A. p. h. Titanic Chapter 12

                          Chapter Twelve: Dance


"It's at nine. "

"You told me already, Italia-kun."

"You're sure you'll come?"

Japan finished tightening the horrible, choking tie in the mirror. He stared

at Italy.

"I will try my best. And that is my word."

Italy nodded vigorously, watching as Japan fiddled with the buttons on the front of

his fancy lapel jacket. He stifled a giggle.

"You look so dressed up and stiff, it fits you very well…"

"Will you leave?"

Italy shook his head slowly, and Japan sighed in frustration as a button popped.

"Wipe that insolent smile of your face immediately, Italia-kun."

Italy burst into full-blown laughter, unable to hold back.

"St-stiff clothes for a stiff person! Hahahaha!"

"I am not that stiff…and that is not very funny…"

"Maybe not," Italy said with a wide grin, "But I probably should stop feeding

you those sweet rolls you seem to like so much."

He snatched up the stray button and waved it in Japan's indignant face.

"I-I beg your pardon! You are the one who got them! And this suit is two sizes

small!"

"Whatever you say," Italy made a face and pretended to be stuffing his mouth

like a chipmunk, and just narrowly dodged Japan's swipe.

"Nomnomnom…so many rolls yesterday…you acted like you were starving to death…"

"Maybe I am, because of England-san's horrible cooking on this boat—"

The door swung open, and America entered. He grinned at Japan, reaching out his hand.

"All right, I'm ready," he announced, "Come on, England's waiting—"

"Ah," Japan looked down at the floor pointedly. "I was wondering…Italy invited me

below deck to where he is staying with the Italian immigrants, and I was…wondering…if

I could go there instead, just this once—"

"Absolutely not," America interrupted dismissively, waving his hand. "No

arguing. You could catch some illness down there among those people, and besides

that, it looks bad for me. Now come on."

Japan sighed and shot an apologetic look to Italy, who looked hurt at the comments.

"I-I know they're poor and all, but th-they're my people, good people, Signore

America…"

"It doesn't matter, I said no and I don't want him going with you," America

snapped sharply. He took hold of Japan's hand.

"Let's go."

Japan sighed and allowed himself to be towed along.


                               * * *

"I wanna show you to my boss!" America chattered excitedly. "I think you guys could

get along really well!"

"All right," said Japan. His wrist was beginning to hurt from the strain. "By

the way, why do you hold onto my hand? It's a strange thing to do."

America shrugged.

"You don't like it?"

"Frankly…no."

America fixed him unblinkingly, then exhaled deeply, turning away.

"Your friend does it," he muttered under his breath. Japan caught the words.

"Who? Oh…Italy. That's different, he's just affectionate. It's his nature.

He's always been more expressive in that way. He does it to everyone."

"I see. But I've only seen him do it to you."

"He used to hug Germany all the time before their fight. France and Spain

too. It means nothing."

America nodded slowly and tightened his grip on his hand, and Japan stifled a

cry of pain.


                               * * *

Japan managed to escape at five minutes to nine. It was absolute chaos in the

ballroom. The music was much too loud for Japan's taste, and America was in a corner

laughing with his superior. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, and he seemed to

have forgotten completely about Japan. With all the bustle, it was easy for him to

sneak out and quietly close the doors behind him. He sighed in relief.

"You ready?"

Japan jumped and turned to see an overly excited Italian grinning at him. He relaxed

and nodded, and Italy clapped his hands in joy.  

"Very good! Let's go!"

He walked him down the deck, to an area he had never noticed before. A white

staircase with peeling paint on the rails led down to a small doorway. The door was

nonexistent, but the rusted hinges still remained.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Japan asked slowly.

"Huh? Of course it is! I wouldn't bring you somewhere bad! This is third

class, so it's pretty shabby. But you'll like everyone, and I'm sure they'll like

you. They'll probably ask you lots of questions about your country!"

"Wh-what do I say?"

   "Just be loose!"

By now, they were all the way down, and Italy ducked under the doorframe.

"Watch your head…"

He entered, and it was surprisingly bright and well-lit inside. It was crowded with

people of all kinds, mostly Italians. Their clothes were ragged but well-kept, and a

man in the back was handing out food and playing music on a flute. Italy pulled Japan

through the large group of people, waving his arms to make way. Japan blushed as the

stares followed him all the way across the floor. The noise was phenomenal, but it

was different than the party America was holding one floor up at the moment. There

was laughter, snatches of happy conversations, slow music.

It was like a huge family. Italy introduced him to several people he didn't even

know, and random women and men hugged him affectionately, chatting to him in Italian.

A woman offered him food and told him something with a smile. Italy laughed, and

Japan furrowed his brow.

"What did she say?" he asked nervously.

"She says to eat up," Italy translated as the woman patted Japan's shoulder

vigorously, "She says you're too small, you need to become stronger and bigger. She

also says you're…um…p-p-pretty…"

Japan flushed at the words, and the lady laughed and pushed a cup into his hand.

"Drink," she told him in her heavy accent. "Drink?"

Out of politeness, he obeyed. It was sweet and cool, and he coughed at the undertone

of bitterness. He looked around for Italy, suddenly feeling lost. He wiped his mouth

and handed the glass back to the lady.

"What was it?" he asked, pointing to the cup. She shrugged, not comprehending. Japan

thought about it for a moment, then took it back, drinking it down in one gulp. It

was never good to offend people.

He roamed through the crowd, finally espying Italy talking animatedly to a man with a

well-loved accordion in his hand. Japan realized he had never heard Italy speak

Italian before, and stood there for a dizzy moment, allowing the people to rush by.

Italy gestured wildly, and his voice was different than he was used to. He turned and

smiled at Japan, waving in greeting.

"I was wondering when you'd come!" he yelled over the noise. He made his way to him

to gently pull him over.

"This is Leo," he informed him, indicating the accordion player. "He's missing an arm

from the war. But he can still play the accordion! Isn't that neat?"

"Is he doing all right?" Japan asked concernedly. Italy translated, and beamed

to Japan.

"He says good. He also advises you to eat more."

"So I've been told," Japan answered. Italy giggled aloud, and it was so high

and innocent Japan could feel himself relax a little more. This place was so calm and

busy at the same time…it reminded him of the trip he and Italy had taken together a

few years ago to visit his country.

The peace was broken momentarily as Italy nodded his auburn head at the man and said

something in fluid Italian, accent rolling the r's.

"What did you s—what are you doing…?"

The music came on, and it was slow and rhythmic. It began to pick up its pace, and

Italy grabbed Japan impulsively and tugged him onto the center of the floor.

"Italia-kun! I can't dance!"

"Why not?"

Italy smiled widely, eyes almost half-closed with the grin. Japan blushed as people

started to look on, obviously expecting him to do something.

"It's…not dignified…and I d-don't know how anyway…"

   Italy shook his head.

"You're going about this wrong," he explained calmly. "No one cares if you dance

badly, see? We're just supposed to have fun! So, just dance!"

Before he could protest, Italy twirled him by the hand and broke away to begin

dancing jerkily. The music was going faster and faster, tambourines sounding their

refrain. It pounded at Japan's heart, leaving him with visions of white plaster walls

that had stood for hundreds of years, of bright sun on fields of grapes ripening. It

was Italy's very soul, every piece of it ringing inside him as the music beat on.

Italy slipped his hand into his own, and led him in the dance. Japan's feet

unconsciously copied Italy's, and he was filled with a sudden hunger for something

more than his own quiet life, for something more wild and ballistic. He closed his

eyes and turned as his body began to fall into the fast speed. Everything was a blur

of color, of bright light, of music so fast it was one continuous stream of mantra.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he could barely focus on Italy as he twisted and

span. He had never felt anything this amazing before. He felt younger, lighter…


They continued to dance, their very world only a pounding pulsing thumping, and

Italy's hand never left his.


                               * * *