valmora | [Hetalia] Reserved Seat (America/Japan)

Title: Reserved Seat
Fandom: Hetalia
Characters: Japan-centric, Japan/America, England/France implied
Rating: heavy PG-13 or R
Notes: originally posted here for this prompt and not kindexed yet. Also, did you know that a shamisen smells fantastic?
Disclaimer: characters not mine, attitudes of characters not necessarily designed to show my own opinions but rather take the point of view of the stereotyped nation involved.

Summary: Today, Japan is horny. He is also properly socialized and therefore restrained about it.

Textual notes:
Meiji is a brand of chocolate in Japan.
Satsuma and Chōshū were two Japanese han whose inhabitants were significant in the imperialist forces during the Boshin War and dominated much of Meiji top-tier government policies.
Satsuma was also famous for maintaining the tradition of warrior homoeroticism long after it fell out of fashion in much of the rest of Japan.
Almost everything else can be understood with Wikipedia.

Japan wakes to a cold house and a warm bed, and the sky still dark outside, and rolls over and goes back to sleep.

Five minutes later, the alarm clock goes off. Japan slaps it, thinks about grumbling unhappily to the bedsheets, and ultimately decides not to.

His breath steams in the air as he gets up and dresses – undershirt, dress shirt, trousers, black socks, dress shoes, winter-weight suit jacket, plum-colored tie. Even though he shivers a little, he doesn’t bother to turn the heat on because he’ll be leaving the room in a few minutes.

For breakfast he has miso soup, some baked salmon, rice, and some leftover spinach and sesame from the night before. It tastes reasonably good, and he has extra of the soup, because it is warm and he needs the heat.

Then he goes to the meeting at America’s.

When he arrives, America is all disheveled smiles, greeting everyone at the conference. He shakes Japan’s hand with both of his own, warm and friendly, and tells Japan to sit anywhere he likes.

Japan sits with one seat between himself and France and lets himself relax in the chair, closing his eyes. His hair brushes his cheekbones, tickling, and Japan falls asleep to the sound of France humming to himself and shuffling papers.

He is vaguely aware that he is having a lucid dream, because he knows that he is wearing a business suit, but in his dream he is lying on a futon, the cloth of hakama and kimono stripped from him and lying mussed beneath him, while someone unwraps his fundoshi.

He has not worn fundoshi except at certain festivals since the late nineteen-forties. This has no impact on his dream, where a hand – definitely male – slides over the cloth covering him, pressing gently, and then begins to unwrap the waist. Follows the line of cloth back, between Japan’s legs, caressing skin rubbed sensitive from the cotton, and Japan bites his lip to keep from moaning, wishing the man kneeling between his legs would finish, would strip the cloth from him and open him.

Something pokes him in the shoulder and he jerks to deeply aroused wakefulness, wondering if he missed his stop on the train again – but no, no train station employee would be saying Japan, hey, Japan.

“I am awake,” he mumbles, and brushes the hand aside. It falls down his back, like a caress, and he opens his eyes to express his displeasure at Western Nations trying to invade his space like they have been trying to do since they discovered China. Then he notices that it is America, and he cannot say anything, his mind betraying him with the thought of America waiting, ships at his ports wanting to come inside his borders.

His cock, already mostly hard, jumps, and he looks away as America says, “Good. Um, the meeting’s about to start."

“Thank you.” Japan straightens his back and uncaps his pen, leaning forward onto the table and hoping he’s not so flushed that Britain will be able to guess at his sexual arousal. “I apologize for any delay.”

“No problem,” America says, and walks to his seat at the other side of the round table – America seems to think it is clever, but in truth it is annoying and makes it difficult to pass pamphlets quickly.

The meeting opens with one of America’s usual speeches, something about welcoming them to his house and he is glad they are all getting along, and he hopes that everything will be worked out today that is on the agenda. Kind sentiments, difficult to accomplish. At least Japan is more polite than Britain, seated on America’s right – no, one seat from America’s right, but Japan cannot quite tell who is to America’s right - who cannot restrain himself from making snide remarks.

Japan takes some notes on Germany’s presentation, which follows, and on the United Arab Emirates’ slideshow. Through all of it he is trying to will away his arousal, which of course does not listen – neither does the thought of Russia and China having sex in Madame Mao’s bed. All he can think of is the spread of China’s hair on a pillow, black strands spilled out, and how beautiful that is, and how Japan would rather be in bed, his legs wrapped around America’s hips – or Britain’s, or France’s, if it came to that – as he is filled.

At the coffee break at ten-thirty he stands, stretches a little, and finds America by following his voice.

“Look, I know Putin’s effective,” America says, “but, dude, he’s not a bastion of democracy.”

Russia smiles, and Japan wonders at the good sense of leaving his sword at home. “Democracy is the means by which the many dominate the few,” he says. “The few should have a voice, as well.”

America winces. “Um, yeah. Look, don’t kill your dissenters, okay?”

“Child-killing is bad,” Russia says. “We can only guide people to the right way of thinking.”

America’s grin has fewer watts than usual. “I’ll talk to you more about this later, yeah?” he says. “Good to catch up. Hey, Japan.” He reaches to sling his arm, buddy-style, over Japan’s shoulder. Japan’s belly hollows for a moment, and he covers his flush by taking a sip of tea – maybe America will think it is the heat of the drink.

“I am sorry that I was asleep,” Japan says.

“No problem. It’s a long trip for you, so I get that it’s pretty tiring.” This close, America smells of leather and machine oil, likely from his bomber jacket, and faintly of French fries and cinnamon.

“Yes,” Japan says, and folds his hands in front of himself. “I should go to bed earlier. I was dreaming already, and I have heard that is a sign of sleep deprivation.”

“Anything good?”

Japan licks his lips. “International relations. Trade barriers. Most-favored Nations.”

“Jeez,” America says, and of course he misses the point, because he does not recognize his own imperialism, “That’s depressing ancient history. Lighten up a little. Chocolate?” He offers Japan half a bar of Hershey’s.

“No, thank you,” Japan says. He has some Meiji in his bag.

At lunch, he sits two seats down from America, an empty seat between them – or is it? He keeps thinking he sees food there, then decides it must be his imagination – and Britain sitting across from them at the table.

“You should have heard this guy at break,” America says, pointing to Japan. “He said he was dreaming about trade barriers and most-favored nation status. Isn’t that depressing?”

Britain gives him a Look, including a raised eyebrow, that is easily interpretable as Were you now? I see you deserve your own reputation, Japan, and says, “Only if one was a favoured nation.”

“Yeah, but still,” America says.

“I find that my memories of that time are some of my favourites,” Britain replies. “When the gold standard was powerful, and the world – especially the Far East – was quickly changing. Very exciting.”

Terrifying, Japan does not say, so he drinks some water from his glass. “Modernity is also exciting,” he says finally. “I am glad to have befriended everyone.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Britain says, and bows faintly. Japan stifles a blush of anger and embarrassment, and nods back.

During Sweden’s presentation, a long stream of quiet mumbling, Japan dozes again, despite his own attempts to stay awake. This time it is clearly America, his body stretched close to Japan’s back, his arousal slipped between Japan’s thighs, in the manner of a man detested by his partner so well that he is not allowed penetration.

It is safer that way, no invasion of territory. But Japan has already had his land and people cared for, re-formed, by America’s policies and military. Letting America have him for at least a little while would hardly be different, and even likely more enjoyable.

He wakes again when it’s Turkey’s turn to speak, and tries to take notes; they seem to keep disintegrating into manga-illustration doodles in the margins of the handouts, mostly of bara-style artwork, men with hard muscles and hard cocks fucking each other raw.

By the end of the meeting he is ready to return home, but America stops by his chair and draws him into conversation with, “I saw you sleeping during Sweden’s presentation. Have any good dreams?”

“I suppose,” Japan says. He put his doodles away some time ago.

“What about?” America leans on the back of Japan’s vacated chair and smiles.

“Satsuma.”

Britain, who is standing a few seats down listening to Norway ignore Denmark, chokes. Loudly. And then asks, “So, about Chōshū - ?”

“They are both retired,” Japan says mildly, folding his hands. He doesn’t glare at Britain, who clearly understands his references, and is taking perverse glee in America’s misunderstanding. “I am capable of managing my own affairs now.”

“I know you are!” America says. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have a great democratic government that handled a change in power really well!”

“On a constitution that you wrote for him, wanker,” Britain points out.

“Hey! I’m not a wanker! I don’t need to!”

Britain grins over at Japan. “I bet he does.”

Japan has a brief flash of America sitting on the edge of a bed, shirt unbuttoned hanging around him, pooling on the bed, dress pants around his ankles and knees wide apart as he strokes himself.

“I do not see shame in such things,” Japan says. “One must attend to domestic affairs as well.”

Britain’s eyes are low-lidded. “You make isolation sound glorious,” he murmurs.

“It sounds lonely,” America whines, and drags Japan by his shoulder – and Britain by his tie – to dinner.

It is a reasonably upscale steak restaurant, and delicious. The conversation is pleasant enough, mostly America rambling happily through mouthfuls of beef. Britain keeps rolling his eyes; Japan savors his dinner, and part of Britain’s as well, after Britain declares himself stuffed.

“Stuffed with Grade-A Texas steak,” America says, leering.

Japan sets down his fork, faintly disgusted, and yet his body reacts to the thought of America sliding into him. “You make that sound filthy.”

“It is a lot of food,” Britain agrees. “More than any one normal person could handle.”

“Japan’s more than a normal person,” America points out, and slides his arm around Japan’s shoulders.

Japan feels himself redden slightly. “I am no more abnormal than any Nation.”

“It’s the nation that makes abnormality,” Britain points out.

After dinner is over the three of them are walking out the door of the restaurant when America decides to visit the men’s room and darts away. Britain looks at Japan, a little pityingly.

“It’s rude,” he says, “but you have to tell that idiot if you want something. He’s not going to pick up on history – I mean, he probably couldn’t pick Satsuma out of a lineup, let alone remember Satsuma and Chōshū’s penchant for ravishing each other on the table after military and political briefings.”

“I don’t understand,” Japan says.

“The fuck you don’t.” Britain shoves his hands in his trouser pockets and looks up at the stars. “I know it’s rude as hell, but you have to be totally explicit with him. Start by drawing explicit ero-comi and he might understand you.”

“That is filth,” Japan says, though his arousal trips higher at the image.

“All the better, if you want filthy things done to you,” Britain says. “And before you stoop to the easy one, that being me, you ought to know that I have plans across the Channel tonight. Which means I’ll be going now.” He ticks a finger in farewell. “Tell the idiot I said he was an idiot and I left to conceive little Canadas.”

America returns a minute or so later and doesn’t even seem to notice that Britain has left. Japan thinks about saying something to him, like Would you like some persimmons? but doesn’t.

“So I was thinking about dropping by your place sometime,” America says, “is there anything I should see?”

Japan thinks about that for a moment. The Fushimi Inari shrine, or what was once Gion, or Shinjuku, or Mount Fuji, or Nagano, or –

“You might like Nagoya,” he says.

“Huh.” America stares up at the sky. “Isn’t it a port?”

“Yes.” He wonders if America has finally gotten a clue.

“Where’d I send Perry to?”

“…not Nagoya,” Japan murmurs, and thinks that if America had, things would have been very different. Instead of being taken by discomfort he would have felt the steel of America’s fledging imperialist might sliding through his waters, leaving him aching in hunger and desire.

“Huh. Sure, sounds like fun. Thanks.”

“It would be a pleasure,” Japan says. He wishes America would go, so he could return home and pleasure himself.

“I’ll definitely be by sometime, then.” America leans back a little and looks up at the sky, then back at the neon beer-service signs in the windows of the restaurant. “You probably want to go home.”

“It is good to have company.” It would also be good to have something warmer than his suit jacket. He shivers faintly, crossing his arms for warmth, and then shivers again when something settles over his shoulders – a coat. America’s bomber jacket.

“You look like you need it more than I do,” America says. Japan can’t see his eyes past his glasses in the dimness.

“It is kind, but not necessary,” Japan starts, and America shakes his head.

“I’ll follow you back to your place, and take it back then. It’ll keep you warm.”

Japan looks over at America, who looks guileless and idiotic as always, and then lets his gaze slide away. The jacket smells like engine grease and aftershave.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll go home, and make his excuses, and give America back his jacket, and pretend that he has not spent all day making allusions to his own sexual desire. He will then return to his bedroom and pleasure himself until his urge to kneel before America fades.

A dream is a dream. Imperialism is a scar.