Disclaimer: Axis Powers Hetalia is the property of Hidekazu Himaruya and no profit is being made from this work of fiction.

Characters: China and Japan
Word Count: 1156
Summary: A series of one-shots featuring countries and the children in their lives.

For all the time that had passed since the bamboo groves, there were days when China didn't think he would ever become fully accustomed to the idea of being a parent.

It was one thing to care for yourself, and it was one thing to care for the people who inhabited your home, but there was something entirely surreal in the stewardship of another life – in learning how to soak the rice so it would be ready at the same time the washing was finished; how to pull a splinter painlessly, or explain why an oriole's shell on the roadside could not be pieced back together. Even in simple times such as then, returning from the river with their basket of clothes hoisted over one shoulder, smelling of plant ash and gleditsia fruit, there were moments when the dark haired, silent child beside him felt so impermanent. Like a tendril of mist, breezing past him in an instant and gone as quickly as it had come.

Heaven forbid. Bewildering as it all may have been, life without Japan was not something he could even begin to envision.

"You look lost in thought," he commented to his charge, who was softly chewing his lip. "Another one of your little poems, aru?"

For a while now, Japan had gotten into the habit of constructing short poems about the world around them. Always in sets of three phrases, brief flashes of impossible loveliness, of which China had only been able to coax him into sharing one or two (the last had spoke of blooming camellia flowers). Japan nodded, porcelain face unreadable. "Hai."

"Can you tell me what this one is about?"

"The birds, Yao-sensei," was the eternally patient reply. As though he, China, were the overly inquisitive toddler disrupting a very important line of thought. "There's a pair of blackbirds singing somewhere. I think they may be following us."

Even as he nodded along, listening, a disquiet that was not unfamiliar arose in China's mind. On one hand, Japan was gentle and thoughtful, and each day brought with it new reasons to adore that quality in him. On the other, it simply didn't seem right for a child to be so collected, so utterly stoic. China may have been old, but not so much so that the days of being young – alone yet carefree, miles and miles of sky, everything between Heaven and earth his personal playground – had faded from his mind. While he could remember climbing trees, finding pheasant's nests, tumbling in the bamboo groves, and squelching through too much mud to ever be reasonably measured, even Japan's play seemed perfectly organized, as though by some invisible charter written up days in advance.

Surely every child needed a certain quota of dirt under their nails to grow up properly?

Presently, his thoughts were intruded on by a certain sound, the lick and babble of running water. Running across the path directly en route to home was a small but very distinct overflow, a miniature river flattening grass and reflecting the sunlight through the trees. Tilting his head, Japan studied it with a puzzling mixture of curiosity and offense.

"That wasn't there when we first came through," he declared, as though expecting the water to hear, take the hint, apologize, and redirect itself.

"Just some runoff from the river, aru. Remember? All those rainstorms we've had, aru." As though Japan would ever forget. He was inordinately fond of sitting up and watching the rain fall through a crack in the door, usually until China picked him up and took him bodily off to bed.

The little nation stepped forward, dipping the toe of his sandal into the water investigatively, though China knew perfectly well he wasn't afraid of getting wet – you couldn't be, when your home was made up of thousands of islands – and looking more and more like the studious old man China so often teased him as.

"Want me to help you across, aru?"

"I can make it myself."

"Oh, I know you can. But I can think of another way. Much more fun, aru." He set down the laundry basket, which was beginning to set his shoulder aching, and held out both hands. Japan stared at them dubiously.

"Will this hurt?"

"Not even a little, aru."

"Are you sure?

"If it does, you can scold me all the way home." That seemed to do it, and tiny fingers entwined firmly into his. And he lifted.

If there had ever been a way to snatch images from the air in an instant, turn them solid and hoard them away forever, oh, how China longed for it then. Anything to have captured the look on Japan's face when his feet left the ground. The little body curled up and in, trying to find purchase where there was none, toes scrabbling at the air. But he never let go, and he never asked to be put back down, and China swung back – then let him go. Clear on the other side of the water, he landed on his feet, only to stumble and collapse into the soft grass on pudgy hands and knees.

Where he remained. Staring at the ground, wearing a stunned expression.

"Not so bad, right?" China asked, stepping closer. No response came, and suddenly his heart was dropping as he hovered on the cusp of hating himself. If he'd hurt him or frightened in any way...

"Kiku?"

And then Japan was looking up at him with the widest, most delighted eyes China had ever known.

"Again."

China started. Blinked...and smiled. Well, then.

The clothes could wait to dry, anyway.

The first time Japan ran back to him, he hop-skipped through the water like a cat. The second time, he crashed through unabashedly, soaking through his sandals. The third, he stopped trying to catch himself on his feet altogether, and took to rolling in the grass as he lost his ability to stop smiling. China could never deny him, any more than he could quell the glow around his own heart.

Inevitably, he knew, there would come a day when Japan no longer returned to his outstretched hands; when the little nation grew as strong and sturdy and brilliant as China always hoped he would be. When that time came, he couldn't be sure if either of them would ever remember this day in the forest, how quickly a fat trickle of river water could become something beautiful to be launched over. Truth be told, it didn't matter. The noonday sun was warm, and Japan was seeking out him alone. Staggering, blinking dizzily, but always sure of where to find him.

And somewhere, somewhere high among the treetops, their laughter was mingling together, as though to make them a part of each other.