( A story I've got going on Livejournal; I figured my followers on would like to see it too. c: )


In Greece, it was warm; an afternoon for going wading in the ocean, going out canoeing or fishing or viewing old forgotten ruins in Knossos, in Sparta. Maybe even just napping in Greece's newly fixed hammock, out in the forgiving bubble sunshine. There the cats would curl up, content to lay beneath the warmth of two bodies pressed close together.

But no - it was also an afternoon for making love on Greece's (blessedly thick) bed, the gauzy blue bedroom curtains billowing in the occasional ocean breeze. Salt and sweat rose in the air, stirred by the lazy white ceiling fan rotating above.

Greece was running his tongue down the smooth hill of Japan's hipbone when his half-lidded eyes floated up; they met the dizzy dark hues of his lover. He smiled softly, rubbing the other's erection with one hand, the fleshy side of his hip with the other.

"Do you love me... Kiku?" he asked after a moment, liking how Japan's human name felt on his tongue. It felt just a little taboo, calling him that, like he was a fairy who would be forever bound to him because his name was spoken - not that Heracles would mind that sort of fate, but.

Kiku just smiled gently, almost tiredly. "I... would like to think so."

And so together, they lit up, a smoldering flame of a love that was nothing but free.


Heracles rolled off his lover, trying to get his breath back. With the towel that he was sloppily handed, Kiku, as always, cleaned himself, and Greece, and what he could of the sheets, a placid housewife smile on his still-red face. Greece liked to joke that Kiku really only unwound after orgasm; Japan always scolded him for mentioning such private, intimate things in public (It was never outside the Greek's walls, but then again neighbors could easily hear).

Once breath was caught and Kiku was wrapped in his usual loose white yukata, the two tangled comfortably together again. They stared at the low ceiling, like the stars could be found there.

"I wish... I had a cigarette." Heracles murmured, pointing up to his favorite spot in the popcorn ceiling, the fortunate scatter of plaster that looked like the Seven Sisters. He made a different wish every time; they were always ridiculous, in some way or another, like this one. Greece knew full well that Japan rarely tolerated his nasty little habit - he hated smelling like the smoke, as if it was a brand on his forehead.

Eventually the two fell asleep, content and happy. When Greece's hand came up to rest on Kiku's chest (over his heart), the latter didn't mind; but when Heracles woke up he would be gone, back home, to sit and think and fret.

When Greece would wake up, he would find himself alone - against what he really wished for whenever he saw the ceiling Sisters. After a moment of unprocessed thought he would get up too, pull some pants on, make coffee and throw the bedthings in the washer, all the while wondering how he really felt about his sometimes-lover.

He never failed to wish for more.