Title: not even the rain
Author's note: kink meme: Greece/Japan, kiss in the rain. Happy Winter holidays, disownmereturns.
The cats have been hiding inside, under gutters and awnings. Greece has been outside now, staring up at the rain. There's a thin sheen of moisture from where the drops have handed on the parts of him which the awning does not cover.
He can't fit in small places quite as well as the cats.
"Is something the matter, Greece-san?" Japan asks.
"No, just thinking...remembering," he says. "We walked in the rain that time..."
"Ah," Japan says.
It wasn't that long ago, by his reckoning, but length is nothing to countries. A hundred years is a blink of an eye. Sometimes he forgets how long it has been, how long he has known Greece. It seems longer, as if they've been entwined for many lifetimes. Japan takes up his umbrella and holds it over Greece. His hair is damp, and clings to his face.
"You'll catch cold," he says, his face flushing.
Greece looks up as if she has woken up from a long dream.
"Would you like to walk?" Greece asks.
Japan nods, and they step out together. People have pulled back, even the cars seem fewer like this, as if they were all waiting for the downpour to end. It's as if this piece of the world is entirely theirs now, damp and muddy as it is.
Rain runs down the white buildings, which stand stark against the greyness. Lights shine inside the houses, and Japan sees snippets of life: people eating, a woman making bread in the kitchen, a couple curled up on the couch, sleeping.
Greece steps out from under the shelter of the umbrella and into the rain. He looks up, his bangs now plastered in his face, nearly obscuring his eyes.
He sighs. "I don't think it could make my hair any worse, at this rate..."
"I like your hair like that," Japan says, then flushes again at the realization of what he's said–revealed. He clears his throat.
He tries to figure a way out of this one. Greece's head is tilted to the side. He's smiling. His clothes are all wet and clinging to him, his white shirt turned see-through. Japan tries to focus on a spot above his very well-defined chest, or he knows he'll be blushing again.
Blushing like a schoolgirl.
He is usually composed, collected, but things have been changing and he has not been himself as of late. It started hundreds of years ago, meeting a quiet, dreamy nation. It has grown between them until it is almost unbearable, so that not even Japan can keep himself calm.
Greece stares at him intently, without the glassy-eyed dreamy way of usual. There's an intensity to him that Japan is not used to. He shifts, uncomfortable and searching for balance that has grown increasingly hard to find as of late.
"...If there was one wish you could make now, what would it be?" Greece asks.
It isn't the death of his enemies, for in these days he doesn't have many, or the ability to undo the past. It's far more superficial, more human in its scope and longing. But he doesn't dare speak it, and tries not to focus on Greece's lips, or his body which is so easily visible under his wet clothes.
"That...would require contemplation. What would yours be, Greece-san?" Japan asks.
"Do...do you want me to show you?"
He reaches out and strokes Japan's cheek, and it's a silent entreaty. Japan feels Greece's coarse thumb against his lower lip. His hands are large, scarred and coarse. He's known them intimately once, something he won't admit to, won't admit to wanting.
He closes his eyes a moment, feeling the mix of warmth and coldness that is Greece's touch. His body is alive with wanting, and the need for touch, for intimacy.
It seems he is more alike the humans than he would like to admit. Within his chest beats a heart, and even if he is immortal, the contrast of flesh and land, he is still weak and needy.
"Yes," he breathes. "Oh, yes."
The umbrella falls from his hand and Greece pulls him to him. Japan hasn't been kissed many times, even his sexual exploits have been cold and businesslike. Where their skin meets is the only warm spot as the rain pours down in rivulets down over their skin, hot and cold.
Greece holds his cheeks cupped in his hands, kisses him so tenderly and loving, in a way he has only been kissed before once, that last time Japan allowed himself to be fallible and human and give in. His body is tingling and alive and human, as if he has woken up from a long period of sleepwalking.
They are wrapped up tight in this embrace, a world unto itself. Greece feels so solid, so strong and yet so gentle. Japan's hands are at his back, the wet material bunching between his fingers.
"That... was my wish," Japan says.
"I know," Greece says.
He studies Japan, and Japan can only think that he must be guarding himself, wondering if he will be pushed away again. But Japan is tired of running, of the denial.
He wishes he could stay a season, even more.
He bends to pick up the umbrella, which is now peppered with streaks of mud over its white surface.
"Let's go home," Japan says. "We'll catch cold at this rate if you don't get warmed up."
Greece nods, but the umbrella remains at Japan's side, closed and dirty as they walk towards Greece's house.
He knows now that home isn't simply a land, or a place. It's a state of being, a world of its own with little earthquakes and wars, intimacies and moments. A house with cats sleeping on the windowsill, the jacket of the conundrum he loves, flesh and country, mortal and immortal mixed together.
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
-from somewhere I have never traveled, gladly beyond