AN: I wrote this a REALLY long time ago, just when I started getting into AmeriPan, and I just now got around to putting it up. I found it buried in my computer, and figured it probably deserved to see the light of day xD I hope everyone enjoys it! ^^ Please leave me a review and tell me what you think!
Japan's house was always quiet and serene. It was a place he could just relax and escape all the insanity of world politics, surrounded by his fluffy collection of pets and his perfectly maintained household. If his boss would have let him, he could spend days there, reading manga, organizing his massive photo albums, and cooking nikujaga, without ever getting bored.
But then there were days when his girlfriend America came over, and things got a little crazy.
Sighing, Japan began dressing for America's visit. She was wonderful, of course, and he loved having her around, but his day of vacation would be anything but relaxing if he spent it with her. Likely she would want to climb Mount Fuji or spend all day at a festival. His morning bath in the hot spring that Britain had seemed to enjoy so much would likely be the only slow-going part of his day.
He grinned a little ruefully at that. He'd shared a bath with England, but not with his girlfriend. In fact, she'd never seen him not covered from wrist to ankle, whether by his military uniform or his normal traditional robes. France would be ashamed, he thought with a hint of humor. France seemed to think that the outfits Japanese girls wore in anime were really what Japan had his schoolgirls wear, and had adopted Japan as his protégé. Frankly, Japan was just a little scared to back out of the arrangement. France was certainly very…forceful…sometimes.
But there was a reason America had never seen him even the slightest bit underdressed. He didn't want her to see. If he remained with America long, he knew she would see him without a shirt on eventually, but he was not looking forward to it. It was so awkward! Nudity made him blush and cringe more than anything. Which was why America's outfits sometimes threw him for a complete loop. Where was he supposed to look when she wore shirts that only came halfway down her belly and the neckline was indecently low as well? Didn't she realize that made him want to run and hide? ... Or stare?
Blushing at that thought, Japan tugged on his boxers and the pants of his military uniform, shaking his still-wet hair over his eyes. How indecent of me to think like that, he thought with shame, mentally wringing his hands in agitation. Even if she dresses like she wants to be looked at, that does not mean I have a right to…
The sliding door crashed open, making Japan jump two feet in the air. Quicker than thought his hand darted out to snatch up the katana he kept at his bedside (old habits died hard), whipped it out, and pointed it at the intruder.
"Yo!" America said, tilting her head to the side and grinning widely at him. She wore an American flag T-shirt that had been cut up at the sleeves and hem and tied back together to make tassels, denim shorts, and a mischievous expression he'd come to fear very much since they began dating. "Looking good, Japan," she said with a wink.
"America-chan!" Japan dropped the sword and stepped back, groping behind him for his dress jacket. His face was redder than the crimson on his flag and mortification made him stammer. "You are here early! And I am not dressed…" He tripped and landed on his bottom on the floor. "Just… Wait outside for me, okay?"
"Why would I do that?" America strode towards him with her usual cocky, mannish stride, her steps too confidently spaced wide to seem like a woman's. But the look on her face was distinctly female. Heavy-lidded eyes and a self-assured smirk made his heart thud painfully against his ribcage.
"No, it's wrong! This is bad!" he cried, skittering backwards like a crab to avoid her advance. Her pink glittery Toms kept coming towards him. "Please stop! America-chan!"
His bare shoulders hit the wall and America's grin widened. "Nowhere to hide," she said in a singsong, and dropped gracefully to her hands and knees before him. "Let me get a little look-see! It's not like this is probably ever gonna happen again, so I gotta take advantage of it!" She prowled forward until her knees were on the floor between his legs and her palms rested on the floor on either side of his torso. Japan cowered, as if he could hide, even as his pulse raced from her proximity. America knew it too. With a self-satisfied grin at the effect she was having on him, she tossed her shoulder-length hair with its unruly curl in front and let her eyes drift down to his bare chest. "Now, let's see what you've been… Hiding…" Her blue eyes grew wider than moons as her voice died away in shock. "Oh, Japan! What is all this?"
Japan averted his eyes, blushing. "It is nothing, America-chan. Don't worry about it."
"Don't you America-chan me!" she snapped. "I said, What is this?"
"Ah… It's…" He looked down at his body and sighed. "It's…me."
His chest and stomach was a map of injuries. There were old ones—a silver crescent-moon scar on his upper left hip from when the Tokogawa shogunate had come to power, and a whole collection from his samurai days. Those were very old now, though, hardly noticeable. America was referring to the rest—a mat of hundreds of little cuts and blotchy bruises that left hardly a square inch of his otherwise smooth pale skin untouched.
"Where are these from?" she gasped, gently reaching out and brushing a hand across his wounds. "Oh, Japan, they look like they hurt like all get-out!"
He shivered at her touch, which made her withdraw her hand quickly. She hadn't hurt him; her touch just sent butterflies shooting through his stomach, like always. But the brush on his bare chest was more intoxicating than one just on his hand or face. He was half glad it was gone; he wasn't used to that kind of emotion. He was just now getting used to the casual way she stole kisses, for goodness sakes!
"These are from the tsunami," he explained, gesturing to a few. "And these are the earthquake." Most of the bruises came from there. "Do not worry about me. They are healing, now. They hurt at first, but they will be better soon."
"Japan…" America bent to kiss a particularly long scrape across his chest. "I'm so sorry."
"I said not to worry!" he said with a nervous chuckle, surreptitiously trying to back away from her. "I will be fine in a few years. You must have scars too, right?"
"Yeah." She sat back and pulled her tasseled patriotic shirt up to reveal a white circular scar under her ribcage—and a corner of a pale pink bra too, but Japan tried hard not to notice that. "See there? That's where Iggy burned down my White House. And here," she added, pointing to a slice about three inches over her belly button that ran the whole length of her torso, the silver of the scar standing out against her tanned skin, picked out with the marks of hundreds of tiny stitches, "This is from the Civil War. I got ripped in half. It was excruciating."
The mark from the Civil War looked so terrible Japan couldn't help but gasp. "America-chan…"
She waved it off, letting her shirt drop back down over the scars. "That's all in the past now! No biggie." Her blue eyes grew serious again, and her hands reached out to trace the marks he'd hoped she would not find—two almost perfectly circular wounds, two inches in diameter, that were sickly green, oozing white fluid from his time in the bath. They didn't always ooze, but they always did after being submerged. He shouldn't have bothered to hope she'd miss them; they were too gruesome to avoid notice. "You never said where these came from," she said softly. "They look old… Why haven't they healed yet?"
"Do not concern yourself with them." He stood, stepping past America and snatching up his white jacket lined with golden cord. Hurriedly pushing his hands through the sleeves, he started on the golden buttons as fast as he could.
"What are you so defensive about?" America bounded to her feet and whirled on her heel to face him. Blue eyes scrunched under a frown. She didn't like being ignored, and she liked being shut down even less. "What are they?"
"It is of no consequence," he said dismissively, still not looking her in the eyes.
Before he realized what was happening he felt his back hit the wall and his hands be pinned over his head. America, only a few inches shorter and much stronger than he was, glowered at him. She had his wrists pinned over his head with one hand and was using the other to undo the buttons he'd managed to get closed. "Stupid Japan. Of course they're of consequence! They're green, for crying out loud!"
"America!" he cried, forgetting to use an honorific in his horror. Anyone who walked in on the scene would obviously jump to the worst conclusions. "Please, release me!"
"No," she teased, mischief glowing in her eyes. "I've got you right where I want you now." She paused her work on his buttons to kiss him, pressing him hard against the wall. "Just be a good little country and cooperate, okay?"
"America," he pleaded as his last button came undone. "Please…"
Her hand traveled inside his shirt anyway and gently probed one of the spongy wounds, just under his ribcage on the left side. "What is it from? Please, tell me." She batted her eyelids innocently. "I might have to do something nasty to you if you don't tell me."
Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard in fear, he muttered, "Fine. Just let me go, okay?"
"Okay!" She dropped his hands and planted her fists on her hips, looking at him expectantly. "Let's hear it!"
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and allowed his coat to fall to the floor. He pointed to the wound on his side. "Hiroshima," he said tersely. Then he pointed to the other, in the center of his right shoulder. "Nagasaki."
The blood drained from America's face. "Those…those are… Oh my—…" Suddenly her knees gave out and she crumpled.
Japan caught her just before she hit the floor. "America!" he cried, terror gushing through him as he carefully lowered her and himself down to the ground. "Are you okay?"
The arm he had around her began to shake as her body trembled violently. He'd never seen her look so small, nor act so weak. "Japan… That was… I did that to you?"
"You didn't know," he said, clutching her tight, not even caring that she was pressing into his wounds. "You had no idea how extensive the damage would be."
Startlingly, a sob burst out of her. She wrenched herself out of his grip and sat there, shaking, on the floor, all alone. Her head snapped up defiantly, but her eyes dripped with a gush of tears. "Japan! Stop sounding like you don't care! It hurts, doesn't it? Admit it!" She pounded a fist against the floor, lowering her face. "Don't act like it doesn't hurt when it does! Geez! Come on, act like you have regular human feelings for once!"
Japan was taken aback by the display. "So… You want me to blame you?"
"Yes! Anything!" Her fist pounded the floor again. "Hate me if you want, but don't just sit there and act like I never did anything to hurt you!" Another sob shook her shoulders. And another, and another, until she sank to the floor, weeping. "Hate me! Please! Say something so I can get mad and not feel so guilty!"
"America-chan," he said gently. She didn't move, just kept crying into his floor. "America. Amelia. Look at me."
She unwillingly turned her face towards him, the ends of her hair plastered to her cheeks with her tears. "I'm so sorry," she whispered.
For the first time, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. They had kissed before, of course, but America had always been the instigator. Now Japan offered one, and their lips met, her kiss broken by sniffles and the sorrow he could feel pouring through her. Gently, he gathered her into his arms and tugged her onto his lap.
She pulled back and smiled weakly. "Forward today, are we?"
"I suppose." He blushed, making her giggle. She loved his awkwardness. "America, you mustn't feel guilty. You had no idea. They will heal one day, I promise. But until then… Can you live with them?"
Still struggling to control her tears, America brushed her fingers gently across the patch of skin representing the bombing at Nagasaki. He knew it was terrible—he'd felt them often enough. The skin was spongy, like it was rotting, and the liquid it oozed was viscous and foul-smelling. Anyone would have sworn they were patches of decay set deep into a healthy man's skin. "Can I live with them? Japan, how could you even ask that?" She buried her face in his neck. "They're your wounds. I just gave them to you."
"No, that isn't what I meant. Can you know I have them and not feel guilty?"
"No," she whispered, nuzzling deeper into his embrace. "I can't."
"America… You must try. I do not blame you for them. So do not blame yourself." He tightened his grip around her. "Aishite imasu, America-chan. I love you, so much more than I could ever blame you."
She hugged him, careful to avoid Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Her voice was choked when she managed to speak. "Thank you, Japan. I love you too."
They remained that way for a while, and an unspoken connection blossomed between them in that time. It was the knowledge that she had hurt him. She had hurt him, in ways that might never heal, but she had also made him feel in a way he'd never thought to feel before. He truly did love her, in a way that ran deeper than hatred and animosity and petty anger ever could.
"Can I put my coat on now?" he asked finally, his face heating when he realized he was still shirtless.
"No way!" she cried with a laugh, clinging to him tighter. "Are there any scars I need to see on your legs?"
"N-no!" he cried, trying to squirm out from under her. "Definitely not!"
"I think I'd better check to be sure!" she crowed. "Better take your pants off for me!"
"I would never—America!"
She laughed uproariously at his shyness. "C'mon, Japan, be a good sport!"
As Japan fought to escape, he sighed internally, There goes my relaxing day off. Whatever can be said for my America-chan, her visits are never boring.
AN: D'aww :'D Don't you love fluff? Yay for AmeriPan!
Well, until next time, my friends!