the land of the rising sun

They sat under the cherry blossoms every spring, drinking tea and talking about—well, nothing, really.

Or, they used to. It's not so much talking anymore, it's mostly the sitting round part—and never under the cherry blossoms. War, the Emperor knew well, changed people. Changed people and nations—this is the part he is most interested in. And the nations, they reflect the people. Always the people.

If the people wanted war, then Nihon, Japan, Honda Kiku, wanted war as well, and at this point it didn't much matter anymore.

He hated war. He hated war and everything that came of it, but really, that changed nothing, because it wasn't the Emperor's word that was divine, not anymore. Not ever, he thought privately, but that's not surprising.

"Hiro."

That was it. No honorifics, no Showa-sama, not even his full Hirohito. Just Hiro.

"Hirohito-sama."

"Mm."

He let his eyes slide open, staring steadily through the thick lenses into the wide, emotionless brown eyes of his country.

"Yes, Honda-san?" he asked politely, adjusting his spectacles with a thin hand. Continued looking forward at this man, at this enigma who represented everything he is and everything he's worked for.

Kiku Honda, Japan, meant to him, quite simply, power. He was powerful and beautiful and oh-so-terribly sad, like the sakura petals they used to sit under so often (falling in their hair and faces and the cups of fine green tea they'd make obsessively), turning brown and wilting on the stone pathways, in full promise that next year, next year they would bloom just as beautiful.

If, of course, there was a next year.

Kiku rose, brushing the wrinkles out of his simple yukata, the summer clothes that he preferred year-round. He held out a slender, paler hand than would be expected, as if urging Hirohito to rise with him. He dis, taking the smaller hand, and letting Kiku pull him to his feet.

"You are tense."

It's this simple, really, he thought as light hands settled on his waist. It's this easy.

"So I am."

He wondered idly how many former Emperors this had happened to, as Japan shifted a centimeter closer—it's not much, but it was there. Small gestures, it's the small things that counted—affection he's never had from anyone else, never from Nagako (certainly not from Nagako).

"Kiku. Don't do this."

"You will be fine, Hirohito," Japan affirmed in quiet tones, and without so much as thinking, he knew that it was a lie. He was too timid of a person, too much of a pacifist, too anti-war for these times, while Mussolini and Hitler and Stalin are all for it—his advisors as well. He'd lost control of his country, and knew that perfectly well.

He tried not to think as Kiku kissed him, but Julius Caesar keeps coming to mind—Julius Caesar and Great Britain and Kiku Honda, the tyrants, the great and once-great. But Hirohito lived, and Hirohito was great…

The yukata and his emperor robes come off easily enough; putting them back on was always more difficult.

It wasn't so much of a surprise anymore, waking up alone. He rose from the bed, all willowy limbs and skin and bones. The room was as dark as ever, and he could barely make out the form of someone standing with their back to him, quickly and easily pulling the yukata over their naked form.

"Ohayo gozaimasu, Nihon-sama."

Hirohito's hands found themselves replacing Kiku's in tucking the cloth in precisely the right way (he should know; he's an expert at this by now, he has to be).

"Sore wa shinaide kudasai."

The tone is more abrupt than he's used to, and his hands still. Kiku finished dressing himself, and didn't so much as turn around once to face his Emperor.

"Your ministers are waiting."

And while Japan leaves, Hirohito's eyes are turned away, because one little night, one silly tryst could change nothing.

He dressed himself, and followed Japan out of the room.

This war may not end well for him (for them), but his people want it. Japan wanted it.

And Hirohito loved his country.