ちょや

Disclaimer: Hetalia. It's not mine ._. I swear –raises hands-

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Arthur flicked the switch—on, off—and inhaled the cigarette. Blowing a stream of smoke from his mouth, he thought mournfully of the condition his lungs under the cloak of tar—what they must look like at the time—and let his mind flick back to the days when tobacco was new; to think that he had called it vulgar. He wanted to laugh.

He inhaled again with surprising deftness—he knew grace beyond the teacup, then. The smoke traveled down his throat and wrapped around his unborn breath; he exhaled again.

Smoking. He was smoking. Of all things for a gentleman—because he was one, he thought obstinately—he was smoking. God help him—he was sinking into vulgarity.

But then again, nothing had stopped him during the World Wars. Why stop when there was less of an excuse to see America? God knew he would have even liked to fight him—wrap his fingers around that idiot's throat for the sake of his scones. If he couldn't drink it away, he could certainly smoke it off. Though he loved his drink, it always left him with hellish hangovers the day after. Smoking was hazy—it let him focus more on the flat burn in through his esophagus.

He took another drag, watching the end light up before him. They lit up a grain of the night. It was incredibly relaxing.

"Smoking isn't good," Kiku said behind him, then added to soften his remark, "for you."

Arthur shrugged. "Drinking isn't, either."

"Smoking burns the lungs." Kiku seemed to decide to push his luck, just a little.

"So does drinking."

"Smoking is worse. It mars the lungs."

"So?"

"It just proves that drinking isn't good for you." He then resolved to speak no more. A little grew to prove too much.

"Most things aren't good for you." Arthur, nonchalant, pushed the cigarette back into his mouth, savoring the next breath of smoke. "Like rain." He paused, considering his words. It hadn't killed him...truly, it hadn't. He took another drag.

"Nighttime is," Kiku said softly, seeming to have been dragged into something. Discussion with Arthur was, decidedly, interesting. It led to tones of depth of the heart—or mind. It was not unlike conversation with Greece...but something seemed to be oh-so different about Arthur; he could be so incredibly pitiful at times, and angst seemed to simply appear. It was so like...China...last century, before he became the People's Republic. So strong, so sad. "Weaponry is."

"Of course it is," Arthur scoffed, smoke billowing from his mouth. "That's why they're weapons."

"Aaa."

Arthur took another drag; he noticed the tip diminishing to the molded ash beneath. So soon?

He puffed on his cigarette a moment, noting the lack of anything to say. Exhaled. "I do wonder what America's lungs look like; he smoked a God damn lot last century. The prat."

"He kissed a woman once like that too...."

Arthur, in mid-breath, choked. "What!?" His brain malfunctioned for a moment.

"Ah...he was smoking at...Pearl Harbor..." Kiku flushed "...when he kissed a woman. I think she was a nurse. I only got a glimpse...." He fell silent, red from neck to ears. That had been when he was dropping a bomb, too. The said woman had been doing her job, and Alfred had been rushing off to join the rest of the air soldiers, a half-finished cigarette clenched between his teeth; he had kissed her before he left, and then Kiku saw her blown to smithereens. It was a horrible coincidence...she had been standing too near the water, and Kiku's bomb, though only half submerged, sped through, too close the land, and then—

The way she had blown up in a flash, with a pitched scream...it reminded him too much of another act he had committed earlier. The crumb of memory—the nurse at her last moments—was forever engraved within his mind.

Arthur ignored the mention of the incident. He huffed. "So the prat was actually trying to get it on. What happened to her, anyway?"

"Died."

Arthur's fingers almost slackened; then he reminded himself that he was selfish. Tsundere, was it? "Oh." Back the cigarette went; he was the one who had Jeanne d'Arc sentenced to death (he took no pride in it...he never truly took pride in killing, numbed to it as he was; and World War Two was a shameful reminder; he was a nation, though). "He must've tasted like cigarette smoke, the flipping git." He wanted to laugh; he wanted magnify the derisiveness. All that escaped was a choke. So his America had kissed a girl that he himself, Arthur, did not know. A random girl of his own nation, a human. Then where did that leave him—the one who raised him, took care of him, loved him more than anyone else?—who was capable of loving him so much, even after he had left him of his own accord?

Then again...you hate him, Arthur growled to himself; aggression mounted, under the influence of the smoke, his own bitterness, or otherwise. What, his childish mind said, did some random nurse have that he didn't?

"Git," he repeated, then turned to Japan. "I need some ume— That Choya thing with the plum fruits.

Kiku visibly flinched. "After last night?"—he was being bold.

"It's not like I'm going to rape you while drunk." He flung the ashy stick to the ground, crushed it beneath one solid foot. "But I'd care more about my well-being there; you're older, you've probably done it before. Don't want to get AIDs."

Kiku reddened, but said nothing. The issues of the night before were far more complicated than that. It had been absolutely vile, and still so...

"Do you wonder," he said abruptly, "what it probably felt like to be kissing Alfred-san at the time?"

Green eyes flashed his way. "Why?"

"Well, that woman died right after he kissed her...I wonder if she had a good few moments." The memory came again.

"Probably felt good to kiss the prat; better than no one, really." Arthur shrugged with complete and utter indifference. "Anyone ever kissed you?—China, perhaps?"

Kiku paused; Yao had never...as a brother, but never.... He spoke slowly, still unsure of how to answer, still unsure of whether or not he should tell this man, Arthur or not. "Never like that...sometimes on the forehead or the cheek." The guilt was there again; he could never love Yao, but some affection was there, always lingering; this was the man who had handed him culture to mold and shape for himself. The loving older brother but never treated as one; in their youth, perhaps, but never beyond Yong Soo.

"Have you ever," Kiku said, "kissed someone while you were drunk?"—a snort followed immediately after, from Arthur.

"What, like this?" Alfred was going through his mind—yes, that must be it. And Kiku Yao. If there was so much lost love...

Arthur abruptly stalked forward, leaned down at the slightest—he would have tipped Kiku's face upward if he wanted to, but he simply did not feel like it—and ground his mouth against the shorter nation. His tongue, his lips, his teeth...all were painted with swirling smoke and soothing liquor. Wine and cigarette.

Kiku froze; his first instinct was to jerk away. If someone was doing this to him...and he almost did. Lightning struck him, left him so incredibly exposed in a cramped room. It came with flat sharpness, had a sort of appeal to it—vile and sour, but still smooth and biting green; it was like the Dream of The Fisherman's Wife; and he was the wife. Arthur could be the two octopuses. He cared not. He was melting, scorching like a dying fire, to ash blown away in the wind.

"Was it like this last night?" Arthur murmured, huskily; his tongue was prodding about, and it was so incredible...

"Better," Kiku murmured back, with neither a now or then. So Arthur did remember.

They were kissing.

Yao...

Alfred...

Kiku did not question it; if he was a mere replacement for Alfred then he could take him; somehow he could. The reckless youth that lay within him told him that, with a confident smile, stubborn. And he was thinking of Yao, who was his brother, if he could someday think that with plausible honesty. His thoughts were asunder.

"You went...farther last night."

And then it was wet...one of them, or both of them, was crying. There was so much to cry for, was there not?

"I must still be drunk," Arthur muttered. Their faces were wet. And at some point they were clutching at each other as well.

"To be sure of that." Kiku did not complete his sentence; he pulled back to beckon at the building behind them. "I'm sure you have Choya in there. We can pretend to love each other." He let his face relax into one of stoicism. So we can both pretend.

And yet...they had time, did they not? To turn lies into truth. For children to grow into adults.

The world was changing, and Kiku was willing to follow it.

Arthur looked him over.

Once. Twice.

Nodded.

"I still hate Alfred," he said.

"I will think about it." Kiku led, beckoned him with an almost eager hand. "Choya?"

"Of course."

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PT: I'm only half-satisfied with this...-shrugs- Many thanks to the reviewers :D