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valmoraTitle: Walking Wounded
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Japan POV, non-insignificant American presence (why why why am I only writing gen for this pair?)
Rating: PG-13
Time period: brief mentions of Sengoku, Boshin War (Meiji Restoration), and then not-so-brief WWII
Disclaimer: The characterizations of the nations of Japan and America contained in this fic are based on work by Himaruya Hidekaz, author of "Axis Powers Hetalia", and I do not claim to own them.
Note: This was inspired by this fic on the Hetalia kink meme.
He thought he had known pain. He spent all the years of the Sengoku wishing his own pain on someone else, each year bringing new bruises. For months after Sekigahara, even rolling over in bed was painful, though each morning he forced himself to rise, to dress, to behave as though walking was not torture.
He had comforted himself with the knowledge that at least Tokugawa was not mad, as Toyotomi had been. It made things easier as he healed.
He had been glad of the years of peace, until the Boshin War, when again he bled, concussed and hurt. And how he cursed all those fighters for trying to gain control of him, hiding in his little snug home, hoping that America with his wide blue eyes and bad manners would just go away and leave him be. Japan found him interesting, but in the way bugs are interesting – from a distance, and best when one need not interact with them.
He should have known that America would not be satisfied merely with making him open his house. They have been like little schoolboys, gaining each other’s attention through violence or pranks. And America, an imperialist power come late to the game, is more a little schoolboy then most nations.
Japan should have known better than to strike him at Pearl Harbor, but in his war-madness he had not thought quite clearly. Flush with his takings in the Pacific, he had wanted to warn America off. A little boy, taking a girl’s sandwich, punching a potential rival to keep him from wanting it. Foolishness. The boys would fight until neither could walk, while the girl would return, take her sandwich back, and use the opportunity to kick them both for daring to take what was hers.
By the time the bombs fell, he had already been in pain – difficulty walking, heavily bruised, starving. But he had lied, to all those around him, caught up in the dream of victory. And then the bombs, in the morning while he was in an advisory meeting – sudden unbearable pain in his thigh, like nothing else he had ever known, his blood stopped and his flesh evaporated. He is glad that he became unconscious at the moment of the explosion in Hiroshima.
They brought him to his doctor, who tried to treat him; he could not walk, he did not wish to think. And then even through the morphine, he felt Nagasaki in his shin.
The bone is still sensitive there, constantly aching, and the muscles of his right thigh are still knotted and scarred. Even more than fifty years later, on the anniversaries he needs to carry a cane, his people remembering, reliving with ever-fading but still-painful memory.
He was not there for the surrender, belowdecks on the ship, his morphine dose reduced for the event.
In retrospect, he knows the doctors were ordered to leave him a little bit sober so that he would be conscious for America coming belowdecks and raping him. So that he would know his own surrender.
Instead America came to his room before the treaty was signed – America, missing an opportunity to show off? – and stood beside Japan’s bed, asking the doctors through a translator where Japan was hurt, could he see the places.
The doctors opened Japan’s robes. Japan does not know their names, but he will always hate them for stealing his pride, for America looked at him, took in the ruin of his body – and Japan has seen photographs; he knows what he looked like then – and let his fingers hover in the air over Japan’s bandages, touching without touching. And then the hero, the savior of the free Pacific – those are America’s words; Japan remembers Australia all too well – threw up.
Japan knows this story because America told it to him, in the middle of a dark cold winter night during the occupation, while America borrowed Japan’s house and took care of him while he healed. America touched his shoulder, the corners of Japan’s eyes, asking What have I done? Can you forgive me ever, was I wrong to do it, don’t let me – and he wept into Japan’s hair until he choked.
Japan is angry with him, yes. But he can also see what the alternative was, and there was no winning in the end, only victory paid for in blood. Japan hates, yes, but he hates the nuclear bomb, he hates its power, he hates the pain it caused, and causes, and will cause forever.
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Japan POV, non-insignificant American presence (why why why am I only writing gen for this pair?)
Rating: PG-13
Time period: brief mentions of Sengoku, Boshin War (Meiji Restoration), and then not-so-brief WWII
Disclaimer: The characterizations of the nations of Japan and America contained in this fic are based on work by Himaruya Hidekaz, author of "Axis Powers Hetalia", and I do not claim to own them.
Note: This was inspired by this fic on the Hetalia kink meme.
He thought he had known pain. He spent all the years of the Sengoku wishing his own pain on someone else, each year bringing new bruises. For months after Sekigahara, even rolling over in bed was painful, though each morning he forced himself to rise, to dress, to behave as though walking was not torture.
He had comforted himself with the knowledge that at least Tokugawa was not mad, as Toyotomi had been. It made things easier as he healed.
He had been glad of the years of peace, until the Boshin War, when again he bled, concussed and hurt. And how he cursed all those fighters for trying to gain control of him, hiding in his little snug home, hoping that America with his wide blue eyes and bad manners would just go away and leave him be. Japan found him interesting, but in the way bugs are interesting – from a distance, and best when one need not interact with them.
He should have known that America would not be satisfied merely with making him open his house. They have been like little schoolboys, gaining each other’s attention through violence or pranks. And America, an imperialist power come late to the game, is more a little schoolboy then most nations.
Japan should have known better than to strike him at Pearl Harbor, but in his war-madness he had not thought quite clearly. Flush with his takings in the Pacific, he had wanted to warn America off. A little boy, taking a girl’s sandwich, punching a potential rival to keep him from wanting it. Foolishness. The boys would fight until neither could walk, while the girl would return, take her sandwich back, and use the opportunity to kick them both for daring to take what was hers.
By the time the bombs fell, he had already been in pain – difficulty walking, heavily bruised, starving. But he had lied, to all those around him, caught up in the dream of victory. And then the bombs, in the morning while he was in an advisory meeting – sudden unbearable pain in his thigh, like nothing else he had ever known, his blood stopped and his flesh evaporated. He is glad that he became unconscious at the moment of the explosion in Hiroshima.
They brought him to his doctor, who tried to treat him; he could not walk, he did not wish to think. And then even through the morphine, he felt Nagasaki in his shin.
The bone is still sensitive there, constantly aching, and the muscles of his right thigh are still knotted and scarred. Even more than fifty years later, on the anniversaries he needs to carry a cane, his people remembering, reliving with ever-fading but still-painful memory.
He was not there for the surrender, belowdecks on the ship, his morphine dose reduced for the event.
In retrospect, he knows the doctors were ordered to leave him a little bit sober so that he would be conscious for America coming belowdecks and raping him. So that he would know his own surrender.
Instead America came to his room before the treaty was signed – America, missing an opportunity to show off? – and stood beside Japan’s bed, asking the doctors through a translator where Japan was hurt, could he see the places.
The doctors opened Japan’s robes. Japan does not know their names, but he will always hate them for stealing his pride, for America looked at him, took in the ruin of his body – and Japan has seen photographs; he knows what he looked like then – and let his fingers hover in the air over Japan’s bandages, touching without touching. And then the hero, the savior of the free Pacific – those are America’s words; Japan remembers Australia all too well – threw up.
Japan knows this story because America told it to him, in the middle of a dark cold winter night during the occupation, while America borrowed Japan’s house and took care of him while he healed. America touched his shoulder, the corners of Japan’s eyes, asking What have I done? Can you forgive me ever, was I wrong to do it, don’t let me – and he wept into Japan’s hair until he choked.
Japan is angry with him, yes. But he can also see what the alternative was, and there was no winning in the end, only victory paid for in blood. Japan hates, yes, but he hates the nuclear bomb, he hates its power, he hates the pain it caused, and causes, and will cause forever.
