[Fanfiction] "To Turn Mirrors Into Windows"
“To Turn Mirrors Into Windows”
Rating: PG
Characters: Japan, France (France/Japan?), mentions of European and Asian nations
Summary: “At the same time, he took a bit of vindictive comfort in the fact that they, in turn, would never really understand him either.” For gizenouji. Merry Christmas, James.
It has been a long time, he thinks, since he had taken the initiative (or was perhaps forced to, but the West did not make a habit of apologizing and neither did he) and stretched his hand out past his borders to brush his fingertips against this new old world. It has been a long time, he’d believed, since he had pieced together the fractured logic behind the puzzles that constituted the cultures of his newfound neighbors so that he could understand but maybe never really…understand.
At the same time, he took a bit of vindictive comfort in the fact that they, in turn, would never really understand him either.
There were always parallels to be drawn and customs and rituals to be admired for their intricacy or simplicity or sometimes just commonplace marvels of nature to be awed at, like how it could rain on one side of the street in Switzerland but not on the other.
In a way, he enjoyed being one of the few spots of dark serenity among a thrashing wave of continuous blond and blue-eyed and tall-statured.
It was, maybe, like being the period at the end of the sentence. All the necessary words were said and there he was, undeniable and solemn and surreptitiously smug, at the end of it and completely necessary.
But there were still a few mysteries of the western persuasion that he was unable to ponder out. And, frustrated, he was drawn to the enigma like a moth to a candle’s flame.
And thus, France.
Far less showy and ostentatious than anyone would believe and much more prone to thoughtful silences and secretive smiles than anyone would give him credit for. Japan had noticed, on more than one occasion, that split second pause between expressions where France’s face would go completely blank; it was then he realized that France chose his countenances just as carefully as he chose his clothes. Nobody else seemed to notice.
Because he could not puzzle out why this could be, Japan was drawn in closer and closer until he found that this composure was contagious. And it was comfortable.
But it would never stop bothering him, just slightly, that he could look into the dark eyes of his own reluctant, hesitating family and see exactly what he needed to but that he would look into France’s eyes and they, blue like polished glass, would only reflect what he wanted to see.
Rating: PG
Characters: Japan, France (France/Japan?), mentions of European and Asian nations
Summary: “At the same time, he took a bit of vindictive comfort in the fact that they, in turn, would never really understand him either.” For gizenouji. Merry Christmas, James.
It has been a long time, he thinks, since he had taken the initiative (or was perhaps forced to, but the West did not make a habit of apologizing and neither did he) and stretched his hand out past his borders to brush his fingertips against this new old world. It has been a long time, he’d believed, since he had pieced together the fractured logic behind the puzzles that constituted the cultures of his newfound neighbors so that he could understand but maybe never really…understand.
At the same time, he took a bit of vindictive comfort in the fact that they, in turn, would never really understand him either.
There were always parallels to be drawn and customs and rituals to be admired for their intricacy or simplicity or sometimes just commonplace marvels of nature to be awed at, like how it could rain on one side of the street in Switzerland but not on the other.
In a way, he enjoyed being one of the few spots of dark serenity among a thrashing wave of continuous blond and blue-eyed and tall-statured.
It was, maybe, like being the period at the end of the sentence. All the necessary words were said and there he was, undeniable and solemn and surreptitiously smug, at the end of it and completely necessary.
But there were still a few mysteries of the western persuasion that he was unable to ponder out. And, frustrated, he was drawn to the enigma like a moth to a candle’s flame.
And thus, France.
Far less showy and ostentatious than anyone would believe and much more prone to thoughtful silences and secretive smiles than anyone would give him credit for. Japan had noticed, on more than one occasion, that split second pause between expressions where France’s face would go completely blank; it was then he realized that France chose his countenances just as carefully as he chose his clothes. Nobody else seemed to notice.
Because he could not puzzle out why this could be, Japan was drawn in closer and closer until he found that this composure was contagious. And it was comfortable.
But it would never stop bothering him, just slightly, that he could look into the dark eyes of his own reluctant, hesitating family and see exactly what he needed to but that he would look into France’s eyes and they, blue like polished glass, would only reflect what he wanted to see.