The Root of All Things
Title: The Root of All Things
Character(s): China, America
Rating: PG
Warnings: Economics for dummies.
Summary: Spring, 1945. China ponders, listens, and then ponders some more. And not much else, which is sort of the point.
It started with a fisherman, China thinks, as far as he remembers. Or was it a farmer? Somewhere down around the Yellow River whence civilization first sprung, maybe even before Sorrow became as much a part of the name as--
No. Wait. Go back.
It was a fisherman, or so the one story goes. And every morning he would set out in his boat (back when it was only tiny fishing boats that China had, only and not just and there is a difference) so that every evening he returned with a full day's catch, food enough for him and his family. A simple life, a harmonious life. But man cannot live on fish alone for all his life, can he, and ah, yes, that was where the farmer came in.
"China? Hey, China, are you listening to me?"
The cessation of America's loud pacing is what catches his attention; not the addition but the removal of sound. Behind his desk, China shakes his head and looks up out of his reverie. "Mm? Yes, America, I'm listening. Perhaps if you repeat yourself more clearly I will pay better attention."
If there is one thing China has learned from dealing with England's wayward son, it is that petty formality matters little in conversation with him. America will doggedly overlook anything he does not want to hear, or at least speak his own piece loudly enough that it may as well have only been him talking in the first place. China can appreciate that, in his way.
"Uh, yeah, so anyway," he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "It's about, you know, the war and stuff."
He looks at China as though expecting something, but China merely nods blankly and says, "Go on."
America coughs into his hand, but not out of illness. How could he, straight and tall and broad as one of his own trees in the middle of China's office? "Yeah. And. Well. I was talking with some of the others about everything we're gonna do afterwards ('cause we're starting to talk about that now, China, how cool is that?)--and so there's a couple of things we argued about and a couple of things we're still trying to hammer out, but..."
--The farmer, yes, China recalls, while waiting for the point. Sometimes fish alone were just not enough, and of course it was important to have rice as well to feed a family. So the fisher traded with the farmer and each got what he wanted, and if there were other things he needed from other people he could always offer them fish, too, just as long as he kept setting out in an empty boat every morning and returning every evening with a full one. And that, too, worked well for a little while, until it didn't anymore and they had to find a better--
No. Wait. Go back.
Why did it stop working? Because not everyone needed fish.
"...And I especially talked to Russia," America finishes. China does not miss the tone.
"Yes, you usually do. What did you two discuss this time?"
America, who in his scant 100-and-some-odd years is not and has never been the kind of ill China knows, coughs again. "Well, uh." He takes a step forward and leans on the back of the chair he has thus far been ignoring in front of him. The wood creaks under his twisting grasp. "You know I've been trying to get him to break off that neutrality pact with Japan."
One of the pages on his desk is bent at the corner. China slides it over to himself and gently folds it the other way to compensate for the damage. "I do."
More throat-clearing. America is as subtle as he is cultured, then. "Yeah, 'cause it's like, they only ever signed it so they wouldn't have to worry about each other while they were all busy worrying about Germany or me, right? And that kinda makes sense, I guess, I dunno, but now nobody's worried so much about Germany and stuff's changed so--"
"I know, America," says China, a touch shortly. He gives up on the folding and pushes the stack of sheets aside. "I do have some interest of my own in all of this, remember."
"--But see, thing is, it's taking kind of a lot to convince him." There is nothing to see out the window at this hour, but America's attention remains nonetheless riveted to the one side. "And there are some things he wants in return."
Was this ever new?, China thinks, and that is what he says, too, but America is quite talented and need not even take the effort to ignore a comment that, for him, has never existed.
"And don't get me wrong, man, I don't like dealing with him any more than you do"--than you should, China hears--"But sometimes I guess you've gotta do what you've gotta do, right?"
--No, no, not everyone needed fish, so sometimes you would have to go through a few different trades, back in those days, make a separate deal for some other item with which you could barter to get what you really wanted. But that was a poor solution at best, for what should happen if the seamstress wanted this and the shoemaker wanted that and neither of them had any use for whatever the poor fisherman had to trade, and it all grew so complicated so quickly--
"So, um, yeah, here's what we worked out." America drums his fingers loudly, steadily, and gazes up at the low ceiling in recital. "Russia'll declare war on Japan a coupla months after Germany goes down. And then..then he gets some of the things he's been after in Manchuria and stuff. Possibly Mongolia." The drumming stops just in time with his head snapping back down, eyebrows high. "So."
There are many things China could say to that, most of them in a voice a few beats quicker and a few octaves higher than his usual tone, but he is now quite sure that even this would drown out long before reaching the right ears, so instead he blinks and says, with all the mildness of truth:
"I never agreed to this."
And now America does sit in the chair, sinks down, in fact, and splays his hands on the desk, wide open as his face. Neither they nor his voice shake, for all that is worth. "You've gotta understand, man. I need this." It is hard to look away from those eyes, but America makes it easier by closing them and shaking his head at intervals. "It's--Ok, it's like Germany is done for, yeah? We're so close to being done with that, so close, and it's definitely only a matter of time there now, but I've still got the Pacific to worry about, you know, and Japan--Japan doesn't freaking quit. I won't--" America's hands are not open anymore, but clenched, white knuckled, on top of China's papers. There will be new creases there, when he removes them. "I won't do another two or three years of this, China. There's no way." He continues to fixate on the nothing outside the window. "No freaking way."
--So it all finally grew so very complicated that they had needed to find a better solution, almost but not quite from the very beginning. It started with the shells, as far as he remembers. Small and fragile and symbolic of their worth only so long as enough people still believed in it, but China knew even then of belief's might. And then there was bronze, and copper, round coins with square holes that he'd hefted on a string purely to marvel at their weight, and then later after the ships there was silver, too, then more ships, always more ships, and eventually after the silver came--
No. Wait. Go back.
(It does not work this way.)
"China?"
If America holds his head a little more steady and China concentrates enough, he can make out the thin line cutting through his spectacles, a faint bubbled division between one kind of lens and the other. Bifocals, China thinks, the ones for which he so praises that inventor of his, if what America has can ever truly be called invention. That will mean he's both near- and farsighted, then. Which is he more? Does it matter?
His eyes shine blue behind the lenses, beneath a crinkled brow that would not yet be permanently creased even if this were how time chose to deal with their like. "We're going to win it, China. We're going to win this war."
"I'm sure we will," says China, and wonders how much either of them registers the pronoun.
The meeting does not last much longer than that, but it does not have to. America has never been one for long difficult conversation, as far as China remembers.
And he certainly remembers as far as that.
Notes: --Pretty much what America said, really. Just probably without all the 'er'-ing and 'ah'-ing. Also this.
So how does one write China or France during WWII without driving him- or herself crazy over all the different angles there are to choose from? If anyone has a secret, do share with me.
Character(s): China, America
Rating: PG
Warnings: Economics for dummies.
Summary: Spring, 1945. China ponders, listens, and then ponders some more. And not much else, which is sort of the point.
It started with a fisherman, China thinks, as far as he remembers. Or was it a farmer? Somewhere down around the Yellow River whence civilization first sprung, maybe even before Sorrow became as much a part of the name as--
No. Wait. Go back.
It was a fisherman, or so the one story goes. And every morning he would set out in his boat (back when it was only tiny fishing boats that China had, only and not just and there is a difference) so that every evening he returned with a full day's catch, food enough for him and his family. A simple life, a harmonious life. But man cannot live on fish alone for all his life, can he, and ah, yes, that was where the farmer came in.
"China? Hey, China, are you listening to me?"
The cessation of America's loud pacing is what catches his attention; not the addition but the removal of sound. Behind his desk, China shakes his head and looks up out of his reverie. "Mm? Yes, America, I'm listening. Perhaps if you repeat yourself more clearly I will pay better attention."
If there is one thing China has learned from dealing with England's wayward son, it is that petty formality matters little in conversation with him. America will doggedly overlook anything he does not want to hear, or at least speak his own piece loudly enough that it may as well have only been him talking in the first place. China can appreciate that, in his way.
"Uh, yeah, so anyway," he says, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "It's about, you know, the war and stuff."
He looks at China as though expecting something, but China merely nods blankly and says, "Go on."
America coughs into his hand, but not out of illness. How could he, straight and tall and broad as one of his own trees in the middle of China's office? "Yeah. And. Well. I was talking with some of the others about everything we're gonna do afterwards ('cause we're starting to talk about that now, China, how cool is that?)--and so there's a couple of things we argued about and a couple of things we're still trying to hammer out, but..."
--The farmer, yes, China recalls, while waiting for the point. Sometimes fish alone were just not enough, and of course it was important to have rice as well to feed a family. So the fisher traded with the farmer and each got what he wanted, and if there were other things he needed from other people he could always offer them fish, too, just as long as he kept setting out in an empty boat every morning and returning every evening with a full one. And that, too, worked well for a little while, until it didn't anymore and they had to find a better--
No. Wait. Go back.
Why did it stop working? Because not everyone needed fish.
"...And I especially talked to Russia," America finishes. China does not miss the tone.
"Yes, you usually do. What did you two discuss this time?"
America, who in his scant 100-and-some-odd years is not and has never been the kind of ill China knows, coughs again. "Well, uh." He takes a step forward and leans on the back of the chair he has thus far been ignoring in front of him. The wood creaks under his twisting grasp. "You know I've been trying to get him to break off that neutrality pact with Japan."
One of the pages on his desk is bent at the corner. China slides it over to himself and gently folds it the other way to compensate for the damage. "I do."
More throat-clearing. America is as subtle as he is cultured, then. "Yeah, 'cause it's like, they only ever signed it so they wouldn't have to worry about each other while they were all busy worrying about Germany or me, right? And that kinda makes sense, I guess, I dunno, but now nobody's worried so much about Germany and stuff's changed so--"
"I know, America," says China, a touch shortly. He gives up on the folding and pushes the stack of sheets aside. "I do have some interest of my own in all of this, remember."
"--But see, thing is, it's taking kind of a lot to convince him." There is nothing to see out the window at this hour, but America's attention remains nonetheless riveted to the one side. "And there are some things he wants in return."
Was this ever new?, China thinks, and that is what he says, too, but America is quite talented and need not even take the effort to ignore a comment that, for him, has never existed.
"And don't get me wrong, man, I don't like dealing with him any more than you do"--than you should, China hears--"But sometimes I guess you've gotta do what you've gotta do, right?"
--No, no, not everyone needed fish, so sometimes you would have to go through a few different trades, back in those days, make a separate deal for some other item with which you could barter to get what you really wanted. But that was a poor solution at best, for what should happen if the seamstress wanted this and the shoemaker wanted that and neither of them had any use for whatever the poor fisherman had to trade, and it all grew so complicated so quickly--
"So, um, yeah, here's what we worked out." America drums his fingers loudly, steadily, and gazes up at the low ceiling in recital. "Russia'll declare war on Japan a coupla months after Germany goes down. And then..then he gets some of the things he's been after in Manchuria and stuff. Possibly Mongolia." The drumming stops just in time with his head snapping back down, eyebrows high. "So."
There are many things China could say to that, most of them in a voice a few beats quicker and a few octaves higher than his usual tone, but he is now quite sure that even this would drown out long before reaching the right ears, so instead he blinks and says, with all the mildness of truth:
"I never agreed to this."
And now America does sit in the chair, sinks down, in fact, and splays his hands on the desk, wide open as his face. Neither they nor his voice shake, for all that is worth. "You've gotta understand, man. I need this." It is hard to look away from those eyes, but America makes it easier by closing them and shaking his head at intervals. "It's--Ok, it's like Germany is done for, yeah? We're so close to being done with that, so close, and it's definitely only a matter of time there now, but I've still got the Pacific to worry about, you know, and Japan--Japan doesn't freaking quit. I won't--" America's hands are not open anymore, but clenched, white knuckled, on top of China's papers. There will be new creases there, when he removes them. "I won't do another two or three years of this, China. There's no way." He continues to fixate on the nothing outside the window. "No freaking way."
--So it all finally grew so very complicated that they had needed to find a better solution, almost but not quite from the very beginning. It started with the shells, as far as he remembers. Small and fragile and symbolic of their worth only so long as enough people still believed in it, but China knew even then of belief's might. And then there was bronze, and copper, round coins with square holes that he'd hefted on a string purely to marvel at their weight, and then later after the ships there was silver, too, then more ships, always more ships, and eventually after the silver came--
No. Wait. Go back.
(It does not work this way.)
"China?"
If America holds his head a little more steady and China concentrates enough, he can make out the thin line cutting through his spectacles, a faint bubbled division between one kind of lens and the other. Bifocals, China thinks, the ones for which he so praises that inventor of his, if what America has can ever truly be called invention. That will mean he's both near- and farsighted, then. Which is he more? Does it matter?
His eyes shine blue behind the lenses, beneath a crinkled brow that would not yet be permanently creased even if this were how time chose to deal with their like. "We're going to win it, China. We're going to win this war."
"I'm sure we will," says China, and wonders how much either of them registers the pronoun.
The meeting does not last much longer than that, but it does not have to. America has never been one for long difficult conversation, as far as China remembers.
And he certainly remembers as far as that.
Notes: --Pretty much what America said, really. Just probably without all the 'er'-ing and 'ah'-ing. Also this.
So how does one write China or France during WWII without driving him- or herself crazy over all the different angles there are to choose from? If anyone has a secret, do share with me.