The dream is old, familiar even, but horrific nonetheless.
He is running through the streets of modern-day Athens, everything shining and smoggy and sufficatingly crowded. He pushes citizens and tourists out of the way, only one goal, one thought, in his mind. But: she refuses to be found, and soon everything melts into faded images, rough caricatures-
-being pulled into bedrooms, into arms, into the yawning gaping mouths of a cave where four of him lay, sprawled out awkwardly, all dead. Two young boys, a teenager, a man, they lay still bleeding, eyes open but not seeing, somehow looking at the spectator in the mouth of their shared coffin anyway. Their eyes are the murky green of stagnant lake water.
Incense and blood and the crisp saltiness of olives, compared to the dull musk of the sea. He was running, running running running, the only thing he's honestly capable of in nightmares. He'd been there, before, once or twice when Turkey wanted to play games, this long narrow trail along the cliffs by the ocean. The only possible route of escape. From that time no memories remain, really, he's blocked most of them out successfully, but the overwhelming feeling of terror and determination mingle to a thin sheen that he's associated with the years he spent there in the Ottoman's house-
He finally comes across a house, the one very much like that which he grew up in, when he was still with his mother. He skids to a stop and looks wildly around, sees that everyone there is grey-faced and empty-eyed, like they have all just had a war flash through their lives like a wildfire. They regard him with muted pity as he turns to bang on the front door and shouts, let me in! I have to stop him!
Tears are streaming down his face because inside, he's still the little boy who came in a few minutes too late, saw his mother and her blood, everywhere, the look in that man's eyes as he walked away, not even a drop of pity for the nine-year-old boy who had nowhere to go but down-
"Heracles!"
Someone is shaking his shoulder; it takes a moment or two for him to realize that he's at home, in his own bed, awake, and with Japan...
The familiar paralysis of relief and fear mixed is soon whisked away, as he realizes that he must have been screaming, but worst of all he can't shake the feeling that somewhere, sometime, he will walk into a room and see his mother laying there, bleeding, dead too.
He doesn't even realize that he's started to cry again, until Kiku pulls his head into his lap gently; his belly, still a bit small for almost eight months, is warm and firm under the thin cotton of his yukata. He runs his fingers through Greece's messy tangle of curls, lays a cool hand against the other's hot, damp cheek and murmurs softly in Japanese, the sound of more comfort than any lullaby. The moon leaks silver light in through the window, illuminating his hair, glossing it.
"Shh..." he whispers, leaning down as best as he can, cupping Heracles' face with both hands. Eventually the other props himself up, so their foreheads can touch, and Kiku is looking directly into his eyes, a rare thing for him to dare try.
"Hera-kun... if you take all the bad dreams for yourself, there won't be any left for everyone else... It is bad luck to be so selfish, don't you know?"
It's warm... for October. Greece thinks idly, staring at the twilight through the wide, wood-cut window in Japan's bedroom. The trees in the yard are beginning to don their autumn colors, he can even see that some leaves flutter off in the breeze. In only a few weeks the trees will shed their glorious hues and become the naked skeletons of winter; such, of course, is the cycle of life.
It is, and always has been, refreshingly peaceful and quiet in Japan's rural home. The two decided to spend a little more time there before the baby, around whose birth they would move, more-or-less permanently, into Greece's house. Of course, Kiku would take frequent trips to his home, but for the duration of the time when the baby would be too young to take confidently on an airplane, they'd stay mostly in Greece.
However, at that moment Heracles wonders how the other could even bear to leave this house. The air is crisp and cool with an early sampling of winter; as the late evening winds blow through, the sound of chimes and paper rustling almost blocks out the sound of Kiku's steady breathing, as he naps for what has to be about the fourth time that day. Everything smells good and sharp and fresh, like green tea-scented incense, fresh-cut wood and clean air.
Rubbing the head of a particularly affectionate cat, Greece sits there contentedly, further pondering just what exactly they'll both be giving up in making the decision to keep, and raise, the baby. Now he, for one, doesn't have much to lose; though he appreciated the carefree lifestyle he had, he's always loved kids and adored the idea of starting a family of some sort, no matter the impossibility.
Though he'd never once planned for anything like this, he is more than happy to accept Kiku into his life, and, of course, the little one too. When he thinks of all the things they will do (as a family!) he smiles with the lilt of childish excitement that has, as of late, become a common part of his face.
There will be going out on the boat, swimming and playing in the ocean, seeing ruins and temples and cities over and over again, every year; celebrating holidays and observing traditions unique to each parent's culture, blending the pure Western simplicity and pure Eastern complexity into one home, one life, shared by three.
He wonders, too, if maybe he and Kiku might get married someday. Despite their whole situation, nobody seems to be rushing them into marriage, as they likely would be if the two were humans. Marriage for love (or honor) between nations is a simply shocking sort of thing; when you live forever, there's too much time to change your mind, too much time to get tired of the one you loved with such a passion just thirty years before.
The thought of marriage, though ... it is endlessly pleasant, a silly indulgence Greece delves into often. Especially when it includes Japan playing the wife ...
"A-ano..." the sound of a word caught in Japan's passing yawn effectively snaps Greece out of his thoughts and back to the living world. They're sitting on Kiku's bed, books and papers and all sorts of other things messily heaped around them; when Kiku fell asleep, Heracles had cleared everything out of the way and made sure he had a pillow under his head and an afghan over his small, curled-in frame.
"Kalispera, Kiku." he greets softly, smiling over at him when he offers a sheepish sort of apology for 'rudely falling asleep, I just ... did not get any sleep last night'.
After a few more minutes of stretching and belly-rubbing and general waking up, Japan sits up and looks over at Greece, who blinks and tilts his head expectantly. "Hmm... what were we discussing before?"
"Nothing important, really." he says, shrugging, before he remembers something: "Though, you mentioned wanting to finally settle a name. You said you had an idea ... ?"
Kiku nods thoughtfully. "Well, I do, but I would like to hear your ideas first, if you have any." He prompts politely after a moment, obviously holding back the excitement of having a good name in mind.
Greece takes no time to ponder the thought that instantly springs to mind. "I like Poseidon."
"... a - ano ... Poseidon?"
"Yes." he says, chipper, "it's an honorable name! I mean ... to be named for the great god of the sea ... I think it'd fit rather nicely."
Once he sees that Kiku has the look on his face he often does when dealing with idiots or foreigners - the one where he is honestly trying hard not to say no outright, or for that matter, anything rude or insulting at all - Heracles knows that the name is a lost cause.
Three hours later, the two have finally settled on a (tentative) name. The process of it, of course, was not without disagreements and arguing - although that can't be named so; when one is with Kiku, it isn't so much 'arguing' as it is 'being told no in a surprising variety of ways and finally giving up ten minutes later'.
Sitting quite happily in the snug warmth of Greece's lap, Japan turns to look at him: "are you sure you're happy with him just taking your surname? I ... suppose ... we could make Poseidon work..."
"Mmm..." Heracles hums, a sound bordering on a purr - he pretends to think about it for a moment, before answering with a kiss to the top of Kiku's head. "No ... i'm happy with what we chose. Anything for you, Kiku ... mou."
Like ducks in a long neat row stood Greece, both Italy brothers, Spain, Belgium, America, Candia (that was his name, right?), France, and Vietnam.
"So..." Greece trailed off, looking at the small army that had apparently been enlisted to help finish the nursery once and for all, back to the walls that they were intent on painting that day.
The samples on the wall had grown from three colors to a splotchy mess of ten. There was blue, white, green, orange, red, gold, American blue, brown, pink and a much deeper shade of green than the first. Each nation had contributed their own favorite and now, the big question was which, exactly, to paint the walls with.
"What does em Kiku think?" Vietnam asked after a moment, leaning forward to look over at Greece. He, in turn, shrugged a little: "he said that he trusts me to make sure it'll turn out alright. He's out, at the moment ... Visiting the neighbors, I think."
"So it's all up to us?" America, in his excitement, elbowed his brother in the face - the Canadian simply sighed and ducked away to fetch a towel for himself, before his nose dripped blood everywhere. "Well, everyone, let's grab my blue, and get paintin'!"
"I beg your pardon, America!" France sniffed, pointing to the pink-red shade he'd chosen. "Not everyone likes the color you chose. I, for one, believe that it is tacky and too bright. An infant would not tolerate such an ugly color on the walls of his room!"
"Babies don't exactly care about that sort of thing..." Vietnam noted dryly, giving France a look that was a non-physical knee in the gut.
"What about green? Ve! It's a nice color!"
"Nobody likes your retarded green, Veneciano."
Spain chuckled, and would have given Lovi an enthusiastic, 'you're so cuuute!' hug if a hand was immediately not smashed into his face first. "How about red? Red's the color of tomatoes! And you like those, right, Romanito?"
"Brown's nice and neutral, I think..." Canada mumbled, back to the line of now bickering nations, a towel pressed to his nose.
"NO! See, everyone? My blue's the way to go!" America insisted, dipping a brush he'd filched and sloppily applying the pain all over the wall. "He'll think justice! Freedom! Liberty!"
France, who seemed to have gotten an idea, grabbed a brush for himself and spread the paint he wanted over a blank spot in the wall. "I insist that what you have chosen is not an appropriate shade, America!"
"Yeah, but ... At least it's not gay!"
"Pink is for everyone!"
"Not for ... ... not gay people!"
In the span of their little argument, Spain had pulled on a glove and dipped his hand in the can of red, and was smearing it all over a spot on the wall - Belgium followed his lead with the shade of yellow she had particularly liked.
"Ve!" Italy cried, giggling. With cupped hands he carefully ladled up a half-handful of paint and tossed it at the wall, managing to splatter the green all over America, Canada, and Vietnam's heads in the process.
"Let's paint his world with our love, everyone!"
"Well, I think it looks good." Greece, fists on his hips, nodded proudly at the finished product of two days of work and effort.
Kiku was too busy staring to really acknowledge the comment. The nursery really did look good; the furniture was simple but beautiful, and with Belgium and Vietnam's help it was all organized perfectly, satisfying the motherly need for order that had recently been consuming Japan's brain.
What stood out, though, and what he was staring at, was the paint on the walls. Only one had color, the rest were the creamy off-white he himself had preferred, a gesture he somehow found sweet.
The wall that had the color was insane, splotchy and messy, the lovechild of an orgy of oddly-colored rainbows. It was obvious who had applied which color, and how - the red, Spain's, was everywhere, but mostly by Romano's, the orange. The deep green of his elder sister was always trailed by the pink of France's, and the light green of Italy was simply everywhere, never choosing favorites.
"And there, on the ceiling... everyone signed." Heracles pointed up, having finally noticed exactly what Kiku was looking at, and Japan saw the nine handprints that were up there - one in each color that was splattered all over the one wall.
"Well..." he sighed, after a moment - Greece would have gotten worried, had a smile not slid onto his face."It certainly is ... unique ... I like it. I really do..."
As a sort of afterthought, Kiku leaned over to hug Heracles quickly; maybe he was even ready to give him a kiss on the cheek without blushing with the scandal of it. He had put forth so much effort, after all...
As he did so, though, in an instant he was wound up in the other's arms. As Greece murmured to him softly, he caught himself thinking - I could get used to this.
That night, impossibly, Greece couldn't get to sleep. He tried everything - willing the sleep to come, trying to find where it was, tucked deep within him, getting some warm milk, petting a cat, counting goats... but it refused to come to him. Giving up, he lay restlessly in bed, trying to replicate the breathing of sleep, hoping that he could fool himself into it.
Japan, too, seemed to have the same problem, but at least it was not a highly unusual event. When the time hovered around midnight, he had finally stopped trying and pushed himself up to sitting, a position that was a little more comfortable than lying down, what with the baby moving about excitedly and all. He was looking thoughtfully at Greece when he noticed that the other was not stone-still and breathing peacefully, as he should have been.
"Hera-kun...?" Kiku asked softly, hesitating to do so. What if he woke him up?
However, such was not a problem. When prompted, Heracles slowly turned his head and stared back for a moment, mumbling something about not being able to catch sleep. Kiku chuckled, reaching forward to brush his hands through the other's curls, like one would do to a cat.
And so, the two spent the rest of the night not sleeping, but simply basking in each other's presence (as per usual). Kiku would listen, enraptured, as Heracles told him stories of his mother, of the Gods and mortals and their wacky adventures; he had a way of telling stories, the way of a fortuneteller, a father. In turn Japan wove a world of his own, all the while delighted by the entranced look in the other's eyes.
After they ran out of words and the ability to form complete thought; after they took a walk out to a place where you could see the lights of the town and the marina below, and had stood there for a while, just watching; after they had milk and ate crackers and feta cheese by candlelight because the light in the kitchen had burned out; they lay together in the bed, being nursed to sleep by the nighttime sounds just outside Greece's window.
Much like when they lay together the night in which they'd decided to embark on this adventure together, they were spooning, Heracles' arms wrapped around the other, his hands on his belly - though now, it was quite a bit more prominent than it was back then. Both were tired, exhausted really, but they couldn't fall asleep, as if something was honestly trying to keep them from sleep.
After a bit, Greece spoke up, his voice gravelly. "Are you happy here, Kiku?"
The other hummed, in his state completely forgetting about the walls of privacy and manners and other such things that would normally have kept him from saying anything.
"It... this is different, that is certain. But it ... is not a bad difference. I am a bit nervous, yes, and a bit intimidated... A part of me misses my life as it was... but another part of me says that this is right. No matter what, though, I have a feeling ... no, I am glad to be here, mostly ..." he yawned then, and continued very softly: "because of you, Heracles."
