For Where Our Nation's Banner May Be Planted, All Other Local Banners Are Defied
.
My hetaliaremix fill has been sitting around, done, for the past few weeks, and I've been itching to be a dork and post it. I want ghostofthemotif to know that I had an incredible time on this fic, and thank her so much for writing the original!
Title: For Where Our Nation’s Banner May Be Planted, All Other Local Banners are Defied
Author: Mithrigil, after ghostofthemotif
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England and Japan
Rating: PG-13. As if Gilbert and Sullivan could get more raunchy than that!
Words: 5000
Warning: I get to wank about opera! Also, given the time period and characters, standard warning about racism and sensitive imperialist topics.
Summary: A remix of The Full Monty, backdating the locale and style to 1908. So instead of “Japan doesn’t know what Monty Python is,” we have “Japan doesn’t know what Savoy Opera is”, and in both cases hilarity, tension-and acculturation-ensue.
For Where Our Nation’s Banner May Be Planted, All Other Local Banners are Defied
Full Monty: the Meiotic Remix
Mithrigil Galtirglin
10 June, A.D. 1908
They meet accidentally on the curb, hands clashing together as they attempt to hail the same black hansom. It’s no wonder they missed each other, sneaking out as they did, or at least England thinks so; he can barely see a handsbreadth in front of his nose, but Japan is close, and there is a polite regarding smile across his jaw. Evidently he sees the humor of the situation. Perhaps that’s because he’s upwind of the rain.
The hansom does pull up, though, and the driver tilts his umbrella crosswise and asks if they’re going the same way-and England is about to delay his answer, well, Japan, were you intending- and then before he can finish the proposition, distinctive accented voices permeate the pounding rain.
France’s, of course. And America’s, and China’s, and where China is Russia will certainly be, and that is one matter England does not wish to discuss right now.
“Together,” England says to the cabbie, and then looks down to Japan to confirm it-and it does occur to him to ask, “It’s too early in the day for a drink-would you like to go somewhere we could continue this in peace?”
Japan looks-well, someone who had not been having sex with him for six years would describe it as perturbed. His smile is brief and quick. “Eikoku’s house is not far from here, if I recall.”
“Not far at all,” England confirms, and holds the door of the hansom for Japan to swing himself up. And in the nick of time, too, as the chatter from the top of the Hall’s staircase grows increasingly foreign.
Once Japan is settled in the hansom England climbs up as well, not a moment too soon, and slams the door shut. As he gives instructions to the cabbie and sandwiches his briefcase between himself and the door, that aligns his thigh with Japan’s. Japan colours across the cheeks, but wipes that and the rain away with his handkerchief. The hansom pulls out into the street, the horse shaking off arcs of water-and from the protestations and curses outside, right in Russia’s face.
-
They ride together in relative silence-relative, since the rain outside continues to patter on the hansom all through, that the sounds of London traffic are among those that can outstrip even Jove’s most vengeful elements-neither prodding conversation nor nestling closer like lovers. It has been six years since they initiated their allegiance (to think of that makes England blush, though he says nothing), and yet sometimes England still feels he is walking on eggshells, or laying on a bed of upturned nails.
Despite Japan’s taciturnity with-well, everyone really-England considers himself one of the few Nations for whom Japan does not nervously and meticulously evaluate each word he says. Of course, this results in silence more often than not, but England has grown able to read those, he suspects that Japan can do the same for him. He will admit to never being particularly candid...discounting where America and France are concerned, but really, he was pushed to those extremes, and Japan...is only a creature of extremes in privacy.
When they arrive at England’s house, England pays the hansom driver through the slat and then lets himself out, preparing an umbrella and offering Japan a hand down. Japan takes it with customary politeness and glances at the umbrella as if it’s somehow relevant, and England wracks his brain briefly to consider why. But it’s only a short walk up the steps to his home, and if the servants don’t open the door-
“Incidentally,” England tells Japan, even if they hadn’t been talking about anything to interrupt, “if you ever need to come by and the servants aren’t about, there’s a spare key below that red stone underneath the first step.” He points with the hook of the umbrella. “In case you need to escape the lodgings the Embassy provides.”
“I will take that into account,” Japan says.
But this time, a servant does open the door. At this city house, England only employs three, a butler and his apprentice and the cook. The apprentice is the one to open the door, and he greets England and Japan with a tasteful, if hasty, bow. England rather likes how he has laid out this house, with maps in black frames covering most of the walls in the entryway-some from wartime, and others from the sea, and some more ancient than even those. Japan looks favourably on them as well, taking time to remove his shoes and spats at the door. England still cannot get over how well suits, well, suit Japan-this one he is wearing is close-tailored and single-breasted, over a waistcoat as red as his country’s sun. England takes the time to have off with his hat and shoes and spats as well, in part so that he does not merely watch Japan doing so.
Which is the precise moment the house’s resident cat chooses to wipe his nose on England’s ankle.
“I did not know Eikoku had a cat, outside of the ship,” Japan remarks as he straightens out. The cat, a ridiculous amount of vaguely orange fur and fat with shining whiskers, wedges himself between England’s legs and scoots to Japan to investigate.
“I didn’t either. Poor blighter showed up in the kitchens a month ago. He’s a mongrel, but part of him might be the same pedigree as the ship’s cat. He’s certainly large enough, even without the fat. Didn’t fancy the idea of letting him loose again to be baked into a pie, so I kept him.”
Japan doesn’t laugh (perhaps because he knows it actually isn’t a joke), but kneels to offer his knuckles to the cat, the way he would for a dog. Is he more used to those? Most likely, considering the little Akita he keeps in his house. He mutters a few words in his own language to the cat, compliments about how cute he is. “What is he called?”
“Pooh-Bah,” England answers, charmed. “The pompous little lummox. Lord High Everything Else.”
Japan repeats it, “Pooh-Bah,” and scritches the cat between the ears. It’s not one of the cat’s weak spots, but he does submit to it, flopping to the hardwood floor, his flab spreading out so that he is easily wider than Japan. “It seems appropriate.”
“I’d gone to the theatre the night before. The Mikado. That was the only character still played by an original member of the Savoyards.”
“The Savoyards?”
“The D’Oyly Carte opera company. They play at the Savoy Theatre, down on the West End. Gilbert and Sullivan, mostly, or their imitators.”
Japan says, in his own language, “Is that so.” He is still somewhat intent on petting the cat, who has grown rather smug about the attention, but he looks up and addresses England further. “I have heard some of my bosses speak of them. They are...politically incendiary?”
“Well, we’ve occasionally taken them out of the playhouse when your royals are here,” England admits. “But no, it’s satire. But it’s all in good fun. At least I think so. That play in particular, the one Pooh-Bah there is named for-it’s set in Japan. Hence. The Mikado. Of course, it’s really about us, not you. But we worry about offending you, so we’ve-”
“I think I would like to see this play,” Japan says, and uncurls to stand over the cat.
England quirks an eyebrow to stall for time. “You’re serious?”
“I want to learn more about Eikoku,” he says, coming nearer with a kind of bright and subtle insistence in his heavy eyes. “Since Eikoku thinks he knows enough about me to make a play...”
“Well.” England laughs, uneasily. “Like I said, it’s really about us...”
“Then I want to see it even more,” Japan says. They are quite close. “If it is about Eikoku, but presented through the eyes of my people, I think I will come to understand a great deal.”
Pooh-Bah mewls, indignant at being left alone.
“I’ll ring the theatre,” England says.
-
There are over eleven hundred seats in the Savoy Theatre, and while England has season tickets, on non-premiere nights he shares his box with several other theatregoers. And this is an off-night, and his usual box is occupied, but a few names dropped and a few pounds thrown about and England secures himself and Japan choice seats in a box in the second tier, house right, not so close that they might see into the wings but a bit closer than England would prefer. Nevertheless, it’s entirely suitable, and England is reminded just how much he likes the tawny gold curtains and the carvings in the proscenium. It’s no Globe, and always makes England a little wistful for it, but the Savoy serves a different purpose and serves it well.
Japan, for his part, is entranced; it’s not the first time he’s been in a theatre of any kind, of course, and doubtless his courts have been as opulent as England’s and China’s-but there is something else here to strike wonder into him. “Is the theatre fully electric?”
“Entirely,” England confirms, with no small measure of pride. “The first public building in the world to be wired through.” He gestures at the stage and the bulbs on the apron of it. “Those were installed after, but yes.”
Japan becomes so entranced by it that his libretto slips out of his lap and onto the floor. England bends to pick it up-spends a moment to look at Japan’s ankles in those spats, honestly, he has no right to look so right in them-and props it on the arm of Japan’s seat.
It does distract Japan from the lights, and he glances down, thanks England for returning the book, and asks, “Should I read this before the opera begins?”
“During.”
“But is that not disrespectful to the actors?”
“I suppose so. But it’s more disrespectful if you don’t try and understand what they’re saying.” England opens his own, thumbs through it. “There’s an argument here in the beginning if you only want the summary of the story, but if you want to follow along with the script and the song lyrics-sometimes it’s hard to hear the words when someone is singing them instead of saying them, especially if they’re not singing in your native language.”
“I see,” Japan says. He stops glowing up at the electric lights and opens his libretto to the argument portion. “That is a good solution to a common theatrical problem.”
England permits him to read the argument of the story; watches him, even. Japan does not mouth words, even in English, and he’s rather facile at reading it, perhaps even more than he is at speaking it. England can see that he makes it the entire way through the synopsis before looking up and saying, “I see that Eikoku has named the cat after the bureaucrat. But are Pooh-Bah and Nanki-Poo meant to be Japanese names?”
“...Not precisely,” England admits, growing apprehensive about this entire endeavor. “They’re puns, in English. Nanki-Poo means handkerchief. Or something an insipid girl calls her boy-friend or husband, for instance.”
“So does an Englishman call his wife Yum-Yum?”
“Only in-context.”
“Ah.”
England is glad that the lights are beginning to dim. A twinge of colour on his cheeks would be most unbecoming.
“And Eikoku is also aware that it is impossible to make a shh sound without a vowel following to complete the mora in Japanese, thus rendering a name such as Pish-Tush completely infeasible? In fact, the entire naming scheme is more Chinese than Japanese.”
England manages a “Yes, well,” before the applause that heralds the conductor’s entrance makes answering unnecessary. He applauds as well, which cues Japan to do the same, and after the overture (“It sounds familiar,” Japan says), the show opens on, as Gilbert describes in the libretto, on a tableau of-well, Englishmen dressed convincingly as Japanese, in the manner of a native painting.
Japan whispers, inclined toward England’s ear, “Eikoku did not say it was in the Edo period.”
England coughs. “...I wasn’t certain.”
But for the rest of the opening number, rather than watch the stage-he’s seen the play so many times since its premiere twenty-two years ago-he watches Japan. Gilbert and Sullivan themselves were torn between deeming The Mikado an opera or a burlesque, and the choreography doubtlessly reflects that, but Japan might well be offended with the cavalier appropriation of his culture.
But the house is only slightly dimmed, and bright enough to see Japan’s eyes sparkling.
They shine-even through such lines as our manner is queer and quaint (you’re wrong if you think it ain’t)! When the opening tableau is done, and Nanki-Poo enters to sing A Wand’ring Minstrel I, Japan leans forward, eyebrow up, intrigued by the manner and probably also the meagre length of the tenor’s yukata.
“-I understand,” Japan says when the famous aria switches styles for the third time. But if patriotic sentiment is wanted, I have patriotic ballads cut and dried; For where our Nation’s banner may be planted, all other local banners are defied! “There is no way Eikoku could say these things about himself in a public forum.”
England just smiles, and it grows less uneasy by the scene.
But Japan is-well, it’s almost adorable. He occasionally defends himself-“Does Eikoku truly believe I am so inefficient as to prevent a condemned criminal from cutting off his own head? It is actually physically possible.”-but more often than not he whispers thinly-concealed laughter and praise. When Pooh-Bah first lists the titles of all the local offices he holds, Japan can’t suppress a genuine snicker. When Ko-Ko sings about all the people he would really like to put on the chopping block, Japan actually covers his mouth as if to cough. And when the three little maids from school enter to sing their famous trio England distinctly hears Japan whispering, so cute! from behind the cup of his hands, and that makes England laugh, it’s so startling.
Japan leans over and whispers, “Is there a reason Eikoku is watching me so closely?”
“Just gauging your reaction,” England replies smoothly, but watches the stage now, missing the dear Jessie Bond, though her replacement as Pitti-Sing is serviceable. By the end of the number he realises that Japan is still leaning onto the arm between their chairs, close enough to feel him smile.
By the end of the first act, he doesn’t have to watch Japan at all to know he’s enjoying himself. Through the (insipid) love song, the villain’s trio, and the first half of the Act I Finale, Japan’s shoulder rubs against England’s upper arm every time he suppresses a laugh. He is enthralled by the actors and the chorus, pausing only to occasionally check his libretto for a difficult word (“pestilential?”)-until Katisha’s entrance.
“...Does Gillbert-sama mean to have the chorus say ‘Demon, you surprise us, and’? It is an incomplete sentence. And I think shakkuri is a loan word, unless you mean ‘hiccough’...’Demon, you surprise and hiccough us’?”
England is pleased that the oh, bother on the tip of his tongue manages to stay there.
-
During intermission, they don’t even leave their seats. Japan asks England so many questions about earlier productions. England tells him about Grossmith, the original Ko-Ko, whose dry wit and small frame made him ideal for situational comedy; Jessie Bond, the quirky firebrand who played the original Pitti-Sing, and the story of the massive bow on her obi, which she often waggled at the audience; dear old Richard Temple, who played the Mikado, who Japan has not met yet, “but you’ll see why everyone adored him,”; Rosina Brandram, the once and future Katisha, blessed with the voice and manner of a matron and cursed with the face of a starlet. “This cast is good enough, I suppose,” England says in the end, “but with only Barrington to remind me of the old, I feel the need to compare everything.”
“I think the singers are wonderful,” Japan says, “so I am glad I am not troubled with a basis for comparison.”
“Oh, but I wish you could have seen it when it was new. I remember how it shocked the audience, to see Lely up there covered in less than a kilt, or hear little Grossmith railing about hacking off everyone’s heads for all manner of insignificances like the Queen of Hearts. Not that it isn’t good now, but it was thrilling then. I think the audience loves it so much they’ve been desensitised.”
“I am a new audience,” Japan reminds him. “And I have not been desensitised at all.”
Oh, surely that was supposed to be innuendo.
“Is the composer writing anything new?”
“Sullivan passed on a few years ago, at the turn,” England answers. “But Gilbert’s still about, for a while I think.”
Japan nods. “And did they write any more together?”
That, England thinks, is the highest compliment of the evening.
-
If Act I consisted of Japan’s fascination with the form itself, then Act II begins his absorption in it. Throughout the opening, while the girls prepare Yum-Yum for her marriage, and she exclaims on her loveliness in her artless Japanese way, Japan listens reverently to the music. Following that, when it is revealed that when a man is beheaded, his wife is buried alive, and the audience gasps and laughs, Japan only blinks and looks to England to say, “I see. So that is not the custom here.”
“Most of the money for theatre comes from widows,” England explains. “We need them alive.”
The humour, very much in the style of the show, isn’t lost on Japan either, and he resumes watching. “Eikoku has been generous in offering this opportunity to understand him.”
“So it’s working?”
“There is much that Eikoku is not permitted to say,” Japan clarifies, “because Eikoku is a gentleman. But even if he is not allowed to say it, he takes pleasure and sees humour in the intimation of it. It is, to use an idiom in English, toeing the line with respect to propriety. I have known Eikoku to enjoy that a great deal. But I have never seen him make light of his own repression and proclivities. I think I have never seen something so gentlemanly as that.”
England hopes that the flashpot and change in lighting obscure the blush on his cheeks.
The Mikado himself is entering with his procession, and when the orchestra strikes up a certain tune, Japan’s ears perk a little as he strains to listen. “This is the familiar song from earlier,” he explains, a bit defensively, and then the chorus sings-
MIYA-SAMA, MIYA-SAMA
ON-UMA NO MAE NI
PIRA-PIRA SURU NO WA NAN JYA NA?
-and Japan laughs so hard he falls out of his chair.
England double-takes, then flushes so hot his ears burn, embarrassed for himself and for Japan but most of all concerned and actually slightly terrified, falling to his knees to help him up. “Japan, are you all right?” He tries again, in Japan’s language, hissing so as to be heard over the mighty chorus. “Japan? Are you all right?”
“-Yes-yes, it is just so-oh-” He sags in England’s arms as he’s helped back into his chair and the libretto is still somewhere on the floor, which is presumably why he doubles over to try and get it again and only laughs harder. “It is a real song. The words are only a little wrong. They are asking the Emperor what is wagging in front of his horse, and there is no horse, but the Emperor has a face like a horse and his hat is bobbing in front of it and it looks like-” He coughs, in England’s arms again, but that doesn’t stop the laughing, and it doesn’t stop the heat under England’s cheeks either. “-it looks like-”
Once England drops the libretto back in Japan’s lap, he puts his arms over Japan’s shoulders to cradle him. He looks down, at the Mikado’s ridiculous bobbing hat-and he sees it, and pretty soon he’s laughing as well, all the way through From every kind of man obedience I expect, and the devil take anyone who stares.
England doesn’t even realise that their hand are clasped until the second verse of A More Humane Mikado.
“Those are creative punishments,” Japan says. He has ceased to look at his libretto at all, and it is sitting closed on his lap, very near where his and England’s gloved hands are joined. “The one for the ladies who dye their hair is particularly apt.”
Several courses of action flash through England’s thoughts. On the one hand, Japan has just complimented England on being a gentleman, never mind what they get up to behind closed doors. He knows that if he tightens his grip and turns Japan’s head, they will be giving the people here a show that they did not pay for-though it is, perhaps, a literal interpretation of Gilbert and Sullivan’s goings-on. Likewise, if he pulls away, he knows that it will ruin the performance and drive a wedge between them that may only come to light later in the day, the month, the year.
There is a middle road, and England takes it, waiting until the applause at the end of the Mikado’s jolly song of mutilation and just desserts. He lifts Japan’s hand to his lips and kisses him through the glove, a dry but insistent press of his jaw, before returning Japan’s hand to his lap and his libretto.
They do not talk, or applaud, until the performance is done, but the distinct electric brightness never leaves Japan’s eyes.
-
It is still raining when the show lets out, and the queue for hansoms and taxicabs outside the theatre is positively monstrous. England ushers Japan through the throng and out onto a quieter alley, dodging the worst of the rain by keeping under the overhangs and stalls of the adjoining hotel and then out to the West End. England finds himself inclined to laugh again, at the absurdity of it at least. At least his house isn’t inordinately far from here, and the rain itself isn’t so loud as to prevent them from conversing.
“Now this,” England starts, when a passing cab kicks a wave of filthy puddle-water up onto his ankles, “this is not something I’d describe as gentlemanly.” He straightens the umbrella he’s thankful he managed to bring, makes sure that it’s covering Japan as well and keeping their coats dry, if not their ankles.
“Eikoku is sharing his umbrella,” Japan points out. “There is a cultural significance to that.”
England stops, not so short as to be obvious, but at least he has the excuse of them reaching a busy corner. “Is there?”
Japan’s hand closes over England’s again, on the umbrella’s handle. “Perhaps that it was ungentlemanly of me not to bring my own.”
“Well, now you know my culture. I’d thought the weather would logically follow.”
Japan smiles. By the time the traffic pauses enough to allow them to cross the street, his fingers have interlaced with England’s, indistinguishable in their shared white gloves. Consequently, by the time they make it across the street England’s hand is sweating.
But in spite of the tenderness of their countenances and the intimacy of their dry island in the rain, the conversation skews political. “Speaking of the weather, how is Korea?”
“Korea is himself. I believe the word Eikoku would use is stewing.”
“He’ll come around.”
“And how is France-san?”
“If Korea is stewing, I suppose that would imply France is rotisserie.” England cracks a smirk. “Or that’s what he said he’d be doing in his grave before capitulating to the likes of me.”
“It is an historic event, I think,” Japan says, eyes diplomatically ahead. “For the humans as much as the Nations.”
“After fourteen hundred years of war with almost no interruption, I should hope it’s affected the humans some,” England concedes. “Honestly, I owe that to you as much as anything else. When you walloped Russia, you proved that the old standards had to be updated. Apparently France figured out he needed me for that.” There’s enough wryness in that to make it clear that it’s certainly not the only reason, but Japan can certainly discern what the other ones are.
He nods. “And Russia-san? You have entered into an-Entente,” apparently Japan has some difficulty with the pronunciation of that word, but he makes an admirable effort, “with him as well?”
“I think recent events have proven that an alliance with Russia is not an alliance with his people,” England says. And that statement is not only wry, it’s laden. “His bosses are desperate, after what you’ve done.”
He looks sidelong at Japan as they approach another rounded cobblestone corner and turn it; there is a flash of pride in Japan’s eyes, but not quite on the level of smugness, there’s something else threaded in that blackness. “That is something I should come to understand as well,” Japan says, and that’s not an admission, that’s a self-directed challenge. “How Eikoku may offer hands to so many, and treat them all with the honour and courtesy he has shown me.”
If it came from any other’s lips, England would think that was a statement of humility. In fact, someone who was not intimate with Japan might mistake it for such. But it clearly isn’t, to England’s ears; it’s equal parts I would not show them so much favour and why do no others extend such gestures to me?
With a heavy gulp of air to slick his throat, England nods, and demurs. “The answer is that I don’t.” He smiles; they’re on the street that approaches his house, now, though there’s still a way to go. “You’ve seen what a gentleman I’m not, today.”
“But I value what I have seen,” Japan says, “all of it.”
It is night, even if night in London is as bright as day, and the sun has not set on England for a hundred years. They are far from the only people on this street, even in the rain; the pubs spill their patrons out into the street, and the traffic is legendary, and it is just the hour for England’s world to be celebrating that it is prosperous and healthy and the leader of the free.
“We should do this again,” England says, and means.
Japan nods, and lifts his eyes from it. “Yes.”
Invitation or none, if Japan does not mind it- “Japan,” England whispers over the clatter of hooves and wheels on wet cobblestone, the chatter of passers-by, and closes the distance which always seems so great between them, even as they touch, “is this all right?”
Japan’s eyes could, and should, search so much, but England supposes they’ll find what they need to in his own. “Yes,” Japan murmurs after a pause so thick and a breath so long and silent that it seems to draw in the entire street.
The kiss is a shared smile, mutual and satisfied, at flouting the propriety they both so prize. The umbrella shields them from only the rain, and England can feel the stares of his people, the catcalls and gasps and well I nevers, and England so yearns to tell them, oh yes you do, you do through me. When he feels Japan’s free hand at the small of his back England takes Japan in his arm as well, kisses with his palm as much as his lips and tongue.
The rain drums down on England’s umbrella and the shoulder he’s left exposed so that Japan can stay dry. In silence, and with their hands still awkwardly clasped at the level of England’s chest, they make the rest of their way to England’s home.
-
---
-
Citations
”It has recently been discovered that Japan is a great and glorious country whose people are brave beyond all measure, wise beyond all telling, amiable to excess, and extraordinarily considerate to each other and to strangers. This is the greatest discovery of the early years of the twentieth century, and is one of the results of the tremendous lesson the Japanese inflicted on the Russians who attempted to absorb a considerable portion of Manchuria a few years ago.” - W.S. Gilbert, The Story of the Mikado.
Not the first time I’ve used this play in fiction, not at all...
-
My hetaliaremix fill has been sitting around, done, for the past few weeks, and I've been itching to be a dork and post it. I want ghostofthemotif to know that I had an incredible time on this fic, and thank her so much for writing the original!
Title: For Where Our Nation’s Banner May Be Planted, All Other Local Banners are Defied
Author: Mithrigil, after ghostofthemotif
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England and Japan
Rating: PG-13. As if Gilbert and Sullivan could get more raunchy than that!
Words: 5000
Warning: I get to wank about opera! Also, given the time period and characters, standard warning about racism and sensitive imperialist topics.
Summary: A remix of The Full Monty, backdating the locale and style to 1908. So instead of “Japan doesn’t know what Monty Python is,” we have “Japan doesn’t know what Savoy Opera is”, and in both cases hilarity, tension-and acculturation-ensue.
For Where Our Nation’s Banner May Be Planted, All Other Local Banners are Defied
Full Monty: the Meiotic Remix
Mithrigil Galtirglin
10 June, A.D. 1908
They meet accidentally on the curb, hands clashing together as they attempt to hail the same black hansom. It’s no wonder they missed each other, sneaking out as they did, or at least England thinks so; he can barely see a handsbreadth in front of his nose, but Japan is close, and there is a polite regarding smile across his jaw. Evidently he sees the humor of the situation. Perhaps that’s because he’s upwind of the rain.
The hansom does pull up, though, and the driver tilts his umbrella crosswise and asks if they’re going the same way-and England is about to delay his answer, well, Japan, were you intending- and then before he can finish the proposition, distinctive accented voices permeate the pounding rain.
France’s, of course. And America’s, and China’s, and where China is Russia will certainly be, and that is one matter England does not wish to discuss right now.
“Together,” England says to the cabbie, and then looks down to Japan to confirm it-and it does occur to him to ask, “It’s too early in the day for a drink-would you like to go somewhere we could continue this in peace?”
Japan looks-well, someone who had not been having sex with him for six years would describe it as perturbed. His smile is brief and quick. “Eikoku’s house is not far from here, if I recall.”
“Not far at all,” England confirms, and holds the door of the hansom for Japan to swing himself up. And in the nick of time, too, as the chatter from the top of the Hall’s staircase grows increasingly foreign.
Once Japan is settled in the hansom England climbs up as well, not a moment too soon, and slams the door shut. As he gives instructions to the cabbie and sandwiches his briefcase between himself and the door, that aligns his thigh with Japan’s. Japan colours across the cheeks, but wipes that and the rain away with his handkerchief. The hansom pulls out into the street, the horse shaking off arcs of water-and from the protestations and curses outside, right in Russia’s face.
-
They ride together in relative silence-relative, since the rain outside continues to patter on the hansom all through, that the sounds of London traffic are among those that can outstrip even Jove’s most vengeful elements-neither prodding conversation nor nestling closer like lovers. It has been six years since they initiated their allegiance (to think of that makes England blush, though he says nothing), and yet sometimes England still feels he is walking on eggshells, or laying on a bed of upturned nails.
Despite Japan’s taciturnity with-well, everyone really-England considers himself one of the few Nations for whom Japan does not nervously and meticulously evaluate each word he says. Of course, this results in silence more often than not, but England has grown able to read those, he suspects that Japan can do the same for him. He will admit to never being particularly candid...discounting where America and France are concerned, but really, he was pushed to those extremes, and Japan...is only a creature of extremes in privacy.
When they arrive at England’s house, England pays the hansom driver through the slat and then lets himself out, preparing an umbrella and offering Japan a hand down. Japan takes it with customary politeness and glances at the umbrella as if it’s somehow relevant, and England wracks his brain briefly to consider why. But it’s only a short walk up the steps to his home, and if the servants don’t open the door-
“Incidentally,” England tells Japan, even if they hadn’t been talking about anything to interrupt, “if you ever need to come by and the servants aren’t about, there’s a spare key below that red stone underneath the first step.” He points with the hook of the umbrella. “In case you need to escape the lodgings the Embassy provides.”
“I will take that into account,” Japan says.
But this time, a servant does open the door. At this city house, England only employs three, a butler and his apprentice and the cook. The apprentice is the one to open the door, and he greets England and Japan with a tasteful, if hasty, bow. England rather likes how he has laid out this house, with maps in black frames covering most of the walls in the entryway-some from wartime, and others from the sea, and some more ancient than even those. Japan looks favourably on them as well, taking time to remove his shoes and spats at the door. England still cannot get over how well suits, well, suit Japan-this one he is wearing is close-tailored and single-breasted, over a waistcoat as red as his country’s sun. England takes the time to have off with his hat and shoes and spats as well, in part so that he does not merely watch Japan doing so.
Which is the precise moment the house’s resident cat chooses to wipe his nose on England’s ankle.
“I did not know Eikoku had a cat, outside of the ship,” Japan remarks as he straightens out. The cat, a ridiculous amount of vaguely orange fur and fat with shining whiskers, wedges himself between England’s legs and scoots to Japan to investigate.
“I didn’t either. Poor blighter showed up in the kitchens a month ago. He’s a mongrel, but part of him might be the same pedigree as the ship’s cat. He’s certainly large enough, even without the fat. Didn’t fancy the idea of letting him loose again to be baked into a pie, so I kept him.”
Japan doesn’t laugh (perhaps because he knows it actually isn’t a joke), but kneels to offer his knuckles to the cat, the way he would for a dog. Is he more used to those? Most likely, considering the little Akita he keeps in his house. He mutters a few words in his own language to the cat, compliments about how cute he is. “What is he called?”
“Pooh-Bah,” England answers, charmed. “The pompous little lummox. Lord High Everything Else.”
Japan repeats it, “Pooh-Bah,” and scritches the cat between the ears. It’s not one of the cat’s weak spots, but he does submit to it, flopping to the hardwood floor, his flab spreading out so that he is easily wider than Japan. “It seems appropriate.”
“I’d gone to the theatre the night before. The Mikado. That was the only character still played by an original member of the Savoyards.”
“The Savoyards?”
“The D’Oyly Carte opera company. They play at the Savoy Theatre, down on the West End. Gilbert and Sullivan, mostly, or their imitators.”
Japan says, in his own language, “Is that so.” He is still somewhat intent on petting the cat, who has grown rather smug about the attention, but he looks up and addresses England further. “I have heard some of my bosses speak of them. They are...politically incendiary?”
“Well, we’ve occasionally taken them out of the playhouse when your royals are here,” England admits. “But no, it’s satire. But it’s all in good fun. At least I think so. That play in particular, the one Pooh-Bah there is named for-it’s set in Japan. Hence. The Mikado. Of course, it’s really about us, not you. But we worry about offending you, so we’ve-”
“I think I would like to see this play,” Japan says, and uncurls to stand over the cat.
England quirks an eyebrow to stall for time. “You’re serious?”
“I want to learn more about Eikoku,” he says, coming nearer with a kind of bright and subtle insistence in his heavy eyes. “Since Eikoku thinks he knows enough about me to make a play...”
“Well.” England laughs, uneasily. “Like I said, it’s really about us...”
“Then I want to see it even more,” Japan says. They are quite close. “If it is about Eikoku, but presented through the eyes of my people, I think I will come to understand a great deal.”
Pooh-Bah mewls, indignant at being left alone.
“I’ll ring the theatre,” England says.
-
There are over eleven hundred seats in the Savoy Theatre, and while England has season tickets, on non-premiere nights he shares his box with several other theatregoers. And this is an off-night, and his usual box is occupied, but a few names dropped and a few pounds thrown about and England secures himself and Japan choice seats in a box in the second tier, house right, not so close that they might see into the wings but a bit closer than England would prefer. Nevertheless, it’s entirely suitable, and England is reminded just how much he likes the tawny gold curtains and the carvings in the proscenium. It’s no Globe, and always makes England a little wistful for it, but the Savoy serves a different purpose and serves it well.
Japan, for his part, is entranced; it’s not the first time he’s been in a theatre of any kind, of course, and doubtless his courts have been as opulent as England’s and China’s-but there is something else here to strike wonder into him. “Is the theatre fully electric?”
“Entirely,” England confirms, with no small measure of pride. “The first public building in the world to be wired through.” He gestures at the stage and the bulbs on the apron of it. “Those were installed after, but yes.”
Japan becomes so entranced by it that his libretto slips out of his lap and onto the floor. England bends to pick it up-spends a moment to look at Japan’s ankles in those spats, honestly, he has no right to look so right in them-and props it on the arm of Japan’s seat.
It does distract Japan from the lights, and he glances down, thanks England for returning the book, and asks, “Should I read this before the opera begins?”
“During.”
“But is that not disrespectful to the actors?”
“I suppose so. But it’s more disrespectful if you don’t try and understand what they’re saying.” England opens his own, thumbs through it. “There’s an argument here in the beginning if you only want the summary of the story, but if you want to follow along with the script and the song lyrics-sometimes it’s hard to hear the words when someone is singing them instead of saying them, especially if they’re not singing in your native language.”
“I see,” Japan says. He stops glowing up at the electric lights and opens his libretto to the argument portion. “That is a good solution to a common theatrical problem.”
England permits him to read the argument of the story; watches him, even. Japan does not mouth words, even in English, and he’s rather facile at reading it, perhaps even more than he is at speaking it. England can see that he makes it the entire way through the synopsis before looking up and saying, “I see that Eikoku has named the cat after the bureaucrat. But are Pooh-Bah and Nanki-Poo meant to be Japanese names?”
“...Not precisely,” England admits, growing apprehensive about this entire endeavor. “They’re puns, in English. Nanki-Poo means handkerchief. Or something an insipid girl calls her boy-friend or husband, for instance.”
“So does an Englishman call his wife Yum-Yum?”
“Only in-context.”
“Ah.”
England is glad that the lights are beginning to dim. A twinge of colour on his cheeks would be most unbecoming.
“And Eikoku is also aware that it is impossible to make a shh sound without a vowel following to complete the mora in Japanese, thus rendering a name such as Pish-Tush completely infeasible? In fact, the entire naming scheme is more Chinese than Japanese.”
England manages a “Yes, well,” before the applause that heralds the conductor’s entrance makes answering unnecessary. He applauds as well, which cues Japan to do the same, and after the overture (“It sounds familiar,” Japan says), the show opens on, as Gilbert describes in the libretto, on a tableau of-well, Englishmen dressed convincingly as Japanese, in the manner of a native painting.
Japan whispers, inclined toward England’s ear, “Eikoku did not say it was in the Edo period.”
England coughs. “...I wasn’t certain.”
But for the rest of the opening number, rather than watch the stage-he’s seen the play so many times since its premiere twenty-two years ago-he watches Japan. Gilbert and Sullivan themselves were torn between deeming The Mikado an opera or a burlesque, and the choreography doubtlessly reflects that, but Japan might well be offended with the cavalier appropriation of his culture.
But the house is only slightly dimmed, and bright enough to see Japan’s eyes sparkling.
They shine-even through such lines as our manner is queer and quaint (you’re wrong if you think it ain’t)! When the opening tableau is done, and Nanki-Poo enters to sing A Wand’ring Minstrel I, Japan leans forward, eyebrow up, intrigued by the manner and probably also the meagre length of the tenor’s yukata.
“-I understand,” Japan says when the famous aria switches styles for the third time. But if patriotic sentiment is wanted, I have patriotic ballads cut and dried; For where our Nation’s banner may be planted, all other local banners are defied! “There is no way Eikoku could say these things about himself in a public forum.”
England just smiles, and it grows less uneasy by the scene.
But Japan is-well, it’s almost adorable. He occasionally defends himself-“Does Eikoku truly believe I am so inefficient as to prevent a condemned criminal from cutting off his own head? It is actually physically possible.”-but more often than not he whispers thinly-concealed laughter and praise. When Pooh-Bah first lists the titles of all the local offices he holds, Japan can’t suppress a genuine snicker. When Ko-Ko sings about all the people he would really like to put on the chopping block, Japan actually covers his mouth as if to cough. And when the three little maids from school enter to sing their famous trio England distinctly hears Japan whispering, so cute! from behind the cup of his hands, and that makes England laugh, it’s so startling.
Japan leans over and whispers, “Is there a reason Eikoku is watching me so closely?”
“Just gauging your reaction,” England replies smoothly, but watches the stage now, missing the dear Jessie Bond, though her replacement as Pitti-Sing is serviceable. By the end of the number he realises that Japan is still leaning onto the arm between their chairs, close enough to feel him smile.
By the end of the first act, he doesn’t have to watch Japan at all to know he’s enjoying himself. Through the (insipid) love song, the villain’s trio, and the first half of the Act I Finale, Japan’s shoulder rubs against England’s upper arm every time he suppresses a laugh. He is enthralled by the actors and the chorus, pausing only to occasionally check his libretto for a difficult word (“pestilential?”)-until Katisha’s entrance.
“...Does Gillbert-sama mean to have the chorus say ‘Demon, you surprise us, and’? It is an incomplete sentence. And I think shakkuri is a loan word, unless you mean ‘hiccough’...’Demon, you surprise and hiccough us’?”
England is pleased that the oh, bother on the tip of his tongue manages to stay there.
-
During intermission, they don’t even leave their seats. Japan asks England so many questions about earlier productions. England tells him about Grossmith, the original Ko-Ko, whose dry wit and small frame made him ideal for situational comedy; Jessie Bond, the quirky firebrand who played the original Pitti-Sing, and the story of the massive bow on her obi, which she often waggled at the audience; dear old Richard Temple, who played the Mikado, who Japan has not met yet, “but you’ll see why everyone adored him,”; Rosina Brandram, the once and future Katisha, blessed with the voice and manner of a matron and cursed with the face of a starlet. “This cast is good enough, I suppose,” England says in the end, “but with only Barrington to remind me of the old, I feel the need to compare everything.”
“I think the singers are wonderful,” Japan says, “so I am glad I am not troubled with a basis for comparison.”
“Oh, but I wish you could have seen it when it was new. I remember how it shocked the audience, to see Lely up there covered in less than a kilt, or hear little Grossmith railing about hacking off everyone’s heads for all manner of insignificances like the Queen of Hearts. Not that it isn’t good now, but it was thrilling then. I think the audience loves it so much they’ve been desensitised.”
“I am a new audience,” Japan reminds him. “And I have not been desensitised at all.”
Oh, surely that was supposed to be innuendo.
“Is the composer writing anything new?”
“Sullivan passed on a few years ago, at the turn,” England answers. “But Gilbert’s still about, for a while I think.”
Japan nods. “And did they write any more together?”
That, England thinks, is the highest compliment of the evening.
-
If Act I consisted of Japan’s fascination with the form itself, then Act II begins his absorption in it. Throughout the opening, while the girls prepare Yum-Yum for her marriage, and she exclaims on her loveliness in her artless Japanese way, Japan listens reverently to the music. Following that, when it is revealed that when a man is beheaded, his wife is buried alive, and the audience gasps and laughs, Japan only blinks and looks to England to say, “I see. So that is not the custom here.”
“Most of the money for theatre comes from widows,” England explains. “We need them alive.”
The humour, very much in the style of the show, isn’t lost on Japan either, and he resumes watching. “Eikoku has been generous in offering this opportunity to understand him.”
“So it’s working?”
“There is much that Eikoku is not permitted to say,” Japan clarifies, “because Eikoku is a gentleman. But even if he is not allowed to say it, he takes pleasure and sees humour in the intimation of it. It is, to use an idiom in English, toeing the line with respect to propriety. I have known Eikoku to enjoy that a great deal. But I have never seen him make light of his own repression and proclivities. I think I have never seen something so gentlemanly as that.”
England hopes that the flashpot and change in lighting obscure the blush on his cheeks.
The Mikado himself is entering with his procession, and when the orchestra strikes up a certain tune, Japan’s ears perk a little as he strains to listen. “This is the familiar song from earlier,” he explains, a bit defensively, and then the chorus sings-
MIYA-SAMA, MIYA-SAMA
ON-UMA NO MAE NI
PIRA-PIRA SURU NO WA NAN JYA NA?
-and Japan laughs so hard he falls out of his chair.
England double-takes, then flushes so hot his ears burn, embarrassed for himself and for Japan but most of all concerned and actually slightly terrified, falling to his knees to help him up. “Japan, are you all right?” He tries again, in Japan’s language, hissing so as to be heard over the mighty chorus. “Japan? Are you all right?”
“-Yes-yes, it is just so-oh-” He sags in England’s arms as he’s helped back into his chair and the libretto is still somewhere on the floor, which is presumably why he doubles over to try and get it again and only laughs harder. “It is a real song. The words are only a little wrong. They are asking the Emperor what is wagging in front of his horse, and there is no horse, but the Emperor has a face like a horse and his hat is bobbing in front of it and it looks like-” He coughs, in England’s arms again, but that doesn’t stop the laughing, and it doesn’t stop the heat under England’s cheeks either. “-it looks like-”
Once England drops the libretto back in Japan’s lap, he puts his arms over Japan’s shoulders to cradle him. He looks down, at the Mikado’s ridiculous bobbing hat-and he sees it, and pretty soon he’s laughing as well, all the way through From every kind of man obedience I expect, and the devil take anyone who stares.
England doesn’t even realise that their hand are clasped until the second verse of A More Humane Mikado.
“Those are creative punishments,” Japan says. He has ceased to look at his libretto at all, and it is sitting closed on his lap, very near where his and England’s gloved hands are joined. “The one for the ladies who dye their hair is particularly apt.”
Several courses of action flash through England’s thoughts. On the one hand, Japan has just complimented England on being a gentleman, never mind what they get up to behind closed doors. He knows that if he tightens his grip and turns Japan’s head, they will be giving the people here a show that they did not pay for-though it is, perhaps, a literal interpretation of Gilbert and Sullivan’s goings-on. Likewise, if he pulls away, he knows that it will ruin the performance and drive a wedge between them that may only come to light later in the day, the month, the year.
There is a middle road, and England takes it, waiting until the applause at the end of the Mikado’s jolly song of mutilation and just desserts. He lifts Japan’s hand to his lips and kisses him through the glove, a dry but insistent press of his jaw, before returning Japan’s hand to his lap and his libretto.
They do not talk, or applaud, until the performance is done, but the distinct electric brightness never leaves Japan’s eyes.
-
It is still raining when the show lets out, and the queue for hansoms and taxicabs outside the theatre is positively monstrous. England ushers Japan through the throng and out onto a quieter alley, dodging the worst of the rain by keeping under the overhangs and stalls of the adjoining hotel and then out to the West End. England finds himself inclined to laugh again, at the absurdity of it at least. At least his house isn’t inordinately far from here, and the rain itself isn’t so loud as to prevent them from conversing.
“Now this,” England starts, when a passing cab kicks a wave of filthy puddle-water up onto his ankles, “this is not something I’d describe as gentlemanly.” He straightens the umbrella he’s thankful he managed to bring, makes sure that it’s covering Japan as well and keeping their coats dry, if not their ankles.
“Eikoku is sharing his umbrella,” Japan points out. “There is a cultural significance to that.”
England stops, not so short as to be obvious, but at least he has the excuse of them reaching a busy corner. “Is there?”
Japan’s hand closes over England’s again, on the umbrella’s handle. “Perhaps that it was ungentlemanly of me not to bring my own.”
“Well, now you know my culture. I’d thought the weather would logically follow.”
Japan smiles. By the time the traffic pauses enough to allow them to cross the street, his fingers have interlaced with England’s, indistinguishable in their shared white gloves. Consequently, by the time they make it across the street England’s hand is sweating.
But in spite of the tenderness of their countenances and the intimacy of their dry island in the rain, the conversation skews political. “Speaking of the weather, how is Korea?”
“Korea is himself. I believe the word Eikoku would use is stewing.”
“He’ll come around.”
“And how is France-san?”
“If Korea is stewing, I suppose that would imply France is rotisserie.” England cracks a smirk. “Or that’s what he said he’d be doing in his grave before capitulating to the likes of me.”
“It is an historic event, I think,” Japan says, eyes diplomatically ahead. “For the humans as much as the Nations.”
“After fourteen hundred years of war with almost no interruption, I should hope it’s affected the humans some,” England concedes. “Honestly, I owe that to you as much as anything else. When you walloped Russia, you proved that the old standards had to be updated. Apparently France figured out he needed me for that.” There’s enough wryness in that to make it clear that it’s certainly not the only reason, but Japan can certainly discern what the other ones are.
He nods. “And Russia-san? You have entered into an-Entente,” apparently Japan has some difficulty with the pronunciation of that word, but he makes an admirable effort, “with him as well?”
“I think recent events have proven that an alliance with Russia is not an alliance with his people,” England says. And that statement is not only wry, it’s laden. “His bosses are desperate, after what you’ve done.”
He looks sidelong at Japan as they approach another rounded cobblestone corner and turn it; there is a flash of pride in Japan’s eyes, but not quite on the level of smugness, there’s something else threaded in that blackness. “That is something I should come to understand as well,” Japan says, and that’s not an admission, that’s a self-directed challenge. “How Eikoku may offer hands to so many, and treat them all with the honour and courtesy he has shown me.”
If it came from any other’s lips, England would think that was a statement of humility. In fact, someone who was not intimate with Japan might mistake it for such. But it clearly isn’t, to England’s ears; it’s equal parts I would not show them so much favour and why do no others extend such gestures to me?
With a heavy gulp of air to slick his throat, England nods, and demurs. “The answer is that I don’t.” He smiles; they’re on the street that approaches his house, now, though there’s still a way to go. “You’ve seen what a gentleman I’m not, today.”
“But I value what I have seen,” Japan says, “all of it.”
It is night, even if night in London is as bright as day, and the sun has not set on England for a hundred years. They are far from the only people on this street, even in the rain; the pubs spill their patrons out into the street, and the traffic is legendary, and it is just the hour for England’s world to be celebrating that it is prosperous and healthy and the leader of the free.
“We should do this again,” England says, and means.
Japan nods, and lifts his eyes from it. “Yes.”
Invitation or none, if Japan does not mind it- “Japan,” England whispers over the clatter of hooves and wheels on wet cobblestone, the chatter of passers-by, and closes the distance which always seems so great between them, even as they touch, “is this all right?”
Japan’s eyes could, and should, search so much, but England supposes they’ll find what they need to in his own. “Yes,” Japan murmurs after a pause so thick and a breath so long and silent that it seems to draw in the entire street.
The kiss is a shared smile, mutual and satisfied, at flouting the propriety they both so prize. The umbrella shields them from only the rain, and England can feel the stares of his people, the catcalls and gasps and well I nevers, and England so yearns to tell them, oh yes you do, you do through me. When he feels Japan’s free hand at the small of his back England takes Japan in his arm as well, kisses with his palm as much as his lips and tongue.
The rain drums down on England’s umbrella and the shoulder he’s left exposed so that Japan can stay dry. In silence, and with their hands still awkwardly clasped at the level of England’s chest, they make the rest of their way to England’s home.
-
---
-
Citations
”It has recently been discovered that Japan is a great and glorious country whose people are brave beyond all measure, wise beyond all telling, amiable to excess, and extraordinarily considerate to each other and to strangers. This is the greatest discovery of the early years of the twentieth century, and is one of the results of the tremendous lesson the Japanese inflicted on the Russians who attempted to absorb a considerable portion of Manchuria a few years ago.” - W.S. Gilbert, The Story of the Mikado.
Not the first time I’ve used this play in fiction, not at all...
-