A/N: At last we learn what Tanaka's been laughing at all this time.
Tanaka sat back, resting his head against the warm east wall of the manor, hugging his mug of tea, grateful for its heat on his arthritic fingers. The frail Japanese sighed, a trifle homesick, closed his dark eyes and imagined he was in his village again, not growing old in this faraway England.
Back home it would be time for cherry blossom viewing. Strolling and picnicking couples would contemplate the beauty and impermanence of life as exemplified by the brief, fragile blossoms. Here, though, pear and apple were covering the rolling hills with drifts of clean white petals like new-fallen snow.
Both places were islands, with damp, chilly springs. But the birdsong, scents, even the teas were all very different.
"Morning Mister Tanaka!" Finnian went hurrying by. Japan had its share of funny people too, but none were anything like Phantomhive's sniper-maid, plant-icidal gardener or their explosive American 'cook.'
And Japan has oni, neko-baka, tengu, tanuki-akuma of all sorts, but there's none to beat that silly demon sneaking his cats indoors or desperately trying to work out how to cook human food he can't even taste.
"Hoh-hoh-hoh," the Steward chuckled, "such entertainments!"
East or west, life was good.
