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hetalia2010-02-01 09:07 pm
compos-dementis.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2010-02-01 09:07 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: Soliloquy, Japan/US, PG
Title: Soliloquy
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: One-sided Japan/USA
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. This is for fun, not profit.
Summary: Kiku loves the English language. Or perhaps he just loves the nation teaching him to speak it.
America was one of the most talkative people that Kiku knew. It wasn’t meant as a cruelty to think such a thing, but it was true nonetheless, just a simple stating of facts in this fact-less world in which the two nations lived. America enjoyed talking almost as much as Kiku enjoyed listening (because that was how you learned, how you picked up the little-knowns, by opening your ears and your mind and taking in whatever you could); whenever America would visit, leaned forward on his elbows on the small kotatsu, his lips would move and form these complex English statements that Kiku could barely follow.
English. It wasn’t so much a beautiful language (not like Italian, like French, like Spanish) as an interesting one – especially as it flowed like awkward water from America’s mouth, ‘thes’ and ‘ands’ and ‘buts’ and ‘becauses,’ tripping from his lips like clumsy school children, apologies and excuses and fumbled attempts at recreating what could have been poetry, at one point.
Kiku loved it. Everything about English was fascinating, from the articles to the conjunctions to the subject-predicate divisions, from the flowering awkwardness of finding the right tense (oh, so many tenses, present-perfect and past and future-perfect) to the way Alf-… America, he reminded himself, no sense in getting informal – the way his lips would just barely part on a half-formed word, distracted.
America had been the one to enter his home and open his arms and embrace Kiku’s culture (and somewhere in his mind, Kiku thought of that almost literally, America’s strong arms wrapped around his frame as Kiku would press himself into that coffee-smell, that sunshine-warmth, that bright happiness of sociality).
So Kiku was only trying to return the favor. Though sometimes, England told him he might be getting to deep, and that many came too close to America… and never lifted their heads out of that sense of freedom.
England said that Kiku would be like all the others who had fallen for America, and fall headfirst into that security and honesty – fall for America, only to get his heart shattered in return.
But no. It didn’t seem right, did it? Besides, he wasn’t falling for America’s beauty and freedom and passion and language; he was falling for the look in those eyes every time Kiku spoke something correctly in English, or the way America’s face brightened with boyish naïveté, or the way America would talk to him, leaning close, breath fanning over Kiku’s face.
(Part of him wanted to take America’s face in his face and kiss that sweet mouth right in mid-sentence, if only to watch that startled look on America’s face, or feel him gradually melt into it. But Kiku was too afraid of having America push him away, reject his culture, too afraid of coming too damn close.)
Kiku wanted to pause in their lessons and ask America how to say “I love you” in English, only to be able to say it to him again and again, in different ways each time, and feel America’s acceptance on his skin.
(Or maybe he just liked the fact that America was willing to come out here and spend time with him and be something like friends.)
English was a language of freedom and heart-swelling love and acceptance.
America was a nation of the same; and would never see Japan as anything more than a best friend.
(“Aishiteru… America-san.”)
(“I love you, America.”)
Author: Dementis
Fandom: APH
Pairing: One-sided Japan/USA
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. This is for fun, not profit.
Summary: Kiku loves the English language. Or perhaps he just loves the nation teaching him to speak it.
America was one of the most talkative people that Kiku knew. It wasn’t meant as a cruelty to think such a thing, but it was true nonetheless, just a simple stating of facts in this fact-less world in which the two nations lived. America enjoyed talking almost as much as Kiku enjoyed listening (because that was how you learned, how you picked up the little-knowns, by opening your ears and your mind and taking in whatever you could); whenever America would visit, leaned forward on his elbows on the small kotatsu, his lips would move and form these complex English statements that Kiku could barely follow.
English. It wasn’t so much a beautiful language (not like Italian, like French, like Spanish) as an interesting one – especially as it flowed like awkward water from America’s mouth, ‘thes’ and ‘ands’ and ‘buts’ and ‘becauses,’ tripping from his lips like clumsy school children, apologies and excuses and fumbled attempts at recreating what could have been poetry, at one point.
Kiku loved it. Everything about English was fascinating, from the articles to the conjunctions to the subject-predicate divisions, from the flowering awkwardness of finding the right tense (oh, so many tenses, present-perfect and past and future-perfect) to the way Alf-… America, he reminded himself, no sense in getting informal – the way his lips would just barely part on a half-formed word, distracted.
America had been the one to enter his home and open his arms and embrace Kiku’s culture (and somewhere in his mind, Kiku thought of that almost literally, America’s strong arms wrapped around his frame as Kiku would press himself into that coffee-smell, that sunshine-warmth, that bright happiness of sociality).
So Kiku was only trying to return the favor. Though sometimes, England told him he might be getting to deep, and that many came too close to America… and never lifted their heads out of that sense of freedom.
England said that Kiku would be like all the others who had fallen for America, and fall headfirst into that security and honesty – fall for America, only to get his heart shattered in return.
But no. It didn’t seem right, did it? Besides, he wasn’t falling for America’s beauty and freedom and passion and language; he was falling for the look in those eyes every time Kiku spoke something correctly in English, or the way America’s face brightened with boyish naïveté, or the way America would talk to him, leaning close, breath fanning over Kiku’s face.
(Part of him wanted to take America’s face in his face and kiss that sweet mouth right in mid-sentence, if only to watch that startled look on America’s face, or feel him gradually melt into it. But Kiku was too afraid of having America push him away, reject his culture, too afraid of coming too damn close.)
Kiku wanted to pause in their lessons and ask America how to say “I love you” in English, only to be able to say it to him again and again, in different ways each time, and feel America’s acceptance on his skin.
(Or maybe he just liked the fact that America was willing to come out here and spend time with him and be something like friends.)
English was a language of freedom and heart-swelling love and acceptance.
America was a nation of the same; and would never see Japan as anything more than a best friend.
(“Aishiteru… America-san.”)
(“I love you, America.”)
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