard before." Kiku pushes himself up to meet his partner and plants a chaste kiss on his lips. The Greek is bemused.
"I don't think there's anything you haven't heard before. Why don't you tell me one?"
Kiku sits up and lights himself a cigarette from the creased carton pack on the nightstand. He takes a slow drag, looking regal enough to earn him holding a long cigarette holder in Herakles' mind, red and black and intricately carved in gold lilies and dragons.
"My stories are as varied as the regions my people have clustered themselves into," he says and Herakles feels the pale stretch of Kiku's neck beckoning him to rise, if only the dull ache in the base of his spine wasn't as persistent. He waits for him to continue.
"In a certain prefecture, there was once a mountain god who fell in love with a human girl. Their affair was forbidden and so they could only meet at night. Fireflies lit their paths. In thanks, the mountain god turned the short-lived insects into spirits. Delighted, they left the marshlands. Today, it is said that the fireflies in the prefecture are descendants of those spirits."
"So simple?" Herakles says with bemusement, unable to help but compare the lengths of his explanations. He brings an arm around Kiku's shoulders. The smaller man eases into them.
"I may have forgotten the details. But all stories flow the same way. What gives them value is if there is one who listens."
There's a darkness clouding Kiku's eyes that makes Herakles try again, to see if his craving can be appeased by myths that one never seems to tire of hearing. Those of chases, ungrateful lovers and angry gods, golden apples, Gorgons heads and maidens morphing into trees.
But when they are all futile, he asks, "Kiku? Do you think the mountain god and the human girl had a happy life together?"
"Who knows?" Kiku replies, sinking back into the pillows. "Humans lives are short."
They drink in silence. Beside him, Herakles feels Kiku's breathing even out, warm air cooling him in regular puffs. Herakles would like to think it's because he's been running a hand through his hair all the while, instead of the words he tries to weave. He knew he's never had a talent for storytelling, and like Kiku, is one who chooses to listen.
END
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia / Hetalia World Series
Characters/Pairings: Japan/Greece
Genre/Rating/Warnings: romance/PG/implied sex
Summary/Excerpt: Greece and Japan tell each other tales of folklore before they sleep off their afterglow.
A/N: This is kinda rushed and also turned out somewhat weird/lame. I'm sorry ^^; dkgjhdkfjghd I hope you enjoy! :D I dunno much Japanese folklore lolwhut If there are typos, please forgive them! New Years was going on while I was typing ^^;
One Who Listens
In the time between the tingles rush and numb his legs to the moment he comes, screaming the name of a flower, Herakles sees, through divine fog expanding in circles above his forehead, how exactly the world began.
"Tell me a story," Kiku breathes against the nape of his neck and Herakles rumbles like a sated cat.
"Mine or my mother's?" he asks as he feels his partner pull out and rolls over to face him.
"Greece's," Kiku replies. "Your mother is a part of you, is she not?"
Chaos swirls in a lazy void like honey bread batter mixed with lumps of flour and stone from the earthenware pot. He explodes in a brick oven and on broken ceramic lies Lady Earth, Lady Night and the Underground Darkness. They copulate on instinct, like eating and breathing fire, as if to populate the sprawling realms was of the utmost urgency. As if the heart of every and all beings in existence was to avoid being alone.
Herakles would like to say that he has only imagined his mother's myths as she has told them, artfully, as if it were gossip from the neighbors, and perhaps they were. He's never seen nor spoken with any divinities even ever since he was young. She had wanted to distract him from her fears and her weakening body. And after she died and Herakles was teetering before a sea of struggles he had to face, his mother's stories kept him sane.
"There was once a king who had three daughters," Herakles begins and sits up straighter on the pillows as Kiku moves to settle by his chest, tracing aimless lines on sweat-sheened skin. "The youngest one was named Psyche and she was the most beautiful of the sisters."
"How beautiful?" Kiku asks and the Greek smiles at the hint of envy he thinks he hears in his tone.
"Our beautiful now wasn't their beautiful then," Herakles muses. "I'm guessing of marrying age. Hair in amber ringlets. Smooth, toffee skin, almond shaped eyes. A slight figure, probably a bit overworked from household duties. Plump cheeks and child bearing hips."
Kiku laughs, gaze bright. "I can imagine. Please go on."
"She was so beautiful that when she walked in town, people strewed flowers upon her feet instead of Aphrodite's. It made the goddess burn with jealousy. Mother used to say how pitiful Aphrodite looked when she was upset," And at this, the Greek smiles. "She'd go to Dionysius and get butt drunk. But when he'd get too violent, she'd fly to Hephaestus and demand admiration."
"A modern lover," Kiku remarks and his partner continues.
"In her jealousy, Aphrodite calls her son Eros to carry out her revenge. She tells him to go with Psyche to the fountains in her garden and inspire her with their waters to fall in love with a crass, lowly man. But when Cupid sees Psyche in deep sleep, he too, is captivated by her beauty and spares her from all but drinking a sleeping drought from a sacred river.
"Naturally, Aphrodite gets pissed and Psyche is plagued by misfortune. Her sisters marry powerful princes while no one comes for her hand. Eventually, her parents consult an oracle. I can't remember which one but it must have been Aprhodite's because they're advised to send Psyche to the top of a mountain, where a monster of immortal heritage awaits her as her husband."
"A beast?" Kiku asks, meeting Herakles face with open curiosity.
"Perhaps," he says and thinks of Kiku's monsters, of bony spirits, sacred dogs, sky tigers, talking foxes and sheet-like guardians of paper spells that bound even the largest of divine heads, the fastest of cursed wheels.
"Mourning," Herakles continues. "Psyche's family dresses her as a bride abandons her to her fate. But Zephyrus, the West Wind, lifts Psyche to a fragrant valley and there, amidst flowers, stood a palace of pure gold. She enters it in amazement and is welcomed by her very own barrage of servants, ready to do as she asked.
"Then a voice, a deep tenor that seemed to come from the very walls tells her, 'I am your husband. This house and all that is in it are yours, but on one condition. You must never attempt to see my face.' Psyche at first was happy. She and her husband spent their nights together and while she heard his voice and felt his breath, she never saw his face."
Herakles catches a smile tugging on Kiku's lips and figures he must know what was to come next. He inhales as Kiku drags a finger from his navel to his chest to his shoulders and down his arms in quiet awe and preoccupation, like a student doodling on his notebook with one ear to the teacher.
"Tell me another."
Herakles blinks. "Another?"
"Something I haven't heard before." Kiku pushes himself up to meet his partner and plants a chaste kiss on his lips. The Greek is bemused.
"I don't think there's anything you haven't heard before. Why don't you tell me one?"
Kiku sits up and lights himself a cigarette from the creased carton pack on the nightstand. He takes a slow drag, looking regal enough to earn him holding a long cigarette holder in Herakles' mind, red and black and intricately carved in gold lilies and dragons.
"My stories are as varied as the regions my people have clustered themselves into," he says and Herakles feels the pale stretch of Kiku's neck beckoning him to rise, if only the dull ache in the base of his spine wasn't as persistent. He waits for him to continue.
"In a certain prefecture, there was once a mountain god who fell in love with a human girl. Their affair was forbidden and so they could only meet at night. Fireflies lit their paths. In thanks, the mountain god turned the short-lived insects into spirits. Delighted, they left the marshlands. Today, it is said that the fireflies in the prefecture are descendants of those spirits."
"So simple?" Herakles says with bemusement, unable to help but compare the lengths of his explanations. He brings an arm around Kiku's shoulders. The smaller man eases into them.
"I may have forgotten the details. But all stories flow the same way. What gives them value is if there is one who listens."
There's a darkness clouding Kiku's eyes that makes Herakles try again, to see if his craving can be appeased by myths that one never seems to tire of hearing. Those of chases, ungrateful lovers and angry gods, golden apples, Gorgons heads and maidens morphing into trees.
But when they are all futile, he asks, "Kiku? Do you think the mountain god and the human girl had a happy life together?"
"Who knows?" Kiku replies, sinking back into the pillows. "Humans lives are short."
They drink in silence. Beside him, Herakles feels Kiku's breathing even out, warm air cooling him in regular puffs. Herakles would like to think it's because he's been running a hand through his hair all the while, instead of the words he tries to weave. He knew he's never had a talent for storytelling, and like Kiku, is one who chooses to listen.
END