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021. Creative
It was a very good idea; one of those that snuck up on him like a black cat through the darkness, into the light of a kitchen occupied by a midnight snacker. He'd grinned when it tugged at his thoughts, and wandered off to find Japan.
He'd found him, in fact, wearing a t - shirt ( one of Greece's own, which made him almost flush with pleasure ) that bunched up somewhere at the top of his tummy, sitting in one of the patio chairs and watching the sea with a calm, bordering on sleepy, face. Greece had stopped for a moment to talk with him, crouched down; kissed his cheek and headed back inside, stopping briefly to pet a cat as he went.
Where are the markers... he thought, or maybe muttered, to himself, looking through boxes in his office. Lots of official papers, doodles, letters, old stuffed journals; things he might look at closer, if he were in a more nostalgic mood. No, though, he was a Greek on a mission, and there are very few things that can stop a Greek on a mission. Luckily, no Turks, kittens, or open containers of alcohol happened to be in the immediate vicinity.
Greece grinned in triumph when he unearthed it; a fairly new box, wood, medium-to-large in size. It rattled when he grabbed it, tucked it under his arm, and zipped (for Greece, anyway) out to the airy warm patio. Japan's head rolled in his general direction when Greece stepped out on the wood, smiled a bit when the other did.
"Where's Haruaki?" was his first thought, of course, Japan smiled a bit, like oh, you. Greece chewed on his thumbnail, anxious to get to work.
"With Hungary-san and her child... Anastasia-chan. Hungary visited and offered to watch both of them for the afternoon." his nod was quiet, tired, truly like that of a heavily pregnant young (in only one or two ways, of course) mother.
Greece only smiled and knelt next to him; he was met with a wary look, was tempted to raise his hands in a gesture of I know how to look, not touch! but he decided actions spoke louder than words, anyway.
Gently, carefully, like petting a jittery dog, Greece lifted the shirt up more, so the smooth pale stretch of perfect skin was fully exposed. He felt like a classical artist, facing the immense challenge of a blank canvas. Not even his kopelia moved, giving him a little hint on where to start first. Japan kept watching him, one dark slim eyebrow raised cautiously, like an old lion or a tsundere who told you to stop, but really wanted more. His eyes were curious, if anything.
"Kopelia mouuuuu..." Greece sang softly, blindly choosing a marker- pink. He smiled and uncapped it, stuck the cap in his mouth and spoke around it. "what do you want me to say about you... kopelia?"
Japan made a little startled noise when the cold tip of the marker brushed his skin; he obviously stopped himself from jumping, lest he fall or hurt the baby in any way; they were so, so close to holding her in their arms for the first time, he was deathly afraid of screwing everything up.
Greece just smiled, brushed and settled one large warm hand on Japan's thigh as he wrote something in his spidery native script; Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God ...
He tilted his head, looked up at Japan, who looked down with a look unreadable. What to draw, to write to dream to say to do, that could possibly greet their child into the world properly? How could Greece bless her in just the right way, capture what he already felt for her into words, into the tip of an old marker?
He reached for the gray, used it, capped it, tossed it back. Japan had leaned his head back, was murmuring wordlessly.
The pink; then the black; the gray again.
There.
Greece looked (smiled) at his handiwork. A cat, all around Japan's belly button, which was colored pink; the nose. A wonderful way to greet his precious daughter into the ruined world.
After that, he went crazy. Old artists, sculptors and thinkers, they poured into his hands; red and gray and pink and blue, orange and yellow and purple. Spidery finger designs, flowers fat as foreign as an American in a remote French village, scribbling sprawling Greek, carefully memorized (and highly inappropriate, really; he wrote the kanji for 'sex', one of the few he knew without a reference) Japanese characters.
He scribbled out faces he knew somehow, couldn't name, swirls of color, but most of all he left one little spot empty, its frame of color and pattern around it making it what it was; a heart. How cliche.
Greece leaned in a pressed a tiny kiss to the spot. In his mind he wanted everything for her; a happy life (nostalgia for later), someone to love and cherish her forever, padding from heartbreak, wonderful people to surround her, a laugh on her tongue always.
He wanted her to love him like a little girl would, making him art and clinging to him and looking to him for everything, a sort of demure girl who might have Japan's eyes; things that Haruto was not but could never be, and Greece only loved him all the more for it.
He stopped, lifted back, watched as, finally, the little outlines of his baby's feet were visible. Her womb baby dance. Japan kept saying she acted up only around him, had a kick much harder than Haru's had been. A dancer, maybe, a runner or someone active; a little girl to chase around and catch and lift up high, protected from the evils of earth down below.
Japan; Japan had opened his eyes, was looking down at the top of his colorful tummy; he glanced back with a look of hey, this is pretty weird but it's okay and in that moment Greece loved them both (all three), loved them more than anything else life could ever offer.
 men getting pregnant · Sun Feb 07, 2010 @ 08:43am · 1 Comments |
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