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Hetalia: life is like a japanese vending machine
Vending machine fluff, because Z said so.
life is like a japanese vending machine
Hetalia. 285 words. Japan and Germany walk around Tokyo in the winter. G.
The war was years ago, but it has left its indelible marks on both of them. It changed everything. Well, sometimes all you can do is swallow your pride and pick up the pieces. You pick up the pieces and maybe one day, if you're lucky, you'll be producing vending machines that vend out vegetables and shoes.
For all that you can buy lobsters and ties from vending machines in this country, you cannot buy things like redemption and hope and contentment. If you could though, it would be Japan who would figure out how first. The vending machines are very him, but Germany doesn't tell him this lest Japan takes it the wrong way. Japan, who has a penchant for miniatures, impersonal but expedient, oddly ubiquitous, full of surprises.
"You have come a long way," Germany observes, as he and Japan they make their way down the sidewalk, anonymous under a million neon signs. He turns up the collar of his coat, protecting himself against the cold of the Tokyo winter. "You have developed much."
"Thank you, Doitsu-san," Japan replies. "Ah, are you cold?"
"I have experienced harsher winters," Germany assures him.
"Perhaps we can find a cafe."
"Japan, I'm quite well."
But, at the next row of vending machines, Japan stops and says, "Please wait, Doitsu-san." He takes out his wallet.
Money is put into the machine. Buttons are pressed. Something falls.
"What are you getting?" asks Germany.
Japan pushes the flap and retrieves his purchase: a scarf. He wraps it around Germany's neck.
"It is best to keep warm during the winters lest we get sick," says Japan.
And Germany, who is blushing, says, "Thank you."
Japan smiles, and Germany smiles back.
life is like a japanese vending machine
Hetalia. 285 words. Japan and Germany walk around Tokyo in the winter. G.
The war was years ago, but it has left its indelible marks on both of them. It changed everything. Well, sometimes all you can do is swallow your pride and pick up the pieces. You pick up the pieces and maybe one day, if you're lucky, you'll be producing vending machines that vend out vegetables and shoes.
For all that you can buy lobsters and ties from vending machines in this country, you cannot buy things like redemption and hope and contentment. If you could though, it would be Japan who would figure out how first. The vending machines are very him, but Germany doesn't tell him this lest Japan takes it the wrong way. Japan, who has a penchant for miniatures, impersonal but expedient, oddly ubiquitous, full of surprises.
"You have come a long way," Germany observes, as he and Japan they make their way down the sidewalk, anonymous under a million neon signs. He turns up the collar of his coat, protecting himself against the cold of the Tokyo winter. "You have developed much."
"Thank you, Doitsu-san," Japan replies. "Ah, are you cold?"
"I have experienced harsher winters," Germany assures him.
"Perhaps we can find a cafe."
"Japan, I'm quite well."
But, at the next row of vending machines, Japan stops and says, "Please wait, Doitsu-san." He takes out his wallet.
Money is put into the machine. Buttons are pressed. Something falls.
"What are you getting?" asks Germany.
Japan pushes the flap and retrieves his purchase: a scarf. He wraps it around Germany's neck.
"It is best to keep warm during the winters lest we get sick," says Japan.
And Germany, who is blushing, says, "Thank you."
Japan smiles, and Germany smiles back.
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