"My scars, you mean. Aigun, Tientsin, Peking, the Li-Lobanov, the Boxer Protocol-" he pulls the folds of his shirt tight around his shoulder, hiding the latticework that would never entirely fade (good: he doesn't want them to) and turning to Ivan with stony eyes, "-I do not forget, all that all of you have done - yes, your precious Romanovs too, who so sadly lost their mandate. Did it hurt, your Bloody Sunday, your Revolution?"
He is, in a way, begging for it, the set line of his jaw making it clear that Yao expects to be struck at any moment, would have been prepared for a blow, a slap, being sent flying across the room to crumble into a heap (again). But Ivan just smiles that uncannily genuine smile, and so he presses on, lightheaded and intoxicated by the cruelty of his own tongue. "I think it must have hurt. Mine did."
Ivan only smiles, puts a hand gently on his shoulder to turn him around, and kisses him, all deceptively sweet and chaste. "Things have changed. Join me. I promise: things will be better."
Like hell, Yao thinks, as Ivan's long fingers curl around the jagged edges of his roughly hewn hair, where Kiku had hacked off his braid in one smooth move, never meeting his eyes, and then proceeded to bring Yao to his knees with brutal efficiency. Look at me, Yao had silently willed, hands clutching at the wound between his ribs, the blood that gushed forth from Nanking; look at me, my once-upon-a-time little brother - acknowledge this, acknowledge what you are doing, to whom you are doing it. Don't you dare distance yourself from your crime.
"He did this."
Yao's throat suddenly constricts. It is the matter of fact tone more than anything else that winds him. He did this, he did this to me. And he did not once meet my eyes.
"Never mind. We will return your Northeast to you. You're still beautiful, but incomplete without it," Ivan says in his singsong voice, hands sliding downwards to do up the buttons of Yao's shirt before finally resting on the small of his back, pulling him close. Yao shakes his head, then nods, just to feel the lightness of his head once more. Almost a decade has passed and it still feels strange, and he has no plans on getting used to the feeling. There will be a reckoning.
And so for the time being he lets Ivan hold him, recuperates and gains strength with his help, sleeps with his eyes open at night, and dreams in black and white and red.
Re: red. [2/2]
anonymous
January 8 2009, 18:40:55 UTC
I third; this is truly a thing of beauty. Their relationship is so complex and it allows for certain moments of strange intimacy that don't quite work the same with others. ♥
... is dead. So, so dead. Oh my God, this is absolutely stunning and the imagery of the loss of China's queue paralleling the loss of his land, and all the red and dkjghkdfjghdkfjhg. THANK YOU, AUTHOR!ANON.
Re: red. [2/2]
anonymous
January 11 2009, 00:54:26 UTC
Good lord anon. This. This. I love your China. I love your Russia. I love the biting baiting that goes on from one to the other. And with absentee Japan too, you paint such a bitter picture. ♥ Utterly beautiful.
Re: red. [2/2]
anonymous
February 17 2009, 09:07:13 UTC
This is...damn, anon, I have never shipped Russia/China before but you make it so damn good. I love both of them so much in this fic. Seriously. Fantastic piece of work.
"Is it?"
"You are."
"My scars, you mean. Aigun, Tientsin, Peking, the Li-Lobanov, the Boxer Protocol-" he pulls the folds of his shirt tight around his shoulder, hiding the latticework that would never entirely fade (good: he doesn't want them to) and turning to Ivan with stony eyes, "-I do not forget, all that all of you have done - yes, your precious Romanovs too, who so sadly lost their mandate. Did it hurt, your Bloody Sunday, your Revolution?"
He is, in a way, begging for it, the set line of his jaw making it clear that Yao expects to be struck at any moment, would have been prepared for a blow, a slap, being sent flying across the room to crumble into a heap (again). But Ivan just smiles that uncannily genuine smile, and so he presses on, lightheaded and intoxicated by the cruelty of his own tongue. "I think it must have hurt. Mine did."
Ivan only smiles, puts a hand gently on his shoulder to turn him around, and kisses him, all deceptively sweet and chaste. "Things have changed. Join me. I promise: things will be better."
Like hell, Yao thinks, as Ivan's long fingers curl around the jagged edges of his roughly hewn hair, where Kiku had hacked off his braid in one smooth move, never meeting his eyes, and then proceeded to bring Yao to his knees with brutal efficiency. Look at me, Yao had silently willed, hands clutching at the wound between his ribs, the blood that gushed forth from Nanking; look at me, my once-upon-a-time little brother - acknowledge this, acknowledge what you are doing, to whom you are doing it. Don't you dare distance yourself from your crime.
"He did this."
Yao's throat suddenly constricts. It is the matter of fact tone more than anything else that winds him. He did this, he did this to me. And he did not once meet my eyes.
"Never mind. We will return your Northeast to you. You're still beautiful, but incomplete without it," Ivan says in his singsong voice, hands sliding downwards to do up the buttons of Yao's shirt before finally resting on the small of his back, pulling him close. Yao shakes his head, then nods, just to feel the lightness of his head once more. Almost a decade has passed and it still feels strange, and he has no plans on getting used to the feeling. There will be a reckoning.
And so for the time being he lets Ivan hold him, recuperates and gains strength with his help, sleeps with his eyes open at night, and dreams in black and white and red.
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"Is it?"
"You are."
Lovely, lovely writing. I especially liked how you portrayed China in this.
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