I still miss you sometimes.
I miss the way you would sit in an armchair, your legs crossed neatly in front of you; the miss the way you would sing for hours while washing up the dishes, thinking no one could hear you.
I did.
I even miss the way you made sure to have a newspaper before you went to the toilet, and our bathroom filled with dated copies of The Times.
You were beautiful. My heart was swollen with my affections for you. Sometimes I wondered if it was unhealthy for me to love another as much as I loved you after so many years of solitude.
"I'm sorry Japan, but, we have to break our alliance. It's not a personal thing, but our nations aren't benefiting anymore. I'm sorry."
I hated those words as soon as they left your mouth. I even hated you. You looked expectant, as if you were waiting for something. Were you waiting for me to cry? To crumple to the floor and exclaim that it 'wasn't fair!' and that I hated you? I nodded once slowly, bowing. Hiding my emotions behind the mask that had become fixed to my face over the last years.
Because in that moment, we were not Kiku and Arthur, we were Japan and England. And our alliance had been broken. And that was all there was to it.
"I understand, England. No need to apologise." I said monotonously. My expression was cold and you looked hurt by it, flinching at my harsh vocals. And I liked seeing how I'd inflicted that pain upon you. I wanted you to feel the pain I was feeling. I held out a hand for you to shake. "Thank you for this alliance. I am glad it happened." You looked close to tears, green eyes shaking in the slightest with unshed tears, and took my hand and shook it, pressing your mouth into a thin line like you always did when struggling to maintain composure.
"Me too, Japan. Me too." You said, your voice cracking in the slightest, but we both ignored that then you let go of my hand with a final warm squeeze and walked away. You paused for a moment by the door, as if wanting to say something and then turned your head to look at me a final time. I replied with a cold stare as always and you continued on your way. Did you want me to run after you?
Because I wanted to.
It was only when I was in the sanctum of my own home, did I release. I shut the front door and leant my back against it, breathing heavily, before I let the tears come. Hiding my face in my hands I let out a wounded and choked sob, sliding down against the door and landing in a crumpled heap on the floor, hunched over. I pressed my shaking hands into my eyes, loud and rasping sobs escaping from me as I slipped over onto my side, curling up against the door defencelessly.
I hated you then, again; after so many years of steely emotionless, my tear ducts frozen by self control, you had forced the dam to give in. I sobbed long and hard and curled up into myself wishing I had died.
I felt as if I was dying. And an evil, bitter part of me hoped that you felt the same.
My life was pouring out with the tears I shed. Pocchi appeared and pattered over to me, nuzzling his face into my folded arms and attempted to reach my tear stained face that I had hidden with the protective barrier of my limbs. He licked my face gently but I pushed him away with a heart too heavy to bear affection to anything or one.
More time passed. Through my sodden fringe I watched the hand of the clock skate around the face but no time seemed the right one to get up off the floor.
Once I was marginally sure the sponge of my heart had been thoroughly squeezed dry, I sat up against the door and wiped the tear stains from my face, pushing myself up shakily. Dressed still in my now crumpled formal uniform, I slowly moved towards my bedroom, discarding the wretched white clothes into a corner and remained in my thin underwear.
I crawled over to my futon and wished to bury myself in the calming white sheets forever. The pure white of the snowy eiderdown seemed a better world than the harsh one outside my thin paper walls. Pulling my head down under the covers I lay there, eyes shut against everything.
But I was wrong. I had misjudged my heart grossly.
My hand came up to clamp across my mouth and stifle yet more tears. I missed your arms around me; unconsciously, I had moved to the far edge of the mattress to make room for your absent body. But you weren't there, and you never would be there again. Late night embraces that only the moon could see were long gone. I ached for your lightly freckled arms to enclose around my being, your breath; hot and tickly on my neck.
It was the mornings that were the hardest.
In the pale dawn light, I scarcely moved. I saw you everywhere, in the filtered yellow sunlight seeping through the blinds, in the patch in the wall where you tripped while you taught me how to waltz and put your elbow through my wall. I wasn't angry, not a bit.
I lost hours in that bed, my body like lead and too heavy to move. I stopped eating. On good days I would manage an apple, and maybe plain rice. Others I would merely lie in bed, absorbed in self pity. I knew I had two weeks until the next world conference, where I would have to face you, and every one else. I dreaded it. I even neglected my beloved dog, and he withered and emaciated along with me.
I hated you. I hated you. You were the one that had done this to me.
For ten whole days I struggled to get out of bed. My world was monochromatic now, without the green of your eyes and the scent of your rose cologne. I loved that cologne.
And on the eleventh day, I tried again.
The sun rose up behind the shutters and I stumbled out of bed. I fed Pocchi and gorged myself on stale bread and plums that had been lightly covered in a fuzz of mould but I was too hungry to care. Then I showered and changed and flung open all the windows to let the fresh air in.
My broken heart had healed a little.
But as I walked to the bathroom, I passed my piano and paused mid-step, my gaze fixed on it. You loved that piano.
"You can play, Kiku?" you had asked. I nodded and blushed, shyly sitting down on the stool, my long fingers pushing up the lid of the keys.
"Just as a hobby," I said vaguely and slid my hands up and down over the pure white keys.
"Play something." You said, looking to me with a sweet questioning smile. I melted; no way could I resist that expression. I nodded silently, and started to tease the piano keys with my fingertips. I can remember it was a sad song, a song that made you go very still and quiet. My eyes closed as I lost myself in the notes feeling as if I and the music were one. When I finished, you came and sat next to me, and planted a very firm kiss on my forehead. Your cheeks glistened with tears.
With a shake of my head I continued to walk past the instrument. It was a mere block of wood. That was all.
And then the dreaded meeting conference came.
Dressed in my hated uniform I was Japan, proud and honourable nation that didn't surrender, didn't cry, didn't flinch, even when everything had gone to hell. And you were England; the sarcastic and cynical nation with a foul mouth and equally foul temper.
You were no longer the gentle man I fell in love with.
As the world gathered around the table, we debated; played with our toy soldiers, but felt as if we were merely children in a crèche. Our political leaders were in the next room, debating the same points. We were worth nothing, merely the figurehead to a nation.
Our views were nothing.
After the meeting, you came up to me. You had a cup of tea in your hand, and in your other you had a slice of cake. Fruit cake. The kind that I had baked for you once. My eyes flicked to the baked treat with a questioning glance before I shrugged lightly and met your gaze again.
"Japan," you said softly and offered me a smile. "How are you?" I bowed in return.
Formal. Unattached. Disconnected.
"I am well." I replied sharply.
I still love you, I still love you, come back Arthur I'm dying I'm dying.
"How are you, England?"
You hesitated. You seemed surprised at my coldness. And then you took a sip of tea.
"I'm great, yeah, yeah." You said vaguely.
I waited for the ditty birds to pick at our split, blistered tongues from the all the lying that currently spilled from our lips. An awkward silence filled in the spare moment.
I was forced to forget all the conversations that we could have had instead.
I tried to block out the fact that we were so silent, so awkward after everything. All the nights we had spent wrapped in each other's lust, hearts flaming and skin sodden with pleasured sweat.
The hours we spent huddled up reading books on your plush sofa.
Those moments when you would reach over and take my hand, and squeeze it and then look to me like you could never look away.
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you Arthur, come back.
"Well…it was nice to see you." You said awkwardly and placed the plate and empty cup on the buffet table. For an awful moment I thought you were going to embrace me and my eyes widened; I stumbled, taking a step back away from you, but you merely placed your hands into your pockets and smiled wanly. "Take care. And try the cake. It's rather good." You gestured to the untouched slice you had left on the side.
"No thank you. I ate before I came." I replied, dismissing your parting comment and then turned away.
"Ki-" The first syllable of my name came from your mouth in a cry of desperation but you stopped yourself. "Suit yourself." I immediately felt wounded by your tone but continued to walk away. I paused for a moment and risked turning my head back to face you, to grasp a final glimpse of you before I went through the double doors away. You looked so lonely; so sad and lost standing there, with your messy hair and freckled skin I loved so much to kiss. Your tie was loose and a 5 o'clock shadow was already dusting your chin.
A mixture of sadness, guilt and anger mingled over your face.
But you weren't my Arthur anymore.
You were England.
And I'm sorry I made you love me.