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valmoraTitle: Learning from History
Fandom: Hetalia-Vorkosigan Saga crossover
Characters: Japan, Cetaganda
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: not mine, etc
Notes: originally posted on the kink meme for this prompt and kindexed here.
There is no offense meant by this piece.
“Father,” Cetaganda says, and bows deeply. There is vermilion paint around his eyes, bringing out the curved lovely shape of them.
Japan folds his hands on the table and thinks Cetaganda looks like a fool.
“Here,” Japan says, “Have something to drink.” Green tea. Japan has recently been drinking a great deal of soda; it will do him good.
Cetaganda holds his cup the way Japan would have, once, before his greatest tea masters died and the interest in the art faded.
“I thank you,” Cetaganda says, formally, and drinks. Japan watches him, and wonders where he failed as a father.
“Is the weather pleasant?” Japan asks.
“It is. At home it is almost spring, and I look forward to the day when I see the first flower out of my bedroom window.”
“While here it is autumn, and the leaves have begun to turn red.” Japan nods. “All places are beautiful in every season.”
Cetaganda nods. His throat is pale and lovely.
Japan drinks from his own cup. “I have heard stories of your latest war,” he says slowly, “that it is a small barbarian place.”
“Yes.” Cetaganda nods sharply, and Japan marvels, that so much of his warrior spirit lives in his son – was he like this, a thousand years ago and more? So foolish, and so strong, and so unmerciful? He must have been.
“I hear they are resisting your civilizing forces.”
“I do not think it will be much longer.”
“Why not?”
“I arranged for one of their cities to be severely damaged. Soon they will see it is better to surrender.”
And Japan could weep. Could strike his son, for his stupidity, for all children are fools and no history can be taught to them, and all the Nations are constrained by their humanity.
“You sicken me,” Japan says, and Cetaganda jerks, spilling tea across his robes, dropping his cup to the floor where it shatters. “You did not damage that city. You obliterated it, and all the people in it.
“I would remind you of your history, but it would be worthless, as you were not yet born in the twentieth century and to you it is nothing other than history so ancient as to be irrelevant. But I will remind you: for all the generations that city is a blot on the landscape, you will never win them. America won me thusly. You will not win Barrayar by the same means.”
“I hazard that my familiarity with interglobal war may permit me to predict…” Cetaganda murmurs. There is tea dripping down his lap onto the wood floor.
“I hazard that my knowledge of human nature makes me prepared to lecture you, for you are doing everything you can to become more than human,” Japan says. How rude, he muses somewhere inside himself. Once he would never have said such a thing. Thank God for the South Americans, and the Southeast Asians, and the Africans, and the Arabs, and the Westerners who have all come to his shores in these past centuries.
“I see,” Cetaganda replies, and bows so lowly that it can only be ironic. Japan wonders if he was ever such a fool.
Fandom: Hetalia-Vorkosigan Saga crossover
Characters: Japan, Cetaganda
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: not mine, etc
Notes: originally posted on the kink meme for this prompt and kindexed here.
There is no offense meant by this piece.
“Father,” Cetaganda says, and bows deeply. There is vermilion paint around his eyes, bringing out the curved lovely shape of them.
Japan folds his hands on the table and thinks Cetaganda looks like a fool.
“Here,” Japan says, “Have something to drink.” Green tea. Japan has recently been drinking a great deal of soda; it will do him good.
Cetaganda holds his cup the way Japan would have, once, before his greatest tea masters died and the interest in the art faded.
“I thank you,” Cetaganda says, formally, and drinks. Japan watches him, and wonders where he failed as a father.
“Is the weather pleasant?” Japan asks.
“It is. At home it is almost spring, and I look forward to the day when I see the first flower out of my bedroom window.”
“While here it is autumn, and the leaves have begun to turn red.” Japan nods. “All places are beautiful in every season.”
Cetaganda nods. His throat is pale and lovely.
Japan drinks from his own cup. “I have heard stories of your latest war,” he says slowly, “that it is a small barbarian place.”
“Yes.” Cetaganda nods sharply, and Japan marvels, that so much of his warrior spirit lives in his son – was he like this, a thousand years ago and more? So foolish, and so strong, and so unmerciful? He must have been.
“I hear they are resisting your civilizing forces.”
“I do not think it will be much longer.”
“Why not?”
“I arranged for one of their cities to be severely damaged. Soon they will see it is better to surrender.”
And Japan could weep. Could strike his son, for his stupidity, for all children are fools and no history can be taught to them, and all the Nations are constrained by their humanity.
“You sicken me,” Japan says, and Cetaganda jerks, spilling tea across his robes, dropping his cup to the floor where it shatters. “You did not damage that city. You obliterated it, and all the people in it.
“I would remind you of your history, but it would be worthless, as you were not yet born in the twentieth century and to you it is nothing other than history so ancient as to be irrelevant. But I will remind you: for all the generations that city is a blot on the landscape, you will never win them. America won me thusly. You will not win Barrayar by the same means.”
“I hazard that my familiarity with interglobal war may permit me to predict…” Cetaganda murmurs. There is tea dripping down his lap onto the wood floor.
“I hazard that my knowledge of human nature makes me prepared to lecture you, for you are doing everything you can to become more than human,” Japan says. How rude, he muses somewhere inside himself. Once he would never have said such a thing. Thank God for the South Americans, and the Southeast Asians, and the Africans, and the Arabs, and the Westerners who have all come to his shores in these past centuries.
“I see,” Cetaganda replies, and bows so lowly that it can only be ironic. Japan wonders if he was ever such a fool.
