No Sanctuary [Japan]

[North Korea]

No Sanctuary

[/size][/color]
Early 1990s[/center]

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Coughing violently, North Korea stumbled through his house. His clothes disheveled, his hair in disarray, he was a bony, fragile creature looking in all the world like a beggar. Well, it wasn't his fault. Thanks to his stupid boss who had tried to move the DPRK towards "modernization", his people and he himself was suffering right now.

In debt with Russia, stricken with floods, sickness, and surrounded by dying people, this was the situation of Chosun Minjuji Inmin Konghwaguk, or the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. Three Revolutions Teams Movement? Modernization Campaign? My ass. I just need something to eat. North Korea thought angrily and wearily as he continued stumbling around his house, searching the counters, inside the fridge, under the sink. No food. Absolutely nothing. He had to give everything to his boss so that HE could eat, leaving him and his people starving.

Well, he HAD to find something. He was sick, frail, thin, and bony. Not to mention, every ounce of strength in his body has been dedicated to doing heavy work in the factories, which left him on the verge of death. And what was his one assurance? That North Korea will prevail through this. That through "modernization" and "hard work", North Korea will be a "powerful and prosperous nation."

"Powerful and Prosperous nation." Such is the official motto of his country. Well, he WAS powerful and prosperous, happy and well-fed, together with his brother, until HE came. HE invaded his country. HE was the reason the Chosun Dynasty, their period of glory and prosperity, fell. HE was also the reason why he was like this today.

North Korea hated that man with every drop of blood in his body.

Clenching his fists, he stopped his train of thought before he got angrier and fling something. He couldn't AFFORD to fling ANYTHING. Everything had to be re-used or recycled, or one doesn't get anything. There was scarcely anything to use anyway. Sure, they were doing well with producing heaps of stuff, but no one will buy them. Aside from being useless, they break easily and are of a low quality. No one was trading with them. Everything was focused on industry, because that boss of his believes that one must export a lot in order to bring up the economy. That was what the Three Revolutions Teams Movement was for. And quite frankly, he was right. Although... who would want to buy low-quality goods? So it's not working either.

Nothing was working. This guy needs help, and fast.

Finding nothing to eat, he stumbled to the stairs to go up to his room, each step on the flight of stairs a burden, sending sharp pains down his sides. Clutching his stomach, his pained expression was somewhat alleviated as he reached the top of the stairs and practically dragged himself to his room, closing the door behind him. He looked at the semi-broken mirror on his closet, horrified at the sight. He was bones and skin, a living corpse. He had black rings under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his creamy, pale skin was matted with dirt and grime. Not to mention, his formerly impeccable uniform was rolled up at the sleeves, almost black from dirt, and torn at places. He laughed mirthlessly, running a hand down his cheek. The once proud nation is now gone, like a light flickering once, twice, then finally going dim. I'm going to die soon, aren't I? My economy is in shambles. I'm in a huge debt with Russia that I cannot possibly pay even if I sold all my organs. My population has gone down, and there is no way for me to earn money or even get something as simple as food. The question is, when will it all end?

[/i] Throwing himself down on his bed, or what was left of it anyway, he winced in pain as he hit the metal bar. He forgot he had no mattress. Turning on his back, he stared at the ceiling, his pained face deep in contemplation. …What WILL the end be like? Where do nations like me go? Humans keep saying something like “heaven”, or the “afterlife”, but do we nations have that too? What if I fall, where will I go?[/i]

Suddenly, his telephone rang. Groaning, he forced himself to get up from his bed and go down the stairs, one step at a time, as he approached the phone and picked it up. Sure enough it was his boss.

”Yeah, it’s me. What? You need me to go meet you right now? …Make myself presentable. Yeah, right. Whatever you say.” Fighting back the urge to slam the phone down, he bared his teeth and glared at the phone as he stomped back up to his room, and in his anger, forgot about the pain in his sides.

”Make yourself presentable”, he says. Well, how the fucking hell does he propose I do THAT? Glaring hard, he threw open his closet door and stared at his one last uniform, the crisp, clean one that he only wore when he needed to.

It can’t be fucking helped... Stepping into the shower, he used up his precious water as he got all the grime off of his body. He even shampooed his hair and soaped his body, for the love of god, and everyone knows how scarce those things are in this god-forsaken land. Squeaky clean, he at least felt fresh as he wrapped his hair in a towel while changing into his uniform. Of course, he knows, that fresh feeling will disappear again after he is forced to go back to work. What could that bastard want, anyway?

Combing his long hair and setting it into a neat braid, he stood up rigidly as he stared into the mirror. At least he didn’t look much of a beggar, now. In fact, he looked perfect to the point where he looked like nothing was ailing him. He winced a bit, though, as his sides began to hurt again. But he knew he was going to have to keep a straight face. Practicing his rigidly tense walk, he fought back another cough attack as he walked out of his house, prepared to walk the long road that leads to where his boss is. Goddammit… I just hope I don’t fucking pass out in the middle of the road or something… He thought grimly as he tried his best to hold his coughs in.[/blockquote]
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A/N: …OMG I actually love this post. <3 My Korea muse has taken oveeeeer. AND AMER, THANK YOU FOR THE PERFECT TITLE.

[Japan]

Japan sighed quietly as he walked, trying to clear his head from the heavy air of Pyongyang. Being in this place brought unpleasant memories... thoughts and memories of things he would rather forget. Push them to the side, pretend they never happened.

That's not a realistic option, though. Too much damage was done, too many people harmed, killed, their lives ruined. Likely, that will never be, however many generations may pass or years he may live.

Just an hour ago, he had watched his Prime Minister deliver an "official apology" to the appropriate diplomats and representatives of North Korea. It felt hollow, meaningless. A formal, "official apology" given directly to the suffering people wouldn't do much. However, it was all that could be done at this point... After just forty-five years - not long enough at all, and yet still far, far too long to wait to try to make these wrongs right - they wanted to "normalize" relationships.

"Normalize..." What did that word even mean? It seemed to Japan that "normal" was relative, and what had been "normal" between their two nations was tension, discomfort, exploitation, violence... Nothing that needed to be reaffirmed, certainly. In short, the word choice was less than satisfactory.

Leaving the area that he was really supposed to stay in and around during their diplomatic visit, Japan's mind wandered even further than his feet, back to the things that he personally did all those years ago, things that today, as he thought about them, sickened him, clenched a cold fist around his heart. Granted, the things he did were accepted, perhaps even expected, and certainly not as horrific as the things some of his people did, but that didn't excuse him.

He didn't seek forgiveness -- that wasn't it at all. No, really, he couldn't stand the thought of being forgiven for what he did to the other nation, for what he put him through all those years ago that felt like yesterday.

Truly, what he wanted was the ability to go back in time and stop it all from ever happening. But, since that wasn't an option, he wanted to do something that the politicians and diplomats couldn't - to give a sincere, heartfelt apology to someone who deserved it, who had lived through it. Maybe... just maybe... he could live with himself then.

[North Korea]

Discomfort and pain shooting through his body, North Korea continued to walk rigidly along the road. He fought yet another cough attack, keeping his line of vision and his back as straight as possible.

The road to where his boss is was always a tough one to go through. Not because it was crooked, or full of dirt, or immersed in mud. Oh no, in fact his roads were quite good, thanks to the Russians who built them. But it was the sight of the dying people that was unnerving and stomach wrenching. He had learned to shut himself from the glares of his own people as he walked by, squeaky clean and shit. He knew they were thinking, "So our bosses live in luxury while WE suffer for them?" He bit back tears as he kept walking, more briskly. Pain in the sides, no matter. As long as he could get off this road and not see the suffering anymore. You don't know how much I've been suffering as well... I'm sick, hungry, and cold, and yet I am forced to walk through this road to hell. Godfuckingdammit, I am NOT going to even be FED over there. I'm just going to talk, and leave. Talk, and leave. Fucking hell.

Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, he felt like throwing up as he was attacked by another bout of dizziness. Fuck. His sickness was getting to him again. Fighting the urge to double over and spit his guts out, he swallowed hard and squinted his eyes at the road ahead. Shit. My eyes are going fucking blurry. Fuck this. I need to at least pass out at my boss' house. Who knows what will happen to me once I pass out out here. No one is going to care about me. And I am the nation. I need to stay alive for my people, get them out of this god-forsaken period and land....

[/color]

His vision going blurry, he allowed his posture to slacken a bit as he coughed; however, once he has done so, he coughed, and coughed, and coughed, seeming as though he could go on coughing for eternity. When he was done, sure enough: there was a patch of blood on his gloves. Its redness looked even darker and more sinister against the black material.

Fuck... Fuck this... I can't wear these gloves now, and I don't want to go back home to get new ones... If I even HAVE new ones...[/i] North Korea thought grimly as he propped back up, one knee at a time, going slowly. When he was fully standing, he fell down to his side again, his bloodied hand clutching at the dirt for balance. Fuck. Not right here. No. Goddammit. I can be fucking sick at home, and take care of myself as I have always done, but no. Godfuckingdammit, NO. It was either his resolve or his determination that got him back up on his feet, albeit swaying lightly. Dusting himself with his clean hand, he formed his blood-stained hand into a fist as he wiped his mouth from stray blood drips that might have stayed.

Blood-smeared and weak, North Korea shuffled through the poor-stricken streets. Earning a few looks of concern, he waved off several women's offer for water as he continued on, his breathing labored, vision blurry, and shaking and hurting all over.

And that was when he saw him. Despite his blurry vision, he knows that blinding color anywhere. White. Pure white. Although the whiteness did not match with the other's personality.

What the FUCK is he doing here?! North Korea thought angrily as he gritted his teeth, trying his hardest to go towards the figure. Sure enough, it was HIM.

The man he hated the most.

The reason why he was like this right now.

Japan.

Growling, advancing menacingly, he pulled out his pistol shakily from under his coat as he approached Japan, glaring hard at him, pointing the pistol without the safety on and his finger on the trigger, poised to shoot.

"You fucking sick shit. What the fucking hell are you doing prowling in my land? Who the fuck gave you the right to be here, you fucking--" He was interrupted by another fit of cough again, this time more blood coming out. But he didn't care. Even on his knees, he kept the gun pointed firmly at the other, glaring as hard as he could manage in his state.

"What the fuck are you doing here?! Are you out to fucking control my land again, as you have done forty-five years ago?! Do you fucking enjoy seeing me suffer that much?! Or did you come here to say 'Oh I'm sorry, I know what I did was wrong, but let's put the past behind us, mmkay?'" North Korea laughed mirthlessly as he slowly stood up, glaring hard at the other. "Well, it's not going to happen, you sick motherfucker. I don't need your fucking apologies. They do nothing for me. What I need is for you to bring back time and let me go back to the fucking Chosun Dynasty that you fucking destroyed!!!" Screeching, North Korea shook all over as he kept the gun pointed at the other.

"Any final words, you motherfucker?" North Korea knew he was running out of time as he coughed again, this time more violently, actually letting go of the gun and curling down on the ground. Shit. SHIT. I can't die. Not with this motherfucker in my sight. I have to kill him before I die. I have to... North Korea's eyes slowly fluttered close as he gave one last violent cough. He had fainted. In the presence of his enemy.

Shit.[/blockquote]

[Japan]

Frozen in shock, Japan could say nothing as North Korea verbally assaulted him, gun in his face. He had prepared himself for this encounter so many times and in so many ways, his mind playing numerous scenarios. Somehow, running into each other on the streets of Pyongyang like this hadn't crossed his mind.

Japan wasn't really hearing anything that the other was saying... just anger, hatred, so much resentment, and every ounce of it deserved and justified.

But somehow... somehow, Japan was more concerned for North Korea's well-being than his own when the other hit the ground, gun still pointed almost disturbingly steadily at his head. "Any final words, you motherfucker?"

[/i] came the weak voice, cutting through the older nation's mental fog. As feelings became thoughts, and thoughts started trying to form words, he watched in utter horror as North Korea crumbled under his own weight, coughing violently, the always-proud nation almost collapsing on himself. As North Korea fell over, almost certainly unconscious, Japan felt his knees hit the ground next to him. Automatically, he turned the other so that he was lying on his back. The younger nation's chest was heaving weakly, his breath rasping dryly in his throat, and his pulse was weak and swift. A human in this condition would have died long before it got to this point--North Korea almost looked like a corpse himself.

Japan's stomach was in knots, his form tense. Whatever the status of their relations as countries, this was unacceptable. Nations such as himself and North Korea were more than long-lived, hard-to-kill people; they were the heart of their country, a symbol to their people, the spirit of everything they stood for. For a group of people to allow their nation to be in this state was heartwrenching, sickening.

Without really thinking, Japan moved to pick up North Korea's limp form (Kami, he was light... given their height difference, Japan should be struggling to support him, but he weighed no more than a child to him...). He pulled the younger man's arms over his shoulders and arranged his legs about his waist so that he could carry him. Where, he wasn't quite sure, but staying here was not an option.

----

Japan took North Korea to the only place he really recognized in this country anymore--the hotel the Japanese envoy was staying at. He wasn’t really sure what he was going to do once there, but… well, that would essentially work itself out. Things like this always did.

Japan breathed a sigh of relief when he was essentially ignored on his way up the stairs to his room. Once inside, he carefully lowered North Korea into a chair (overstuffed and plush--rather sickening, really, once one has seen how people are living on the streets) and went to sit by the window, blinds drawn. At this moment, he wasn’t sure what he was trying to accomplish. What an uncomfortable feeling, to not know where you’re going…

He did know, though, that things would be interesting when the younger nation awoke…[/blockquote]

[North Korea]

North Korea had fallen in the presence of his enemy. The last thing he had remembered was himself, falling on his knees, and missing the chance of him ever putting a bullet once and for all through that Japanese bastard's head. If there was one thing he will not ever forgive himself of, it was missing this chance, this chance dropped upon him by heaven, this chance practically shoved in his face by destiny, to kill the person he had hated for so long, and for so many reasons.

The last thing he felt before he fell into a state of oblivion was someone, gently setting him on their back, their touch radiating care and concern. Who...? Who would be so concerned for a frail, sickly nation like him, once proud, mighty, and snobby, now reduced to nothing but mere dirt and grime? Was it one of his people? Or perhaps one of his boss' lackeys? Maybe that was it.

Before he knew it, he had lapsed into a state of real unconsciousness, his mind slipping away, feeling safe in this person's arms. He was happy, contented, for the first time in many years, and he couldn't understand why. He just knew that if he passed out now, in this person's arms, he would be okay, he would be safe, and he would be well cared for. He was the person he had been looking for all this years, where had he been all his life?

And just as he was contemplating on such an issue, darkness fell. He was out cold.

------------------

North Korea had woken up with a violent start. How long he was out cold, he didn't know, as he groggily sat up, clutching his head. Confusion started to envelope him as he shifted. The chair he had been placed in was soft, velvety, and pleasant to the touch. He smiled. North Korea had forgotten the feeling of such luxuries, having been deprived of them for so long. Could it be that this was his boss' place, after all? But he couldn't quite imagine his boss allowing him to be placed on one of his precious chairs. Whenever he came over, he was never invited to even sit down, as his boss was afraid that he was going to ruin the chair. Tch, that bastard. He was doing all the work, and yet... North Korea wisely decided to stop this particular train of thought as he leaned back more, groaning, putting his arm over his eyes, savoring the comfort he knew was temporary.

And that was when North Korea suddenly realized all the pains he's been having. His sides started to hurt more, his stomach was acting up from emptiness, his throat parched, and that was just a part of a long list. Korea let out a long, monotonous, unamused laugh. How he had survived up to this point, he did not know. Perhaps it was pure will and determination? Perhaps it was his care for the welfare of his people? Whatever it was, it was not helping him one bit.

Mustering the strength to take out his arm from his face and look around, once again, he had seen that one blinding color, one that he will never associate with purity ever again: WHITE. It was him. It was fucking him. The man who had destroyed who he is, and made him into the man he was now.

Standing up abruptly, steadying his feet, he leaned on the chair for support as he tried to pull out his other gun from under his coat, hands shaking from weakness, hunger, excitement, and whatnot. He had left his other pistol behind, where he had first encountered him. But that didn't matter. He really was destined to kill this asshole. Another chance.

"You..." North Korea rasped weakly as he tried to steady his aim, safety off, finger poised on the trigger and ready to shoot. There was no hesitation, there was no turning back. The younger nation was serious about killing this man, and he was going to do whatever it takes to succeed. "Mother...fucking... asshole... You bitches stole my land, my resources, my life... You fuckers tried to integrate us into you... You've killed so much of my people... Fuck you. How does it feel after all this years, huh? Are you still on fucking cloud nine, rejoicing, elated at your goddamn victory over defeating Russia and conquering us, people who have done nothing to you?! HOW THE FUCK WOULD YOU FEEL IF I FUCKING COLONIZED YOU, HUH?!" North Korea's voice was weak in both volume and dignity, but filled to the brim with emotion, thick with hatred, fueled with a burning to desire to pop a cap into the Japanese, preferably right between the eyes."I'm so fucking glad you've been defeated! Who would have known what other shit you would have made us do?!"

However, a nagging feeling came over him as he stood there, verbally attacking the other, with a gun pointed towards his direction. Looking around, he saw that no one else was there. It was only him and Japan in the room, and no one else.

...Shit. Was he the one who brought him here?

Putting his gun down for a moment, he blinked as he tried to put it all together. He had actually felt safest, most cared for, in the presence of this asshole? ...Painful irony. The man who he had hated the most, destroyed him the most, was now his only security, his only hope. BUT NO. He wasn't going to allow that. He was NEVER going to allow that. He may have helped him, but that doesn't make up for the countless atrocities he had done against him, his brother, and his people.

Raising the gun again, he had tried to aim it at Japan, but failing... as he collapsed on his knees again, coughing continuously, more blood coming out each and every time which left his head swimming, his vision blurry. Fuck. Not another fainting spell.

Doubling over, he clutched his stomach painfully as he coughed, and coughed, and coughed. It was the stress, both physically and emotionally, that was causing all this pain. He wanted to die. Wherever the fallen nations go to, heaven or hell or whatnot, he wanted to go there. Be liberated from this cruel word, this blinding pain, this god-forsaken land.

Finally stopping for a while, he laid out on the floor, soaked in his blood, dull, lifeless eyes staring up into space. Japan or not, he was not going to kill him. Rather, he couldn't kill him.

Another chance missed. Fuck. This. Life.

[Japan]

Hearing a soft groan from the other end of the room, Japan pulled himself back to reality and looked over at North Korea. He seemed to be awake... living at this point was a feat that most would consider miraculous. Not quite thinking about what he was doing, the old nation stood and walked to the small table in the corner where he had set the glass of water he’d prepared some two hours ago.

He half-turned when he heard a slight shift, wiping the perspiration from the glass with one hand. He could clearly see North Korea, forearm resting over his eyes, chapped lips curving almost cruelly upwards at the corners as a soft, mirthless laugh left him, the sound dry, dull… almost hopeless, in Japan’s ears.

He turned and started towards the other nation--so much younger than he is, so small, and, right now, so frail--his feet almost silent on the carpet, the glass of water in one hand and a damp towel in the other. Perhaps he could help here. He wanted to help here. There was no other way he could ever forgive himself. After all, hindsight was 20/20 on the cloudiest of days, and there was nothing blocking the present from the past these days.

When he was just feet away, North Korea's arm dropped and he looked up and around the area, the movement almost seeming groggy, painful. His gaze froze on Japan, though, and the elder nation stopped where he was, the sudden intensity in those eyes staggering and causing his blood to freeze for a short second.

Japan took a step forward quickly as North Korea jumped up. However he stopped as soon as he saw the drawn weapon - Where was he even keeping that...? - held in a shaking, heavy hand.

"You...Mother...fucking... asshole..."

[/color] came his voice, weak, raspy, but thick with emotion, raw and pure and dark, like blood oozing from a day-old, half-healed bullet wound. He dropped his gaze marginally, eyes focusing on a spot on the other nation's collar. "You bitches stole my land, my resources, my life... You fuckers tried to integrate us into you... You've killed so much of my people... Fuck you. How does it feel after all this years, huh? Are you still on fucking cloud nine, rejoicing, elated at your goddamn victory over defeating Russia and conquering us, people who have done nothing to you?! HOW THE FUCK WOULD YOU FEEL IF I FUCKING COLONIZED YOU, HUH?! I'm so fucking glad you've been defeated! Who would have known what other shit you would have made us do?!"

He should defend himself. He should look him in the eye, push him back, remind him that no one spoke to him, the Great Empire of the Sun (formerly, but the spirit, the fire, was still there, nothing could take that from him), in that disrespectful manner. But...

But wasn't that what led to this in the first place? Wasn't that mentality the source of so many miseries, for so many people, for so many years?

He drew breath to respond, but almost immediately stopped, eyes snapping up as North Korea's arm fell limp, then following the movement to the pistol, now pointing at the ground limply. They stayed like that for a split second before the gun was quickly raised again.

The sight never leveled on Japan, though (he was still following the movement of the pistol - it seemed like the safest thing in the room to focus on, somehow). As the gun dropped again, this time without a hand to hold it from the ground, North Korea dropped as well, knees hitting the ground hard as he doubled over, coughing violently. The Japanese was again (shamefully) unable to do anything as the other nation collapsed, the motion of him falling reminding Japan of a horse with a broken leg, finally being shot, falling limp, without any resistance to hold him up.

After a short, stunned moment, Japan calmly walked the last few feet to him, kneeling beside his half-dead, glassy-eyed form. Maintaining composure in a crisis had always been a forte of his, and he made good use of it now, taking the cloth and wiping the coughed-up blood from North Korea's chin and lips. "Alright..." he murmured to himself, pushing the other nation's cap back off of his head (part of him wondered how it even managed to still be there in the first place) as he rested the cloth on his forehead, feeling the fever on his fingers from an inch away.

Subtlety didn't work. At all.

It was time for a tactic change.

Gathering his legs beneath himself, he made to pick up North Korea again, blood staining the front of his white, not-quite-pristine uniform. "Alright..." he repeated as he stood, again struck by how light he was. "We'll try it your way..."

Deciding to, in a word, screw subtlety, he carried North Korea to the low-setting Western bed and laid him down carefully. Almost mechanically, he picked up the phone receiver, dialed for room service (which he normally would not do, simply because he's more than capable of walking, but these are what he would call "extenuating circumstances"), told them to bring something, it didn't particularly matter what. Weak, frail, and (apparently) prone to fainting, probably severely dehydrated, definitely extremely malnourished... Japan wouldn't get a chance to talk until the other nation was at least on the way to getting better.

Aside from that, the last fifty years had shown that this particular nation was never one to turn down help. It certainly couldn't hurt.

He turned back to the nation, laid out there on the bed, unconscious. The uniform that had been so carefully kept - he could see that by the creases still clear in the sleeves, the boots that were probably polished to perfection underneath the dust that he had probably picked up just since setting out a couple hours ago. Now, though, his coat was dirty, a fine layer of filth across the front mixing with blood that he had coughed up... Perhaps he could... No, probably not. But that was relatively heavy cloth, and North Korea was already feverish, sweating even in this cooled room.

Sighing slightly, he began carefully unbuttoning and loosening the coat, peeling it away and gently pulling it off of him. Part of him wanted to speak, to say what he was thinking, as he was doing this. But... no, what good would that do?

Moving mechanically, Japan hung the coat quickly before picking up the cloth that he'd had before (and kicking the pistol under the chair - for some reason he couldn't explain, he didn't want to touch the thing) and walking back to the bed, resting it across North Korea's forehead gently - one of the few things he could do, right at the moment.

Except answer the door and set the food - he didn't know what it was, really, but that didn't particularly matter - on the table next to the bed, then go sit by the window again, and wait.[/blockquote]

[North Korea]

He wasn't fully unconscious. He was still aware of everything that was going on, of everything that was happening and taking place. However, he was immobile. He found that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move, nor could he utter one more word. It seems he had spent all his energy earlier verbally abusing the Japanese.

If only he could have acted sooner and just got on with it without saying too much. He was drained, emotionally and physically, eternally angry at himself for letting another chance slip. However, when he held that pistol in his hand, and pointed it at Japan, just one look at him made his blood boil, and he couldn't help but attack him verbally before physically. His body, however, did not agree, as he had already shamefully collapsed two times (in front of his enemy too, mind you), unable to do anything, unable to even scrape or mar that... that smug-looking, authority-filled Japanese face, in some way.

He had wanted to protest, to punch Japan for even thinking of touching him; he wanted to flinch, crawl away, anything: just to avoid any kind of physical contact with the older nation. However, he felt... cared for. He felt as though he was in the hands of a gentle mother, or a loyal lover sweetly tending to his wounds after a battle. He did not feel any hostility from Japan, no matter how hard he tried to, but only felt genuine concern radiating from the man that had once tried to wipe him and his brother off the face of this earth.

'There is no such thing as Korean, only Japanese.' That was the motto of the Japanese empire towards their nation during the assimilation process. And alas, even the whole world decided that that view was right, too. No one would help them, no one would go against the Japanese and liberate them. 'What is Korea?' They all would ask in mock question. 'Aren't they already Japanese?'

And if that wasn't bad enough, they, too, were forced to give up their Korean names and adapt Japanese ones. Iwamoto Soshi. 'The foundation built on rock.'

It had an accurate meaning, powerful, completely reflecting his personality and his views, someone who could never be broken no matter how much he had already suffered.

But he hated that name to the very marrow of his bones.

His name was, is, and will always be Im Dae Jyun. To a Korean, his name was everything to him; it was the name that was passed on from who-knows-how-many generations passed, and it was a sign of social prestige, of recognition, of pride, of honor. And yet, being forced to change his name, which had already lasted probably even older than that Japanese himself, and to a foreign name, nonetheless, was like taking the one thing he valued the most in this world: his honor. The Japanese should have fucking understood that, as they were from a culture that emphasizes honor as well. Must they degrade them so? He was not Japanese. He was fucking Korean. Korean.

And yet... and yet he felt safe, completely comfortable, in the presence and care of this one man who he had hated the minute he laid eyes on him, the man who had given him his Japanese name, the man who had taken away his pride and honor, the man who eradicated thousands, no, millions of his people in thirty-fucking-six years.

Painful irony.

The one man he hated the most cared for him the most, even more so than what his boss and his own people were doing to him now.

He gasped lightly, though inaudibly, as he felt himself being lifted off the ground. Oh. Was he that fucking light? He was 173 centimeters, 5'7", for gods' sakes. He was supposed to weigh 150 pounds, if he was eating right, and he knew that would have been too much for the shorter nation. But no, he was picked up, as if he was a little boy, and set down on a soft bed just as easily. God, just how much weight has he even lost, then? He was horrified to know how much he weighed now. He had probably burned off all the natural flesh that was supposed to be on him, too. He dreaded the idea of looking at himself at a mirror again, of seeing that half-dead corpse again, staring back at him with such dull, lifeless, hollow, hopeless eyes.

He lay there, eyes shut closed as he had no energy to even open them, savoring the comfort and warmth of the bed that he was set on. It was soft, velvety, and pleasant to the touch, a luxury he'd been deprived of, for at least fifty years. To be able to feel it again, after so long, after going home from fourteen hours of hard labor with nothing but a measly slice of rock-hard bread and a pint of stale potato soup to eat, and resting on a metal... metal thing (it didn't even deserve to be called a bed anymore), he finally had a chance to lay his head upon a soft pillow, to rest his overworked back on a soft cushion.

Part of him, though, wanted to get up from the bed as he realized how dirty, disgusting, and bloody he was, and all that he would be doing is staining the bed with his blood and grime from the outside, but... but he felt as though he deserved this. He had worked hard enough, suffered enough, endured enough... surely, the little time of being able to rest his overly tired self on a proper bed for at least three hours wouldn't be too much to ask.

However, he was soon alerted as he felt lithe hands unbuttoning his coat. His face flushed a bit; not because of the fever, or whatever, but because he was being undressed. You don't just do that to a Korean man, you know. But he soon brushed it aside as he knew it was for his benefit; he was feeling hot, and on top of that his fever probably contributed to it, too. He was also grateful for the cool, relieving feeling the wet cloth that was placed on his forehead produced. He sighed, though inaudibly, in contentment, calming down so much after he had just lashed out at the man who was caring for him now.

...He knew he had to apologize, somehow. Even though the Japanese had been his enemy for so long, even though he still held a grudge against him that could never be erased from his heart no matter how much time passes, he should still apologize and thank him for the care he has given.

He would apologize. Maybe, just maybe, he would even thank him.

But that still doesn't change the fact that he had done countless atrocities against him, his land, and his people.

However, his thoughts were soon broken by a knock on the door. Shit, who the hell was it? Japan's boss? His boss? Was this a trap?

Here he was wishing now that he could at least get up from the bed and grab the pistol he knew Japan had kicked under a chair. He had to defend himself, if this was indeed a trap.

However... he soon debated against it as he leaned further into the bed, shutting his eyes even tighter. Maybe... maybe it wasn't so bad, after all. If this was indeed Japan's boss, and he was ordered to be killed, or tortured, or whatever... Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. At least he would die, be transported to... wherever the hell it was nations that didn't exist anymore go, and be free from all this suffering and pain.

Just... what about his people, though? He didn't care much for his boss, he can go fuck himself and die. But his people... who would take care of them?

No, he had to fight, he had to--

Or maybe not. The door closed a few moments later, with no one but Japan stepping back in. There was no boss, or anyone to drag him out the door, for that matter. It was just Japan, and...

Food?! FOOD?! There was FOOD all this time?!

Of course there will be food. They can't just let the Japanese come here and not feed them... Those fucking idiots, giving food to the people that almost destroyed us when our own people are starving...

He forced himself to half-open one eye as he glanced at the other man, who put down the food beside the bed, and then walked back to the window. What... he wasn't eating? Well, he couldn't blame him. How the hell would a man be able to eat with a half-dead person lying in their bed?

...Or maybe, the food was for him?

Forcing himself to at least sit up on the bed, he groaned and leaned against the headboard, clutching his head, the wet cloth falling from his forehead to his lap. He pulled the covers close to him, shivering a bit, as he was half-naked in this cool room. He looked at Japan squarely, with such wide, innocent eyes that it was hard to believe he was the malnourished, sixteen-year-old nation who had just swore his head off and berated the Japanese man while pointing a pistol at his head.

And the first, not-swear filled, not condemning words he said to the older nation, in perfect Japanese that he had been forced to speak and write and learn for so long, a language he could never forget no matter how much he wanted to, ".....Is this food for me?"

[Japan]

As he sat, waiting for North Korea to awaken, Japan just... thought. About anything that crossed his mind. About the young man - a child, really... barely a teenager... - on the bed behind him, with eyes far too old and worries far too mature. About the part he, himself, had played in burdening those frail shoulders. For a short moment, in a mental voice he wished he could purge from himself, about why he even cared.

He thought briefly, very briefly, about the words that might be exchanged when the younger nation awoke... the sharp tongue and words that were almost predetermined to show up...

And somehow, somehow Japan knew that anything he said would be tainted by pride, that wonderful, sometimes terrible thing that would strip anything he said of its sincerity.

Hearing the slight groan behind him, Japan turned back to look - to really look, for the first time - at North Korea. The boy was just shy of completely emaciated... The older nation could easily count his ribs, even at this distance, and he was pale, a sheen of sweat coating his upper chest and shoulders. ".....Is this food for me?" The words came softly, in a voice that he would not have believed were from the same person if he had not seen it himself, the Japanese spoken perfectly but for a very light accent.

Japan stood and walked around the bed, picking up the pitcher of cold water (most of the ice had melted by this point) and pouring a glass, setting it beside the tray of still-steaming food before looking up at him, meeting his gaze and finding himself almost shocked. How could this really be the same person from just a few minutes ago? The eyes that were so full of hatred and pain just moments before were wide, almost innocent, hesitantly hopeful, and his posture, though still tense, held none of its previous hostility.

He averted his gaze, staring at a spot on the bare wall, one thought going through his mind - he, Japan, Honda Kiku, was instrumental in creating the hell this boy had lived for the last century. "...You should eat," he responded softly after a long moment, returning to his post by the window and trying not to think.

Thinking would bring back to mind things he would rather forget. Thinking would wake that voice in the back of his consciousness that he feared he would never be rid of. Thinking would make him consider the things he had done, just today, that he had yet to think about - this overarching, deep sense of concern he felt for North Korea (Iwamoto Soshi, as Japan had almost always known him, though he was sure there was a degree of loathing attached to that name) that seemed to have no root, no logical, explicable source... he didn't quite know how to react to it, let alone think of it.

Hence... he tried not to think, for the moment.

[North Korea]

Part of him, as the Japanese turned back and he, once again, was afforded a full view of the face he so loathed, wanted to jump out of the comfortable bed and reach for his pistol that was kicked under the chair, and just fire at the other man, completely emptying the magazine into his body. But somehow, looking at that face... that once high-and-mighty, though still proud face, a shiver was sent down his spine. Especially when their eyes met, again, for the first time in years. He couldn't help but feel as though... everything he wanted to say, everything he wanted to blame him for, wilted inside of him; even the desire to shoot him senseless disappeared. What remained, though, was that single spark of fear he thought he didn't have anymore. Yes, he still felt a degree of fear for the older nation, even though he looked far from how he looked at that time. He looked... almost angelic, definitely not hostile, as if he was... his saviour. And he might as well be.

"You should eat... Came the soft, quiet words from the other in the language that he truly resented. The language he was forced to learn. He almost forgot his own language, too, and he knew that some of his people didn't even know how to speak or write Hanja. Once again, an involuntary shiver shot through his body, giving him goosebumps. There was resentment, hatred in him, and yes, lots of it; however, there was also that little fear, that... that feeling that just makes him want to cower in a corner and submit, still welling inside of him. He hated that feeling. He loathed it. It made him look weak, even though he was far from that. Sure, he was emaciated, definitely malnourished, on the borderline of death; but he was strong. After what he had gone through, starting from when he was deprived of a happy childhood, he became strong. And yet that... that little fear made him weak. That one thing threatened to bring down his foundation of strength... and he hated that.

Though the invitation was definitely tempting, he felt as though it wasn't really an invitation. To his ears, it was most definitely a command. Just hearing that voice speak, even in its quiet tone, automatically made his brain associate it with one word: command. As much as he didn't want to admit, he was bound to the other. Hopelessly bound. He felt as though he must still answer to him, respect him, even if he didn't want to. And that voice... that voice just grips him, holds him back, puts him in his place, and reminds him that no one, no one dared answer back or disobey the older nation.

Unconsciously tensing and straightening up, even though it hurt his sides, he pulled the covers over himself to hide his body. Heavens, to be indecent in front of the other man was unacceptable! He nodded slowly, trying his voice. It was soft, and timid, and before he knew it, his tongue moved on its own, letting the words out before he could even think of what he was saying. "Nihon-sama, I am truly sorry for having bothered you. Do forgive my unnecessary outburst earlier. I am definitely aware of the fact that it was undoubtedly uncalled for; however, I was overcome and struck with feeling that I was not fully aware of what I was saying. Again, do forgive me for being disrespectful, and forward, and do forgive my sharp tongue as well. It seems I have acquired one over the years, when I was fully free to contemplate how much I... loathed my situation. However, pointing a gun at you was also very much uncalled for, and I do ask you to forgive me for that as well."

His tone was quiet, subdued, spoken in an incredibly respectful Japanese, almost the type one would exclusively use for a higher-up. It was really the only Japanese he learned, because they were taught to speak respectfully to the Japanese, no matter who or what position they were. It was etched into his mind that in the social hierarchy, the Japanese are, by default, higher, therefore one had to respect them fully, no matter if one was a thirty-year-old Korean and one was speaking to a five-year-old Japanese. So naturally, he would revert back to that state of speech.

Hesitantly sitting up, he gathered all his strength and tried to sit at the edge of the bed, the covers still wrapped around him. He knew his body wasn't a pretty sight right now, and he wasn't about to flaunt it. He stifled his groan as much as possible, letting his legs dangle over the edge and lay flat on the ground. He wasn't ready to get up, yet, but the prospect of food gave him that determination. Quietly shuffling to the table, which was thankfully right next to the bed, he looked at it for a long time. His hard situation and experience over the years had caused him to be wary, paranoid, distrustful of everyone around him, even though they gave off the aura and appearance of being kind. This man in front of him right now, especially, is the last person in the world he would trust. There was, however, no way of testing whether the food was poisoned or not, so he decided to just take a chance. If something did happen to him, if he was indeed poisoned, then at least he would have died because he had finally eaten food. Grabbing the chopsticks, he spooned some rice into his mouth, savoring the taste he thought he had forgotten. Years of stale potato soup and rock hard bread does that to the taste buds, and he was incredibly lucky to be able to eat such food again. And, if it was indeed poisoned, he would have died because of eating rice, and that was... a good enough way of dying, really.

Though, of course, as he was still North Korea, years of suffering didn't ever take away his manners and etiquette. Though he wanted to just... devour the food, he couldn't do that. Especially not in front of him. Besides, it hurt to swallow anyway, so he could only eat in small bites. Taking a sip from the cold water (god, how good that felt against his parched throat), he took another bite of food, before setting the chopsticks down. Mostly for medical reasons; he knew he shouldn't eat too much food in his current state, or he'll throw up eventually. And when he was finally settled down, he just... leaned back on the bed and stared at the other, with wide, innocent, hazel brown orbs, full of questions that he wanted to ask.

After a few minutes of what seemed like an eternal silence, he found his voice again as he cleared his throat. It was still quiet and timid, though with more energy, more vitality, more... more life, this time. It wasn't necessarily confidence, and absolutely not defiance, or disrespect, or resentment... but somehow, the food did wonders for him. "Nihon-sama... If you would allow me, I would like to ask you a question..." North Korea hesitated for a moment; that little fear inside of him made him hesitant to ask a question from the other, since it had always been planted into his mind that he must never question whatever the other did, or said. But he had to know. He had to.

"Ah... if you would not mind at all in satisfying my curiosity, I would just like to ask of you one question. Why... did you decide to help me...? I am, of course, extremely grateful that you did so; however, it bothers my mind that you still decided to pick me up from the streets when I fainted, when you could have just left me to die. I... shamefully spoke harsh words and pointed a gun at you, which was uncalled for and actions that I truly regret in performing, and I know that you must have been seething because of my defiance. And yet, you still decided to lend me a helping hand. If you would not mind at all in answering... may I please ask why?"

And he sat there for a moment, waiting for an answer, or more possibly, a hit of some sort. He was still used to the old Japan, and he didn't understand that he wasn't like that at all anymore; it had been much too embedded in his mind.

[Japan]

He barely watched the younger nation as he moved the short distance to the table and the food. He held his silence as the other spoke, in a voice that was weak, and even though it was steady, almost... afraid. Oh, how that broke Kiku's heart. He didn't want to be feared... not anymore. But he knew that the fear he heard, and the hesitation, and the utterly subjugated sense of enforced respect were earned, and would be difficult to shed.

But the former empire never thought he would so hate the sound of his own language, spoken so respectfully and beautifully, with only the lightest of accents, as much as he hated to hear it from the Korean sitting on the bed.

And for him to be apologizing... Apologizing for justified anger... Apologizing for an "unnecessary outburst," and for being "disrespectful" and "forward" and for having a "sharp tongue" (which, truthfully, was probably the mildest way anyone could have possibly phrased that). It felt like nails in a coffin, somehow.

He said nothing in response, though, allowing North Korea to eat. He needed to eat, as Japan didn't think he had ever seen someone who needed it. And, admittedly, he himself needed to think. Never before had he wished to strip his voice of the natural tone of authority it held, whomever he was speaking to, and never before had he so regretted the confident, proud demeanor he carried in him. Hearing the familiar sound of chopsticks being carefully set down and a soft rustle of cloth, he gave pause, turning his attention to the other, though he remained facing the window, one hand on the wall beside the glass.

"Ah... if you would not mind at all in satisfying my curiosity, I would just like to ask of you one question. Why... did you decide to help me...? I am, of course, extremely grateful that you did so; however, it bothers my mind that you still decided to pick me up from the streets when I fainted, when you could have just left me to die. I... shamefully spoke harsh words and pointed a gun at you, which was uncalled for and actions that I truly regret in performing, and I know that you must have been seething because of my defiance. And yet, you still decided to lend me a helping hand. If you would not mind at all in answering... may I please ask why?"

Japan was silent for a long moment, contemplating a response and weighing words. Finally, he turned to face the other, though he trained his eyes on a spot in the pattern of the bedclothes.

".....please, Kankoku-san," he began, voice soft. "You need not address me with such formality. You have no allegiance to me, and I claim no power over you... You have no reason to apologize to me. Your harsh words and actions were justified. On the other hand..." he trailed off, thinking again. Despite everything, he could not bring his knee to bend, or his head to bow, in any gesture that may convey what he could not yet say.

Swallowing smally, in a gesture that would be unnoticed by anyone not paying the utmost attention, he gave a small nod, almost as though to himself, and closed his eyes. "I hope... Though it does little, and cannot possibly help your people and country... I hope that you will accept my sincere and humble apology. My actions did irreparable harm to you, and I can never possibly correct those mistakes... but I regret the things that I and my people did, and I, Honda Kiku, Nippon no Kuni, wish to do anything in my power to assist you."

'That... got away from me,' he mused when he had finished speaking - rather, when his mouth had stopped moving of its own accord. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the carpet, back straight and arms at his sides as he bowed slightly in the direction of the younger nation. He remained there, though, almost hoping for the other to lash out, but determined not to move until he had responded.

[North Korea]

'Kankoku-san'? Was he truly called that by Japan? In North Korea's eyes, no matter how gentle the other was... No matter how differently he had acted towards him for the few hours they had been together, no matter how much of a caring hand he had reached towards him, more caring than his bosses or his own people had ever been... Somehow, he could not comprehend, or put together in his mind, that this Japan was not the same as the Japan that came to the house he and his brother peacefully shared eighty-one years ago. That this was not the same Japan of 1910; that this was not Dai Nippon Teikoku, that man who had annexed them, subjected them to a life of misery.

The next words that he spoke, though, almost went over his head. 'Claim no power' over him...? To North Korea, Japan had always claimed power over him, whether he said it directly or not. Every bone in his body was compelled to follow, to do whatever the other man said, no matter how trivial or menial or labourous it should be. Listening to the other's orders and mechanically carrying them out without questioning had been the norm for him, and something that he had done for so long, that it had become second nature.

And... in one swift movement that was truly unexpected, the Japanese, who had once exercised complete authority over him, who had once conquered him and made him apologize for every little mistake, the same man who had done unthinkable things to him, his brother, and their people... was apologizing. Him. Apologizing. For what he had done.

In reality... North Korea had no idea how to react. It had been so embedded into his mind that he was lower in the hierarchical structure than the other... and for him to be apologizing was just... Incredible. He never, not in a thousand years, would have even dreamt that the other would apologize to him personally. Yes, his bosses and envoys were probably here to apologize, and he was probably supposed to go to his boss because of that reason, but... for him, personally, to be bowing and apologizing was... he couldn't find a word to describe it, but it left him incredulous.

Staring at the other for a long moment, he now gathered his thoughts and tried to think of what to say. He couldn't say that yes, he did indeed forgave the other, for he hadn't... but at the same time, the apology felt so... so genuine, that he couldn't help but want to forgive the man. "I.." He opened his mouth finally, wanting to break the long silence. "I..." Yes, the silence was broken... but what could he say? Nothing was coming to his mind; even his subconscious was completely blank. He had been caught so off-guard that he couldn't even come up with a good enough excuse. But... what was there to say? Was there ever really anything to say in the first place?

Falling into silence again, his hands balled into a fist unconsciously, clutching the sheets that were wrapped around him. The same man, who had shown him so much cruelty, was now showing him so much tenderness. The same man who had tortured him was healing him. That's saying something, as far as genuineness, right? But even then... There was no part of him that was willing to forgive, yet all the parts of him that wanted to lash out at and humiliate the other disappeared. That was a good sign in itself, wasn't it?

"Nihon-sama..." Yes, Japan had told him to stop being polite. However, he couldn't help his speech; formal Japanese was all he learned, and even if he had learned normal, everyday Japanese, his convictions and that little nagging fear would have prevented him from speaking to the Japanese in any other way. "I do appreciate, very much so, the fact that you are willing to apologize, and I feel that you are genuine in doing so... However, I... cannot give you a definite answer at this point. While it is true that you have shown me the most care today, more so than what my people and my boss had been doing for all the years that had passed... I... cannot say for sure that I can forgive you. To some degree, I may already have, since I do not have the feeling of... wanting to kill you, like I had earlier... However... I... I truly do not know. Forgive me... deep wounds take a long time to heal, and you must be aware of this. I... I... I just..." And he stopped right there, not knowing what else to say. What else is there to say? He had pretty much conveyed everything he wanted to, or at least everything that he wanted the other to know, and there are no other words to express everything that he really wanted to get out.

Trying again, though, he wanted to move the conversation into a more positive light. This was the first time he would be talking to the other as an... an equal, to a certain extent. While he still felt like his subordinate, his servant, a step under the social hierarchy from him, he wasn't truly under him, right now. He was not subject to the other anymore, and he tried to make this a conscious fact. "Though, Nihon-sama... I... I would like to give you my sincerest gratitude, for your hospitality towards me even though I had behaved in such a barbaric way. I could have possibly died out there, had it not been for your assistance." Since he could not make a full bow towards the other, he turned towards him and bowed his head instead, his chin almost touching his chest. He didn't realize that he had been tense all this time, and though his sides were hurting, he couldn't force himself to relax. Crawling deeper under the covers to warm himself, he then stared up at the ceiling to avoid looking at the other, racking his brain for a conversation or small talk topic, something... anything... though nothing was coming to him.

Absolutely nothing. He was blank. It was like his eloquence deserted him, and left him completely helpless. Oh well... all he could do now is hope, wait, hopefully the other would say something that could alleviate the eerie, tense stillness that was currently surrounding the dreary hotel room.

[Japan]

There was that honorific again... Japan had not been lord over the Korean Peninsula for years, and it hurt him to hear that. He kept his head down as he listened, eyes open and cast down even farther than his eyes. He was... still apologizing. Still asking for forgiveness.

That was just wrong.

"Y-You misunderstand me," he said, stammering slightly. "I do not expect your forgiveness. Far from it, in fact." Pulling himself into a full standing position, he focused his attention back on the blankets. "I just want--"

He stopped.

What did he want?

Well.

He thought for a long moment, dark eyes focused intently.

"I just want you to be well. That is all."

And he meant it.

A/N: Ohmygod, short post is shortttt. *hides in shame*

[North Korea]

North Korea blinked. And blinked some more. So much was going through his head. Could this man... really be the same person who had enslaved him and his brother? The same person who had killed their beloved Empress Myeongsong all those years ago with his own hands, without even the slightest hint of remorse or pity on his face? Was he really Dai Nippon Teikoku? Somehow, he can't fathom that Japan had a side like this. He just couldn't believe his eyes.

I just want you to be well. Is that really what he said? He did not expect this, at all. He expected him to lash at him, hit him with the rifle butt like he always did, demand him to forgive and forget, drag him through the streets by his hair. But he didn't do any of those things. In fact, he didn't even so much as reproach him for the insults he hurled at him earlier. He asked for forgiveness, and didn't even mind the fact that he had not forgiven him! To top it off, he saved him and cared for him even after he had pointed a gun at him twice and lashed out at him! Could this really be the same man?

Somehow, he still finds it hard to believe any of this is happening. His mind couldn't, or rather, refused to comprehend. The words 'forgiveness' and 'Japan' just don't mix well together in his head.

But... he had shown him so much kindness today. More than anyone (save for his own brother, who he couldn't even talk to anymore, much less see) has ever shown him during and after the years of occupation. He, who had hurt him and destroyed him, is also the one mending him, attending to him, trying to piece together the brokenness that is him. But why? Could it be because he feels... guilty?

Yes, guilt. That must be it.

But it was still kindness. And tenderness. So really, the motivations didn't matter to him.

"Thank you very much for your sincere concern, Nihon-sama." Again, he bowed his head respectfully towards the direction of the other, but this time a very small, very slight smile on his face is present. Really, the first time he's smiled ever since the start of the occupation.

And now, at this point, his brain started to work again, to try to comprehend things, put things together. Maybe, just maybe... even if he can't forgive him yet, they can still be... civil with each other, treat each other like equals, or maybe even like allies. Such a thought would have never occurred to him otherwise, but with the actions of the Japanese today... he is seriously considering it. After all, in this case, civility and getting along is the first step to forgiveness, isn't it? If he doesn't learn how to control himself and see the good in the other instead of dwelling in the past and despising him, then this wound will never heal. He will never be able to forgive. And he needs to, if he wants to contribute to making this war-stricken world a better and more peaceful place.

And in order to achieve that, he has to allow himself to comprehend that the one standing in front of him is not Dai Nippon Teikoku, but rather, Nihon.

Honda Kiku.

A nation, human, just like him.

Raising his head again, he looked squarely towards the other, really the first time he's ever dared to do so. In the past, such a thing would have been a severe offense and would have guaranteed at least a few days of solitary confinement, but those days were over, and he had to keep telling himself that it's alright now because they are both nations, finally equal.

"Nihon-sama..." He thought for a moment, then swallowed a little before clearing his throat, his voice slightly higher in volume this time (which he wasn't really used to with speaking with the Japanese, because he was taught to lower his voice as a sign of respect). "No, Nihon-san. I really do hope that we can act civilly towards one another from this day onwards. I know that my actions today were unacceptable, however, I really hope to change that. I do hope you would not mind me calling you Nihon-san instead of Nihon-sama, and I really do hope we would be able to work together from now on." Instead of bowing this time, he stretched out his arm to offer his had to the other as in a handshake, to show and further emphasize their equality. He continued to speak, ignoring the pain in his sides from the outstretched arm and resisting the urge to cough. "Thank you for everything you have done for me today. I am afraid I do not know any other form of Japanese except this polite form I am speaking in right now. However, I really do hope that we can treat each other as equals from now on, so that we may work on putting the past behind us."

I hope that wasn't too bold.

[/i] He thought to himself as he waited for the other's response.[/blockquote]