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039. Exhausted
It's nice, being able to put words to things.
Exhausted, because he feels like he can't move his legs, feet in muddy boots, much further.
Exhausted, because he aches and his stomach groans, because he hasn't slept as he's wanted to in- what seems like years.
A day is normal, a week, accelerated; where do the years go? centuries, trailing them like smoke, memories you can't shake
Exhausted, also, because he feels numb and just wants to collapse into someone's warm arms. Like he just wants to sleep.
When he gets to the door, he wants to turn back, but he spent the whole way there convincing himself that this was a good idea. He might as well do it, anyway. Never leave anything unsaid, even a nation's life is short. Cut the tie, if it should have to be, maybe start fixing it.
He knocks.
It's quiet for a long, long moment.
His heart almost breaks when Finland opens the door; peeks out, face white; and suddenly slams it. He shouts something, something Greece can't make out. He can't hear Japan, but that's no surprise; it'd be a shock to him if Japan has ever raised his voice to anyone.
Many more long moments. He sighs, tries to think of something to say, because damn it all, he forgot to think of that. Too busy convincing himself to go in the first place.
Finland reappears; this time, he looks a little calmer, still pale, though. He opens the door and ushers Greece in, who unlaces his boots and follows him through the house. Very achingly familiar, but somehow, it's different. Smells different, more clutter, but still as clean as always.
Greece feels much like the worst man in the world, especially when Finland motions for him to stop, goes into another room with a propped-open door and says something in a hushed whisper. This is his fault. Whatever it is. Everything is his fault.
Not - so - suddenly, digging a hole, burying himself in it, and going to sleep, doesn't sound much like a bad idea.
Still. He hears someone get up, pad slowly (heavily) across the wood floor; Greece lifts his gaze from the ground and there they are.
His heart hiccups rather painfully because, even though Japan is looking straight at him, those ebon eyes that burn, he is holding a black-haired baby in his arms and that's what kills a nation, not war or famine or disease, heartbreak and the will not to live any more; Greece understands.
But Japan, tearing his eyes away from Greece, down to the infant, just looks thoughtful.
A few more painful, painful moments; the worst Greece has ever experienced, by far; and Japan speaks. His voice is a false balm on the wound.
Heracles, he says, stops, looks up at him, looks back down to the infant; like it is some sort of guiding light. Greece doesn't want to listen to this, but it's like a bad soap opera, a tragedy unfolding on the news, he can't possibly tear his attention away.
H - heracles, he repeats, in a voice that is unlike his, but not. T - there is something... iie... someone... for you to m - meet...
And he steps forward (his walk like a lily-footed woman, graceful, something Greece has never failed to notice), steps forward and takes a deep shuddering breath like letting go is painful; it always is. He doesn't smile, but something in his face hints at it.
Unknowingly, Greece accepts the little bundle of pure warmth, that is Japan's, that Japan has tucked into his arms; he looks down at the little face, and then-
...your son.
---
As far as Greece can tell, Finland is asleep and so is Haruto; the name, the thought of the child, still burns him with warmth; love, that incredible love, already taking ahold of him. He can't sleep, though, and he knows that Japan can't either.
They meet somewhere outside.
The night is heavy, warm and humid, cicadas crying out in the bushes; Japan sits on the porch, a dark lump in a dark night, in his dark folds of cloth, looking achingly like someone who needs to be loved again.
No, Greece thinks with a smile, as he approaches him not-so-quietly. Loved still.
He murmurs some sort of greeting, sits, after a moment, at Japan's side; as if nothing has changed and they're still the young (though that is the furthest thing from what they are) lovers they were.
But, this. Change and change and change. As the world spins madly on; everything must change and everyone must follow, or perish.
They talk, for a while, a good long while. It's not enough, but then again it is; what needs to be said is said, relief empties them, and the promise of more words (later) sends Japan straight into Greece's arms. Actions speak louder than words.
Japan apologizes, probably, face buried in the folds of Greece's shirt, that smells of him and nothing but him, everything he has ever wanted. But, no, he can't be sorry; neither can Greece.
Because, wrapping his arms around the one thing he fears most to lose in this world, everything has already happened. We can't change it- if there are tears on his shirt then so be it, so be it- we can't take it back, we can't fall asleep and hope it goes away. All we can do is return home and start loving again.
 men getting pregnant · Thu Feb 04, 2010 @ 06:43am · 1 Comments |
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