A Master's Passing
Wednesday night. Movie night. It's America's favorite day of the week. Sometimes he goes over to Japan's to see a horror film, but he hasn't seen his friend in awhile, and when he receives the news, he realizes it's been too long.
He's a few minutes late when he enters Japan's darkened living room. The only light comes from the television screen as coming attraction for films Japan has owned for years play.
America had always disliked horror . . . maybe "dislike" is the wrong word. He's always had problems with it. But it's okay when he's with Japan since he knows that at least Japan won't make fun of him for it. Even after he's kept Japan awake past 3 a.m. with screams and nightmares.
Silently, he sits down beside Japan who's staring blankly at the screen, his face giving away nothing. Japan doesn't say anything, even to show disappointment at America's late arrival, but when America holds his hand, he clenches back, nails digging into the other nation's skin. And then they watch the movie.
America doesn't talk, or scream, or even move. He sits just as still as Japan, admiring the work of a master. And when the ending credits of Perfect Blue have finished rolling, the two remain in their seats, thinking about what they haven't said.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
And Japan begins to cry.
M.P-chan: I just found out myself. R.I.P. Satoshi Kon, you will be forever missed.