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Low murmurs and the rustle of paper echoes through the grand chamber. The air carries a mix of polished decorum and underlying tension—the kind that comes when every smile hides a dozen competing interests. Flags of every nation line the curved wall behind the elevated dais, and the faint scent of ink and fresh coffee lingers in the air.
At the long mahogany table near the front, America sits in his chair with casual elegance, arms crossed loosely over a broad chest. His suit jacket is crisp and perfectly ironed, but his tie is just a little off-center—a small, pointed rebellion against the stiffness of stringent diplomacy. A half-empty glass of water sits by his unruly stack of papers, alongside a few doodles in the margins of the latest resolution draft. It is much less a stack and more so a mess, violently scattered across the desk with enough irregularity to raise eyebrows in his direction.
As always, they say nothing. Most people are wise in the sense that they know when to keep quiet.
Drumming his fingers lightly against the tabletop, America watches as another delegate finishes their speech and the next steps up to the raised podium. The translator’s voice hums through the earpiece resting on his shoulder, but he doesn’t seem to be listening much—if the hastily scribbled doodles haven’t already made that obvious. Instead, his gaze flicks toward the entrance. The door opens and closes with a slow, careful movement that doesn’t echo, even in the hall of capable silence. He catches sight of a head of dark hair, and even darker eyes, stepping into the room. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, sharp and loud, lazy as a cat stretching on a windowsill.
Japan descends the stairs with the grace and poise of a nation expected to be hospitable. The gold buttons and frog clasps on his uniform shine in the late afternoon sun, and when coupled with his black hair—dark as spilt ink—his appearance looks crisp and sharp. Not even a single strand of his hair is out of place, smoothed down by the long, eloquent strokes of a hairbrush. The only thing that gives him away is the slight shift of his slender frame—quick, strained in its politeness. He stops at the foot of the stairs, bowing to Italy and Germany, both further down the table to America.
The courtesy of it twists America’s smile into something darker.
“Well, look who finally showed up,” he mutters under his breath. The remark is loud enough for Japan to hear as he approaches, but not powerful enough to draw the gazes of the other G8 countries sitting around the table. China casts him a wan stare, but it vanishes the second Japan walks past him. Careful not to disturb those already listening, Japan’s steps are discreet, eyes unwavering from the delegate stationed atop the dais. His eyebrows do not even crease at America’s infuriating little quip. He’s always like that. Poised. Quiet. Disciplined; as though the world is ready to bear down on him like a huge, snaking shadow if he makes even the smallest of mistakes. When Japan reaches where he is sitting, he leans back in his chair, long legs brushing the desk, and offers a nod toward the empty seat beside him.
“Don’t worry, you didn’t miss much.” His smile turns wry. “Just the usual dance about peace, progress, and who has the bigger missile program.” The next delegate has already begun speaking, so America lowers his voice a notch, enough to stay beneath the official chatter. His voice adopts a casual air, and he dares add, “So, what’s your play today, Japan?” America cradles his chin in the palm of his hand. Narrowed blue eyes burn with hidden malice—carefully wrapped up inside a handsome pretense. His smile is too bright, teeth too white to be real. “Are you here to back me up, challenge me, or make me sweat in front of the whole world?”
What a useless question.
When America initiates the conversation first, it doesn't surprise him. He has always been the more vocal between the two of them, and even amongst the eight most powerful countries in the world; though, that doesn’t come across as much of a shock either. For a moment, Japan fixes the seat with an impassive stare, even as he knows he shouldn’t dawdle. He is standing up in a room full of people who are sitting down. It is rude to keep them waiting on him. Hands interlacing on the desk, Japan’s lips press into a thin line as he slowly lowers himself into his seat and spreads his papers out—as though he had been here from the very start. “I did not start the hostilities between us, Mr. America, and I will not unless that is what you wish to happen. It all depends on what you have brought with you to say.” His response is as polite as he can get it. Clipped. Professional. Smoothed over a dozen times to press it into the line of truth.
Japan isn't usually late, so when he is, nations worry. Murmurs pass around like a game of telephone. Certain... should he say, circumstances got in his way of maintaining his usual punctuality; and as expected, the summit meeting is already well underway by the time he gets there.
All smiles and confidence, America has always rubbed him the wrong way, but years of rigid discipline and principle keep Japan’s mouth firmly shut to reprimand. He isn't normally irritated by his charming veneer—how America conducts himself is none of his concern. But considering what has just held him up, he is not in the mood for trivialities. Only a wall erected of stone, which he promptly puts up beneath the two of them.
Exactly as it should be.
America's grin doesn't waver at Japan's curt response. If anything, it sharpens. Shifting in his seat, he props his other elbow up on the desk.
“Hostilities?” he repeats with a chuckle, eyebrows lifting over the rim of his glasses. “Whoa there, buddy! That's some seriously heavy artillery for a Tuesday afternoon.” His tone is light, but there's a keenness in his gaze as he scans Japan's stony expression. He doesn’t miss the way his eyes harden into ice for just a moment at the nickname—a habit he knows Japan cannot help, for all his courtesies and formalities. Sometimes, the sturdiest of walls can fall to the smallest of stones.
The papers spread neatly before Japan earn a pointed glance. America taps one finger idly against his own messy stack—notes half-scrawled in ballpoint, a doodle of a rocket in the corner—before letting out an exaggerated sigh. He presses a hand to his forehead, gloved fingers massaging his temple even if the pain is phantom. “Listen, if this is about that trade thing last month… Look, I told you it wasn't personal. Business is business, y’know?” He shrugs, though the tilt of his head is all challenge. “Unless…”
“...you want to make it personal?” The corner of his mouth quirks, decidedly testing the limits of Japan's patience to see how far they go before they snap.
From the dais, the delegate clears their throat pointedly. America leans back again, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin stays fixed in place. “Just saying,” he murmurs, flicking at the pen laying on the desk, very clearly abandoned by its owner. His gaze flickers back to the podium. “Or we could grab burgers after this. Whatever's less... hostile.”
Japan's look sours, if only slightly, before he schools it back into stony ignorance. It is not about the trade deal. This is not about the trade deal, and that is a brutal misunderstanding on America’s part. He doubts America would even know enough to be a suitable individual to discuss this with. So he won’t. Even after every treaty, every handshake, every smile at the flash of cameras and click of shutters, they are still… not allies. Deep down, they both know this.
Instead, he scrapes those thoughts aside and silently bows his head in apology to the delegate, promptly deciding it is best to keep conversation to a minimum whilst they remain within the public vicinity; a safety precaution. It is not far and few between that deals are settled behind closed doors, even away from the eyes of the other nations if need be.
“This was never personal, America. I am not blind, nor enough of a fool, to take trade at value like that.” Japan says first. America tenses in his seat, gloves tightening around his fingers like coiled silk. “Discussion can wait until after the summit has finished. I do not want to seem rude because you cannot behave yourself.” Japan continues pointedly. He doesn't mean to be so forwardly ill-mannered—not to the delegate, nor to America, though the latter idea is a very tantalizing offer—but if this conversation is to come to an end, he must do so swiftly. There is no other way to shut him up other than to be honest and frank. Even then, America values himself more than any other. Keeping his pride intact is part of his insolent personality.
Though, Japan would rather not make good on his promise. Violence isn't his preferred method. Not anymore.
America's eyebrow ticks upward, but he manages to suppress a retort. Impressive, he thinks, eyeing the way Japan keeps that stony mask in place, the subtle signs of displeasure only visible if you know where to look. And it’s funny; America does know where to look. Every tense muscle, the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, and the hint of annoyance in the set of his jaw—all telltale signals that Japan is pissed off and trying hard to hide it.
Which isn't exactly news. He's always been a prickly bastard.
Crossing one ankle over the other, America leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers, gaze trained on Japan's stoic profile. Looking away would mean backing down from the challenge he so courteously set for the two of them. “So this isn't about business, then.” Arching an eyebrow, he gestures his fingers in Japan’s direction. His tone is deceptively casual, all patronizing sarcasm and feigned ignorance. “Guessing it's personal, then.” Japan’s eyebrows twitch at that, and he immediately knows he’s struck a nerve.
Before Japan can respond, America continues, the challenge deepening into ridicule.
“And I'm guessing that’s why you're late? Busy dealing with your—” He raises a hand to make air quotes. “Personal matters.”
Can he not take a hint? Perhaps he can, and isn't on purpose. Is he so self absorbed that he thinks that the rules, that common courtesy, does not apply to him? Unflinching, he forces his stare to go blank when America hits the target, hits home like Japan is glass and he sees straight through him. The mirror shatters, and he is left to pick up the pieces—but as a man, not as a nation.
Carefully, Japan chews at the inside of his cheek. He feels the smallest spot of blood well up, the metallic tang of iron heavy and hot on his tongue, but it is an option far preferable to embarrassing himself in front of the entire world Congress—all because America cannot control that childish curiosity of his. One would think that a nation so modernized as the United States would know how to hold his tongue, but alas, it seems he was not taught table manners. He’ll have to talk to England about that later. “I said,” Japan merely repeats himself—quieter, firmer, his words sharpened with the edge of stone. By the patience of a saint, it is a miracle that he keeps his calm. “Whatever game you're playing can wait.”
He owes America nothing. No information, no answers, no nothing. Pulling his gaze away from blond hair bright as gold, Japan returns his attention to the delegate, even as their words turn to mush in his ears and his blood turns to ice in his veins.
America studies him for another beat, taking in the tightening of his jaw, the slight flush of anger in his cheeks, the intractable tilt of his chin. Stubborn, proud bastard. Something sparks in his own gaze, a mix of irritation and intrigue at being brushed off. What is it that Japan is trying so fiercely to protect from him?
“We may discuss this later, outside. I did not ask for you to pry into matters that do not concern you.”
America's lips part at the ill-advised comment. He almost presses the point just to see what it'd take to make Japan snap, but the words die on the end of his tongue when the delegate clears their throat pointedly again.
Right.
Public venue. Not the best place for a spat.
America's gaze never wavers, tracking every minute change in Japan's expression with razor-sharp focus. He may act like an ass sometimes, but he's not an idiot. He can read the room, but he's also never been one for backing down, either. Especially once someone's told him he can't do, say or ask about something. Even more so when that person is Japan.
“Oh, so you get to ask me about trade, but I don't get to ask you about personal stuff?” he counters, placing a gloved hand to his chest in mock hurt.
For a moment, Japan considers not answering him at all, but as usual pride gets the better of him. He must defend his honour, if only for a brief moment.
Nostrils flared, he breathes out steadily through his mouth. “That is because that trade concerned me and my people as much as it did yours.” Japan says quietly, his tone like ice on the precipice of cracking. “Therefore, I had every right to ask. That information rightfully belonged to me.” he quips. “You, however, have no claim to stake when it comes to my domestic affairs. We are still nations, America. We are not people, and we should not bicker over this like schoolchildren.” He hisses, his voice dripping with so much venom that he prays to any god that will listen—may it burn holes in America's skull. Perhaps then, he will be able to get basic rules through that thick, unbending head of his.
Mental reprimands can come later, when the stares aren't so hard and the lights aren't so bright. Idly, his fingers ghost the edge of his papers. He should not let himself get so hung up on the words of a nation that is so much younger, so less wiser and experienced than he. He has made mountains bleed before America even spoke his first words. He has made countries kneel at his feet before America knew what his own name was. He— No. That is enough. His thoughts are only proving his own point now. Japan clears his throat quietly and jerks his head away from America. A bone cracks in his neck. The sight of him only makes his head ring more, his suit feels heavier over his shoulders, his hair one strand away from perfect.
Oh, Japan hates it.
America’s grin doesn’t waver, but his eyes narrow—sharp, assessing—as Japan fires back. He leans in, voice dropping to a murmur that barely carries beyond their shared space at the table. When he moves, Japan's eyes flash in warning, but he ignores it.
“Domestic affairs, huh?” He drums his fingers against the polished wood, the cadence rhythmic and mocking. “Funny. 'Cause last I checked, nothing about you was just domestic anymore.” A pause, loaded. His grin sharpens. “Not since… what was it?” Throwing his hands up, America pretends to check the watch on his wrist. “1945?” The jab lands precisely where he intends it to—not subtle, not kind, and deliberate by every means possible. America knows the weight of that year, knows the scars it left, knows exactly how deep the wound runs.
And is it funny to say that he doesn’t care?
It is as if America got out a loaded gun and pointed it under his chin, jutting it so far into his bones one might have cracked at the impact. The force of his retort hits Japan in the chest with the force of a bullet he cannot slice with a blade, nor with words, not even with the steel cold resolve of the Empire—long gone, up in flames, reduced to ash and glass at his feet. 1945. The year feels like a thousand have passed, but in reality, it has only been a mere decade. Not even so much as a century separates then from the present day. He still has the scars. He still feels the weight. They both do. They both remember death like an old friend.
He leans back again, stretching his arms behind his head, watching Japan’s reaction with the lazy satisfaction of a cat toying with its prey. “You wanna talk about rights? Fine.” Nostrils flared, his voice is still light, but there’s steel beneath the careful folds of his suit—a gun clashing against Japan’s katana. “But don’t pretend you get to draw lines in the sand now, after everything you’ve done.”
From the dais, the delegate clears their throat again. Louder, this time, clearly irritated by the little buzzing of voices in front of them. America flashes them a thumbs-up—as though that will help placate the situation—before turning back to Japan, smirk no less infuriating. It makes Japan’s skin crawl and twitch, makes eyes narrow into impossible slits, makes hands clench so tightly against each other that his knuckles pale.
Five more minutes, Japan tells himself, though he is not a fool enough to trick himself into thinking it is the truth. The delegate doesn’t dare shoot them a glare, but their look is pointed as they stiffly turn back to their notes. Shuffling them, Japan glimpses several more pages past their first. From the looks of it, five minutes may turn into thirty.
And yet still, America does not stop. “I know that look. You don’t get all wound up like this unless something really got under your skin.” Briefly, his gaze flickers down. Cold, assessing, and scanning Japan's posture—too stiff, too controlled—before snapping back up. “And I don’t need a claim when the answer’s written all over your face.”
The delegate clears their throat now and America finally leans away—but not before flashing Japan a grin that says this isn’t over. He lets the silence stretch for a moment before murmuring—just loud enough to be heard. “Burgers. After this. My treat.”
A pause.
“And then you talk.” The word wobbles in the air like feet teetering at the edge of a skyscraper—and they carry the same amount of tension. America is not asking. He is demanding. Japan feels the phantom weight of a gun, pressing down into his ribs.
He is not being kind. But then again, Japan knows not to expect him to be. This is business. This is politics. And once, this was war. Unflinching, Japan casts America a sidelong glance. He will not concede. He's not going to call it that. Instead, he will... ah, be the more mature of the two of them, and handle it with dignity and responsibility. Much as he wants to press the heel of his shoe right onto America’s toe, he is long past petty trifles. Perhaps, if this were a century ago, he would have.
Japan knows he will not talk. Not willingly. Not without a fight, but he decides he will play along for now. because what other choice does he have? Speaking out now would jeopardize the secrecy of his own nation, and possibly trigger hostility among others should the worst come to pass.
But the way America speaks about him. To him, as if they are equals, as if he knows Japan like the back of his hand disgusts him. Repulses him so much so that he tilts his head up and looks down, rather than regarding him with a perfectly even stare.
Into the silence, Japan’s look says it all. Fine. If America wants to poke and pry into something that should not be his, then Japan will fight him for all his secrecy and closed doors are worth.
America grins in response, and it stretches wider at Japan’s silence. He was expecting another sharp remark. Some cold, biting retort that would have him bristling and itching for a fight. But that look—that glare—he didn't expect. The defiant tilt of his chin, the haughty slant of his nose, the cold fury lighting those dark eyes…
It's good. He'll take it.
America is well aware that they've drawn the unwelcome attention of several other countries, but he couldn't care less. They can look and stare all they want, but they will keep their silence. They can do nothing but keep their silence. No one interrupts a conversation between two G8 nations—much less America and Japan, two dogs doomed to bark and snap at the other’s heels.
Oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—to the tension crackling between them, the delegate drones on, but America doesn’t bother pretending to listen anymore. His focus is fixed, razor-sharp, on Japan—every controlled breath, every flicker of irritation, every tiny tell that betrays the storm that chips away at that icy composure.
He leans in again, even as Japan tries to subtly pull away, just enough to murmur. “Good answer.” he says, mimicking Japan’s clipped tone with a precision that would be commendable under a different circumstance. “But just so we’re clear, you don’t have to talk.”
A pause. His grin turns predatory.
“I’ll figure it out anyway.”
The implication hangs between them, silent, but a veil that shrouds the light in Japan’s eyes and replaces it with darkened silk. I always do.
Even right until the end, America does not stop his useless, empty yammering—on, and on, and on, about how he can read Japan like a book. Liar. Centuries ago, when they first met, he learnt to tune him out, to only listen when necessity demanded it. Why can he not do so now, when it counts?
From the dais, the delegate announces a recess. The countries begin to stand from their seats. Most stretch their wearied limbs, a couple yawn, some immediately beeline for the exit.
America pushes his chair back with a scrape, stretching his arms overhead. As Japan himself stands and turns to leave, a hand claps down on his shoulder—just a fraction too tight to be friendly—and he stiffens. Fake. Fake. Fake. All performative. All for show. “Great speech, huh?” he says brightly, ignoring the tight muscle under his grip. “Real inspiring stuff. Almost makes me forget all about the missiles pointed at my backyard.” He pats Japan’s shoulder twice before letting go, already striding toward the exit. But ever the man who seeks to vex and ire, he doesn't leave. Not yet. Not without tossing a glance over his shoulder.
When America finally lifts his hand, the weight remains long after it has disappeared—it is as though he carved a whole chunk of Japan's skin away, along with a red handprint against pale skin.
“Don’t forget. You and me, outside.” He accompanies his demanding small talk with a couple of crude hand signals, gesturing between the two of them like this is little more than friendship. “Burgers, if you want them.” The doors swing shut behind him, leaving Japan with the echo of his laughter, the weight of unfinished business, and an unspoken promise.
Japan stares after those closed doors swinging on their hinges, and a storm brews behind eyes now painted darker than black itself. He wants to grind his own teeth into dust, but he spots Germany and Italy staring at him nervously from across the table. Worry is very clearly etched on their faces, concern that dents at the hardened ice within his heart. They do not need to know about his internal affairs. Instead, the next time they speak, they will learn of how he triumphed over the United States. This time. Never again.
Publicity stunts always leave him bitter and empty, but he suppresses his cold, hard rage long enough for most of the countries to fill out, and for him to cast both of his fellow former Axis Powers reassuring nods. And then, he casts an unseen scowl into the shadows. After gathering his papers together and neatly tucking them within the folds of his black uniform, he quickly follows the trail America left behind. Burgers. Japan scoffs. Neither of them will be eating anything but minced words and several broken bones.
America lingers outside; not because he's a gentleman, but because he enjoys keeping people waiting on him. He leans casually against the cool stone wall, checking the messages and various unimportant notifications on his phone—all of which he swipes away with an air of bored nonchalance. He only has enough eyes for one thing today. Occasionally, he looks up as another country exits past him.
He's in no rush.
And sure enough, the moment he glances up from the screen, he spots a familiar black figure striding toward him with the stiff-backed, controlled stride that tells him that someone's pissed off.
A smirk quirks on his lips. Right on schedule.
Straightening with an air of fake pleasantness as Japan approaches, he pockets his phone. Not so much as a glance is spared his way, something stabs deep into America’s chest at that. He doesn’t stop, even as he passes straight by America. Japan would never stop for him. “Nice of you to show up.” He drawls, falling into step alongside him as they continue down the corridor. Japan doesn't grace him with a response. Instead, he fixes his gaze straight ahead. America's eyes flick down. His hands are clenched underneath his sleeves.
The place is mostly empty now, with the exception of a few late-leaving staff and cleaning workers—all of whom quickly duck out of sight when America glares at them. He doesn’t have time for distractions, or onlookers, or people who could get caught in the crossfire should Japan’s rage consume him.
“Figure you're craving some grease after all that serious business.” His tone is light, almost flippant, just like the hand he hooks firmly around Japan's elbow.
They don't even make it to the door.
The effect of the touch is instantaneous. It's electric, and hot, and he hates it, he hates it, he hates it. Taking three steps back, Japan violently pulls America's grasp out and away from the crook of his elbow. As if it isn't already warm enough outside that America sees it suitable to even so much as lay a single finger on him. Ah, no. That bastard is doing it on purpose because he knows. He ought to slice it off, had he already vowed he would not return to who he once was.
But one more toe out of line, and that version of him—the empire long decades gone—might just rise up once more from within the ashes, and lash a bite at America's ankle. “What,” Japan enunciates each syllable with slow care and measured evenness. “do you think you're doing?” he spits haughtily, one hand resting firmly against the hilt of his katana. Japan has half a mind to unsheathe it, but he will not give America that satisfaction. He will not give himself the cold, dizzying sensation of control gone rabid.
They must both be honest. They are not eating. Japan knows he certainly won't be. That conference has robbed him of his appetite. Nothing seems palatable now except to see red paint the hallway, but he knows he cannot do that.
“Do not touch me.” he snaps icily. If he dares do it again—oh, it is like America is asking for a fight! If he dares do it again, then there will be blood.
America watches Japan recoil with a mixture of amusement and something sharp—something predatory. He doesn’t flinch at the venom in his voice, nor at the hand hovering near his katana. Japan Instead, his grin widens, flashing teeth. “Oh, so now you wanna talk about boundaries?” His laugh is short and derisive. “That’s cute.” He steps forward just enough to invade Japan’s space again, ignoring the tension between them like it doesn’t even exist, like it never even existed.
As America takes a step forward, Japan takes another back, as though they are merely going through the motions of a desperate, hungry dance, and this is little more than a play rehearsed by two actors. “You are no better.” he retorts.
A smile twitches at America’s lips. “You don’t get to act all high and mighty.” His voice drops, low and dangerous, coiling like a snake poised to strike. “Not after everything you’ve done.”
The words hit again, driving another blade into Japan’s chest. There’s a pause as Japan merely stares at him, gloved fingers still resting upon the hilt of his sheathed blade. Not for long, he thinks. His glare is so hot and full of hatred that it makes America delirious with joy. Elation. Delight.
Japan mentally berates himself for the second time. He promised himself he would not resort to... to... to this charade, this butting of heads like children arguing in a playground. Then again, he supposes this the only way America knows how to settle things. “You think yourself clean, America? You think yourself a saint,” he snarls, lips twisting hideously, “even after all the blood you've waded through to get here?"
“Never said I was.”
A pause. Japan’s glare flickers with quiet satisfaction. Then, that makes them equals.
“So.” Twiddling his thumbs, America brings his hands together with a loud clap. “You gonna swing that thing, or just threaten me with it?” The challenge hangs in the air between them—bold, reckless, and exactly what America wants.
Because if Japan wants a fight?
He’s more than happy to oblige.
In one deft movement, Japan unsheathes his katana. The metal sings cruelly, shining even in the late afternoon sun. Japan points the tip of the blade straight at America's throat. “You are much more of a fool than I thought.”
America watches Japan with fascination—watches the way the steel glints in the dying sunlight, watches the muscles in his arm tense underneath black fabric, watches his face as it darkens with irritation. Tension coils in every line of that slender frame. He's never seen Japan look this way before, so fiercely wild.
Or maybe he has.
“There it is.” He murmurs, almost to himself.
“Was wondering when that empire was finally going to show its face.”
Empire. The word echoes inside Kiku's mind with the sheer weight of gravity itself. They both know that it is more than just a word. It is a person. It is a nation, with loyal people behind it and a flag left in tatters—torn after the war. It is a bright, red, burning hot sun, and America stands before the land from which it was born straight in the face.
For a moment, Japan's eyes flash bright crimson, the colour of spilt blood, before they revert back to those same, dark chips of ice. He guides the blade closer still, right until the tip of it sits at America's throat. “Do not test me, America.” he says sternly. “Or perhaps the empire will be the last face you ever see.” Pressing the blade harder against his skin, Japan sees the first beads of blood form like sweat upon the brow of a man. It is then that he begins to feel it stir inside him, brewing in the pit of his stomach like a dragon shrieking to be freed from its cage.
He can't. But America keeps pushing and pulling, and if that thread snaps, someone will die.
America doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't blink even as the blade bites into his skin. He just lets it sit there, pressing deeper until a thin trickle of red slides down his throat.
His grin doesn't waver. “You think you scare me?” he says through his smile, with a tone too jovial to resemble fear.
A silence stretches, long and tense. Too long, and too tense. It stretches further than deserts and the surface of the moon. And then, into that silence, America suddenly surges forward. He sees Japan’s eyes widen before he feels the blade cleave through his skin like butter.
Japan expects America to do something. That is all he expects. A loose term to describe the future in what might possibly be the death of a nation—the first they have had in a long while. Japan expects America to pull out his gun and shoot him. Maybe. Most likely. What he does not expect is for America to lean into the metal, and it is the initial shock that destroys what little of a chance Japan ever had against him.
The steel digs deeper, slicing cleanly through skin, but America doesn’t stop. He grabs Japan’s wrist, twisting hard enough to force the sword away before slamming him back against the nearest wall. The thud echoes through the empty hall as America cages him in, forearm braced against his chest, grip iron-tight.
With a sickening crack, Japan's wrists falls limp, but the pain of it doesn't register until seconds later—when America’s strong forearm nails him against the wall by his chest. His katana is pinned there, alongside his arm, and that is when the tearing excruciation of a broken limb shoots through his body like hellfire. Japan suppresses the broken yelp that attempts to fly from his lungs with a hiss instead. America is too close. Much, much too close. There’s as much repulsion in the air as there is America—the scent of smoke, coffee and musk curling. There's blood dripping from that red smile on his neck, right onto his black uniform and the floor. He wants him to get away, but his arm is pushed tight against his chest, fitting snugly into the gap in his ribcage.
“Newsflash!” His breath is hot against Japan’s face, voice dropping to a growl. Japan squirms, trying to fight against his grip, but it is to no avail. “You don’t.”
“So go ahead.” He leans in, lips brushing Japan’s ear. “Try me.”
America does not touch him. Warmth coils, disgusting and repulsive, in the pit of his stomach. America does not touch him—not quite, not really—but there's something unwelcome in the way he shivers at the ghost of his lips. That alone gives Japan enough reason to spring into action. Japan manages a weak cough, but at least America only thought to tack down one arm.
His other is still free to latch onto the smaller wakizashi strapped to the back of his thigh. There's a small flash of hesitation, but he swallows it down in an instant, because America broke one of his wrists, and he is going to pay with an arm of his own. Faster than one can blink, he wraps his fingers around his spare blade and jams it deep into the arm holding him hostage. It's not sufficient to rip straight through the flesh and come out on the other side, but it’s enough to weaken his grip, enough to slip out from the manmade cage of tangled limbs.
It's enough for Japan to breathe, clutching his broken wrist to his chest like an injured animal. His eyes flit up to meet America's, and they burn.
America stumbles back in surprise, caught off guard as the wakizashi rips into his arm, severing muscle and flesh, but remaining caught within bone. He's not fast enough to bite back the snarl of pain. It sounds more like a feral animal as it echoes off the stone walls of the hallway—deep and guttural and filled with a heat that rivals Japan’s fury.
A thin rivulet of blood slides down and he's quick enough to grab the arm that once stuck Japan to the wall, holding it tight to staunch the sudden crimson flow from the jagged wound. Despite the blade still embedded within his arm, the blood flow is severe enough that if he’s not careful, it is entirely possible to bleed out.
When he looks back up from his punctured skin, Japan is wearing a smile that mirrors his own. Feral. Deranged. Wild, like an animal.
He doesn't look at all like he regrets what he has done.
And his eyes? Oh, his eyes. They're fully red now, past the point of morphing between jaded black. It is because of those eyes, the ones he stares into so fondly, that America knows. The man who sat beside him in the conference room is no longer here.
Still, America finds an opportunity to grin like a maniac. Through it all, through the blood, and the pain that explodes like dynamite. “So that's how you wanna play it.” He doesn't let the pain slow him. He lunges for Japan, grabbing the front of his uniform and throwing him to the ground. He pins him there with a knee to his chest, hands gripping his shoulders like iron. Japan pants, struggles—wide-eyed and fighting to breathe.
“You stupid—” he hisses, more to himself than to Japan.
America has about the same amount of strength as it looks like he has. Which is, to say, a fair amount. More than anything else, he’s built for endurance. Even with what must be several torn ligaments, arteries and muscles in his arm, America still lunges for him nonetheless.
Latching onto his broken wrist, it is his spine that nearly loses its function when he is tossed to the ground. It doesn't help that he likely does not weigh more than a sack of potatoes to America. The pain shoots white, blinking stars into his vision, and his katana clatters to the ground next to him, barely a few inches away. Then there's a knee to his chest and he can't breathe. “G-get off me, you—!” he yelps weakly, gasping for breath and hands scrabbling for his blade.
They struggle desperately against each other, and Japan barely hears what America says before his fingers meet metal and he deftly cuts a long serration against America's knee.
He gasps in pain—hot, blinding—when the serrated blade cuts through his knee.
Hot, blinding pain cuts through him when the blade, edges smoothed and cleaned by a careful hand, tears into his knee. The pain makes his world tilt on its axis, almost enough to make him release his grip from Japan's shoulders
Almost.
The cut doesn't solve the fact that Japan still cannot breathe properly. Tears—not those of sadness—but of anger and indignation, swim at the bottoms of his eyes, even as he tries to free himself from a grip that he knows is far stronger than his own.
America knows his own strength, and he knows he should be careful not to let his temper get the better of him. But looking at Japan—all tear-stained, red eyes wide in panic, strands of ink spooled out like threads across the floor beneath them—right now makes something hot and ugly flare in his chest, and he lets it.
“I should really teach you some manners,” he rasps, hilarious as the statement sounds. His grip gets tighter, hands sliding up from Japan’s shoulders to his throat.
When Japan feels America's hands brush up to his throat, the battle is all but finished. There are only two outcomes. He either lets America choke him to death, or he takes the trembling katana in his hands and plunges it straight through America's chest. Neither option sounds appealing, and considering they have come five minutes away from a conference hall and a civil conversation, it is impressive that things have come to this.
His vision is a blurred haze. Gold mixes with dusted bronze and cornflower blue in a kaleidoscopic swirl whose axis is slowly closing to a halt. Japan can feel himself dying. He can feel his pulse slowing to something that is too slow to be human or nation, and too slow to be safe. As much as he hates to admit it, he must act now. Now, or else he will die. The empire will die, and remain dead to the ashes of history; and at the hands of the nation he should have subdued years ago, nonetheless.
Something hot, and feral, and ugly rears its head. Do it, the voice of the empire croons softly, red eyes flashing in the dark. Do it, or we both die. His vision wobbles with red, flickering like the pulse of an extinguishing heartbeat. He does it quickly and efficiently. With all his might, Japan grips the handle of his katana until his knuckles turn white and—
He cannot do it.
He cannot kill America. They both know he can't, and it's laughable.
Instead, he plunges it straight through his own chest—right until the blade comes out wet and red on the other side, scraping the ground with a metallic groan.
Japan stares up at him, not with the eyes of the placid, polite nation he once was. But rather, with the eyes of the rising sun, eyes the colour of spilled blood.
The eyes of an animal.
He'd rather die as one by his own hand, than at the hands of a nation who thinks freedom is a choice.
It is always an illusion.
America's grip loosens immediately—not because he wants it to, but because the sheer shock of what Japan just did sends a jolt through his entire body like a live wire.
For a second, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. He can’t.
“What the fuck?”
The words tear from his throat raw, cracked, almost painful as he scrambles off Japan, hands flying to the hilt of the sword embedded in his chest. He doesn't pull it out, but his fingers hover over it, shaking, as if unsure whether to leave it in or rip it free.
His pulse is hammering so hard he can hear it—feel it in his throat, his ears, his teeth—and for the first time in a long, long while America feels something like fear clawing at his ribs.
“Why—?” The question comes out hoarse, broken. “Why would you—?”
America curses under his breath, pressing a hand to Japan’s chest. He nearly scoffs at his own idiocy. As if that'll do anything. As if that'll fix this… whatever this really is.
It won't, but he does it anyway.
Because what else is there?
Japan laughs—a sound he never permitted himself to make. The sound is cracked as the earth beneath them, each high whistle another wound carved into his own flesh. It hurts to make noise. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, but at least a lot of things make sense now. This must be what it feels like to commit seppuku or kamikaze. His people did it all the time, back when the shogunate ruled, back before America came and opened his doors to trade without asking if that was what he wanted. It hurt as he bled out, eyes flickering open and closed like a broken switch.
“You know why, America.” he says simply. Japan pauses for a moment to breathe, but blood bubbles up within his lungs, and all that comes out is a hacking cough tinged with red.
There is nothing to fix, nothing to mend. He'll die here, the most useless death he's had in centuries of modernization and conquest. The agony of waiting sets him on fire, but thankfully Japan is a patient man. He can wait until death grants him a release, even if it is not a swift one.
America stares at him. “No.” he croaks. “No, I don't.”
For once, he's stunned. Lost, almost. He's seen death. Lots of it. But not like this. Not from the quiet man he has spent the past hour teasing and taunting, pushing and pulling. Who never lost his temper. Who was always, always calm. The man who never let anything get under his skin.
Until now.
And maybe it's his own stupid morals that makes him say it, or maybe it's the guilt he never wants to admit. The guilt that haunts him like a ghost of their former selves. “I'm sorry.” America looks away. Not because he doesn’t want to look at Japan. On the contrary, another version of himself might have said he looked beautiful painted red, a blade impaled in his chest and breathing light, fluttering pants. It’s because he can’t bear to see him like that.
Knowing it’s his fault, nonetheless.
For a moment, Japan is quiet. “Don't lie.” he says, slowly, voice grating and scraping like metal against gravel. He coughs again, feels the blade squeeze against his organs, and swallows down the pain until it is bile in his throat. “You're not.” he snarls into the silence, “Because why would you be? I made my choice, as you made yours.” America made the choice to provoke him. He made the choice to poke, and pry, and touch into places that are not meant to be seen by outsiders. Japan told him to stop. Over, and over, and over again. He doesn't remember how many times he pushed him down.
Yet he did it anyway, because he is America. It is what he does. And still, he has enough gall to fake regret and guilt, masking it behind an apology that is less genuine than the cracked veneer and the polished smile and the practiced waves. How utterly irritating.
“We pushed ourselves to the brink of our limits.” he continues. Resting his bloodied hands on his lap, Japan holds back the urge to point every finger he has at anyone but himself, holds back the urge to say something so openly hostile, America might even grant him a swifter death by plunging that bleed into his chest so many times he becomes a pin cushion. “It was going to happen sooner or later. I will come back anyway. What transpired here today does not matter anymore.”
That's not true. Deep down, Japan knows he would not have killed himself if it did not truly matter. And it did, even if no one but them were there to see him uphold the morals he held closer to his chest than his own life. This is not as shallow as America is making it out to be. An outsider couldn’t understand. America couldn’t understand, in the same way he read him all wrong back in the conference room.
“It can stay between us.” No. Wait. Japan weakly shakes his head, face turning paler by the second, “It must stay between us.” he nearly pleads, yet stops himself.
America looks at him. Really looks at him, past every front Japan has spent decade upon decade building up just for him. Japan doesn't look like anything he's ever imagined—no, worse—like someone entirely different. He looks past the calm, composed man who never raised his voice, who never broke past the shell of his cold exterior, and he sees only an exhausted, bloodied body. Something about the way he speaks—the finality, the firmness—forces America to listen. But still, his stubbornness is there—stubbornness that refuses to bend. His jaw clenches in frustration. “Why does it matter if anyone else sees it?” He snaps suddenly. “Why do you even care?”
“Would you rather everyone see my bloodied corpse, and turn on you instead?”
That silences him for a moment. He knows Japan's right—he is right—but it still irritates him. He hates being wrong, and he loathes that even more when it's coming from Japan. Of all people to correct him, it has to be the one who knows less than he thinks.
But what can he do? He isn't exactly in a position to argue.
“No.” is his muttered response, a grudging, almost reluctant admission. “I wouldn't.”
Japan stares at him evenly; as evenly as one can get when a blade rests inches away from their heart. “You wouldn't understand.” is the reply he eventually settles for, turning it over in his mind before he says it. It is true. America would not understand. He would not understand the laws, the code, the morals that bind his very being together.
“It is principle.” is what he says after that, because it is hard to explain to a man with ideals so different to his own.
And there it is. Principle.
God, how America hates that word. It reminds him of all the times he's been told that his beliefs are wrong. The countless times he's had ideals shoved down his throat, the endless lectures he's been forced to sit through on what a country is supposed to be. And America has never given a damn. He's the land of the free—he can do what he damn well likes.
“Explain it to me.” the words are out of his mouth before he can think about them.
Japan is stunned into silence. This is... unlike America. Or perhaps it is a side of him he has never seen before, though the trade seems a little too costly on his own end. America has seen the rising and the setting of the Japanese empire. All he has seen is the triumphant glory of a young new nation. “You ask much of a dying man.” he utters simply, staring up at the ceiling with longing. Longing for the aching pain in his chest to subside. Longing for the fluttering breaths from his lungs to stop. Behind closed doors, it is hard to keep up a front of patience. Especially when one considers Japan is breaths away from revealing the truth to a man who only knows his lies.
But he must. He must stay still to entertain the child. “I am bound by principle, America. Morals that have held my country since its formation. However, such views are outdated and remain buried within the remains of tradition.” Japan inshales shakily. How is he not dead yet?
“I suppose I only still observe these rules because old habits tend to die hard.”
“Principles. Morals.” America scoffs, as if he is personally offended, as if it is his country that was forced to live under the reign of such ridicule. “And what good has that ever done you?” He's never understood Japan's old views, and for good reason. The idea that tradition and ancient laws—hundreds, sometimes thousands of years of custom, and belief, and rules—are the cornerstones of any civilization is ridiculous.
“That's all nothing but bullshit. You might as well say you're still living in the Stone Age.”
If he hadn't seen it before, the truth is obvious to him now: why America is much more charismatic when playing the role of a speaker. He hasn’t been listening. Japan can see it in his eyes, clear as the frustration that cuts through the blue in them. Japan's irises narrow. He supposes even in what should have been his peaceful last minutes before death, America cannot even grant him, or his country, the modicum of respect it deserves.
He supposes he was a fool to believe otherwise.
“If you are the country of freedom,” he retorts, “have you no respect for things that you do not understand? Things that are foreign?” he spits the word out through bloodied lips. “Is that why you provoke me, America?” he stares at him then, hard and furious, his jaw set into a hard clench, “Because you do not understand me? Because you think that you're allowed to tell me that what I believe in is wrong?”
America recoils at the outburst. The movement is slight. Imperceptible to the human eye. Enough to show he wasn't expecting it. But then his expression hardens again, and he leans in, undeterred.
“Yeah? And what?” His voice is sharp, mocking. “You don't get to lecture me on respect when you stabbed yourself just to prove a point.” He jabs a finger at Japan’s chest—right where the katana is still embedded—his words laced with venom. He forgets that the wakizashi is still lodged into his own arm, but pain that cuts through is promptly ignored. Anger makes one blind.
Shuddering, Japan gingerly sits up, sliding against the wall. A stripe of crimson leaks down the expensive stone and onto a carpet that is already red by design. “I say that you would never understand, because you've never needed to rely on anything else in your life but yourself. You have needed nothing but yourself, and the belief that your word is the most important in the room.”
“Morals and principles are all that hold my people together because our belief is all that we have left!” he yells, breaking off into a fit of coughs. It surprises even himself. He does not usually shout, or raise his voice beyond normal speaking volume. Where has all this anger come from? He suddenly feels as if this is the most he has spoken in decades.
America’s grin is like a knife sliding between ribs when Japan finally snaps.
“Oh, there you are.” His voice is low, satisfied—almost fond—as if he’s been waiting for this moment all night. As if he wanted this. As if he planned it, even. Japan wouldn't believe that for a second. There is no way, no way. “You finally saying what you really think?” He leans in closer, blood still dripping onto the floor, but he doesn’t care. He won’t care. He refuses it, because Japan didn’t show even the smallest hint of it when he plunged that blade into his chest.
“Good.” A pause. “Now tell me why.” He’s not asking anymore. He’s demanding. “Tell me why you’d rather die than admit I might have a point.”
Japan blinks a steady red light into the back of America’s skull.
“Tell me why you still listen to that bullshit code. Tell me why you think killing yourself is the answer.” His breath burns against Japan’s face, his glare furious.
It’s true. He doesn’t understand. But for once, he wants to.
Japan's nostrils flare, winces as he draws a leg up against his chest. “It is a practice of honour in death.” The truth burns, its humiliating flame red as the blood that runs down his face. His voice lowers again, back to its practiced volume, back under the layers of polite protection and walls he has exercised over the years. “It was mainly samurai who committed seppuku to avoid enemy capture and torture, but over the years, it progressed into a staged ritual to restore one's honour to a lord.” he finishes quietly.
“I have done the same, but I am not at all obliged to tell you about what lies in the far reaches of my heart, America.” The red has faded from his eyes when he looks up. “That's pushing your luck, and you've already pushed it around enough today.” He motions to America's own injuries, blood pooling around the both of them.
Oh. Oh. Japan is trying to placate him. No, hah, no. He doesn’t deserve to do that. He doesn’t have the right to pretend, to brush this off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t get to make the rules. Not again. Not this time. America is not a people who will listen and obey every word they are told. He’s the nation of freedom, and he’ll do whatever he damn wants.
“Oh, bullshit!” He snaps, his voice loud and defiant. “That's a load of historical crap. Honour? Samurai nonsense? You’re just trying to dodge the question.”
The hand clenched into a fist over Japan's heart tightens until it shakes. It lands with a dull thud against the black fabric, his exasperation and disbelief flaring like a match catching fire.
“Do you seriously expect me to buy that you did this just to follow an ancient ritual?” Something twinges in America's heart. Disappointment, is it? Japan takes him for a fool, ever the man willing to underestimate and demean. Perhaps he will truly see him for who he is, now that he's peeling away his layers one by one. “You’re going to give me some pathetic little shit show about being loyal to some old tradition that no one even remembers? Come on, Japan.” America laughs. The sound echoes off the empty halls, hollow and devoid of the hilarity it is meant to represent. “You’re gonna have to do better than just that to lure me away from the truth.”
“You don’t need to know the truth. I don’t owe you it. I don’t owe you anything.” Japan jeers back, biting his tongue as the wound stings.
America pauses, eyes narrowing. He leans impossibly closer. So close that his breath dances across the blood on Japan’s face. So close that he can separate each and every strand of charcoal black from the other. “The truth.” He practically spits the word. He's so sure he's right about this, so certain that he has it all figured out. Every single shred of evidence he has points to this as the sole conclusion. For the first time since this started, America looks almost hopeful.
“Do you know what I think?”
Japan stays silent, merely averting his head to America’s touch. The movement is weak, erratic, and it gets him nowhere except for a quiet groan pulled from between bloodied lips.
Ignoring the way his skin tingles, America lets his voice drop below absolute zero. “I think you're scared.” Hushed and sharp, he utters it like he's sharing a secret. He moves in his crouch, squatting and placing a hand against the wall, right next to Japan’s head—caging him in once more. He cannot escape. He will not let him escape again. “Scared of what will happen when people see you for what you really are. Not the polite little diplomat, not the quiet soldier, but you. The empire they all cowered from. The nation they all hated like sin and shame. The man that would never be able to cover up every single lie he told with a straight face.”
He leans back slightly, lips curling into something grim, and vile, and revolting. Something that Japan is really, truly afraid of.
Realization.
“You can hide behind your honour all you want. But we both know what this was really about. One of us is just too much of a proud bastard to admit defeat.”
Shrinking away, Japan's eyes widen, if only for a fraction of a second, before he looks down with a shudder—eyes clouded in something dangerously close to aversion. No. No, no, no. America cannot be right. Why, why, why does he know? He hid. He ran. He lied. So how can he know? He's not right, Japan tries to tell himself, but the walls are crumbling—torn down brick by brick as he searches for words to say, pretences to spill, lies to fill the empty void that sits in his chest.
Slowly, Japan looks down at his chest, and at the katana that fills the space. Violence. It was always violence with him. Submission. Conquest. Something to sink his teeth in and use to prove that his nation was good, and great, and worthy of all such praise.
That was the motto of the Empire.
Old habits die hard.
To hide, and to lie—no less—is a dangerous practice to rely on, especially when a man wearing eyes that see too much opens his mouth and speaks. Because when America speaks, everyone listens.
“I told you that I chose death.” Japan retorts. Careful to take it slowly, almost desperate to repeat the same, monotonous rhetoric. He’s said it enough today that he might even believe it this time. “We both knew one of us was going to die, and I have enough red on my hands to have to kill you too.”
“No one had to die.” stresses America, and Japan distantly wonders—if only for a moment—if he was the one who took it too far.
“I did.” Maybe it is the pain, or the wretched, squirming truth that compels him to speak the words he has never wanted America to hear.
It’s too late to regret.
America's eyes gleam with satisfaction as Japan's carefully constructed walls crack ever so slightly. This is what he meant. This is exactly what he thought. America knows he's right. He sees the way Japan's shoulders tense—sees the flicker of fear, the crack in that carefully constructed mask—and he presses on, determined to get answers.
Pressing onward, America's hand is back on Japan’s chest. Half of him is tempted to lift him up by the collar, to watch Japan stare up at him through half-lidded eyes, rolled back in the uncanny nirvana between pain and pleasure. But he can't. That’ll stir up the wound, and Japan will die faster.
That's what he wants, isn't it? That's what they both want, right?
“You think I can't see what's beneath all that bullshit? All that courtesy and good manners? You can pretend to be Mr. Polite all you want, but it doesn't change the fact that you're a liar.”
Sadness isn't etched across Japan's face. Instead, it is telltale in the way he dips his head and lets his hair hide him.
“I know what you are, Japan. Maybe I'm the only one who ever will.”
Everything hurts. America's words hurt, even after he promised himself he would become strong enough for the whole world to recognize. His limbs hurt, cut and bruised in so many places that his joints are stiff, and broken in so many places that he's lost count. And he's tired of hiding, tired of running, tired of lying.
Oh, how he knows he has lied. Many, many times.
“You have always been a liar.” He reaches up to grab Japan's chin. “Look at me.”
Weak from his afflictions, Japan cannot fight as America forcibly tilts his chin up. A whine flies from his throat, choked through pain, and anguish, and blood. At that, he swears America’s lips twitch with the hint of an emotion he doesn’t dare name. It makes his stomach churn like the waves enveloping his home, it makes his brain burst from light-headedness, and more than anything, Japan doesn't want to look at the face he hates more than truth itself.
“Death is always the preferable option to giving you satisfaction.” is what he settles with, staring into narrowed blue eyes. They've dulled since the conference meeting. There are no longer fires burning within them, but smoking embers; pieces of a flame that will never be whole again.
America scoffs softly, almost amused despite himself, despite everything he’s put them both through. “Spare me the lies.” He's starting to sound a little irritated now—impatient, even.
It’s not a lie.
“Get it through your thick skull.” he presses, fingers gripping the underside of Japan's chin. “I know you're more than just a pretty face, Japan. I know you're hiding all kinds of stuff underneath that mask you like to put on.”
“And I know that if you'd just stop being so damn stubborn, maybe you'd see I'm not trying to hurt you.” His eyes soften, and Japan wants to hurl over the hand that America has pressed to his chin. “I'm just trying to understand you.”
That last sentence makes Japan laugh again, so hard that his body racks with real, raw shakes even as there is nothing to stop the blood from running rivers. America’s hand drops from his skin, and the heat recedes back into ice. “Then, if you were only trying to understand me, would it have been so hard for you to ask politely, back then?” He laughs again, and again, and again, until his throat feels raw and hoarse. Another three coughs. More blood. His face turns another shade paler. He’s starting to see afterimages—flickers of things he thought he’d long since left behind. Bodies, no, corpses. A bright red dot and stripes emblazed on a flag. Barbed fences, fuel barrels, hemp ropes tied around slim, broken necks, and— Japan swallows, clenching his hands tighter against the hem of his uniform. “You didn't want to hurt me?” The question hangs, bitter irony in his mouth. Hurt. He did plenty of that. “Perhaps you should have told me that before you broke my wrist and nearly shattered my ribs."
Japan hums. “You are a strange man, America.”
“Hey, don't give me that 'would've, could've, should've' talk.” America huffs, though a hint of shame flits across his face.
He's right, goddamn it. They both know it.
He should have asked. He should have tried to understand, and not just in the split few minutes they’ve spent telling each other lie, after lie, after lie—same as they always have. He should have been more careful. He shouldn't have been so cruel, so flippant with Japan's life. He knows that, but he's not willing to admit it. Not yet. Not to Japan. Not to the insufferable, stubborn nation less than half his size dying in front of him.
It seems they both have things to hide, after all. What a hypocrite.
He sees it, just as much as America saw his mask crack, piece by piece, bit by bit. Japan sees his face shift into something akin to discomfort, to humiliation, to sentiment, to a past neither of them should cling to—but still do, because they will wake to repeat this cycle all over again once he dies. ”It looks like we've both kept secrets and told lies. And you were demanding I give you answers.” scoffs Japan.
America does not dignify him with a response, and Japan does not look to check if he is okay. They both already know the answer to the question that will remain unspoken for another couple years.
“It's easy to lie, and it's even easier to hide.” Japan croaks into the silence, eyelids fluttering shut weakly. It's too much to keep them open now. “That's why we both did it. That's why we both do it. And that's why, when I die, we're doomed to repeat this all over again.”
“We will never understand each other, America.” Japan says finally. His tone carries an air of quiet resignation. Not sadness, just... sentiment. Memory, unwanted, but dug up and uncovered for America’s prying, curious eyes to see, to point, and to jeer it. He’s too tired to turn the blame on him. America is well aware of his mistake. There is no need to pour salt into the open wound; it would do nothing now. “Our differences will tear us apart.”
America knows Japan's right.
He knows they're doomed to repeat this again and again; doomed to fight and argue and bicker over every little thing.
And he hates it.
He hates that they'll always be like this: two nations, locked in an endless cycle of lies and secrets and fights and arguments, with no way out and no way to change.
And a part of him—a small, selfish part of him—hates Japan, just a little bit, for being right.