[ YOUR EX-LOVER IS DEAD / fanfiction/ PG-13/ noncon, history ]
Title: Your Ex-Lover Is Dead
Author: slash4femme
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/Category: Japan/China
Rating: PG-13
Warning: violent images, reference made to non-con, The Treaty of Nanjing and The Opium War
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, I do not make money off of doing this. The only thing I'm getting out of this is pure unadulterated creative enjoyment and less hours for me to spend doing my real work.
Summary: Kiku can never say no when Yao comes to him.
Author Note: Not beta'd, sorry guys. Written for silversword2010 who is a big Japan/China fan. I am neither a Chinese nor a Japanese historian so forgive me any historical errors.
I will not end up like this, like him.
Kiku remembers being a child, remembers the feeling of Yao’s hands on his face, the sound of the other nations laughter. Empire’s laughter, because Yao was China, huge and powerful, the panicle of civilization, that from which all light emanated. Kiku had feared him then and looked up to him although he had always tried to hide it. In those days Yao had been bright, beautiful and happy. That had been a long time ago though.
Yao is too thin, the bones in his wrists stick out making him look even more fragile then normal, making him look like a child even as the dark circles under his eyes make him look too old. There are usually bruises and cuts all over his arms and hands sometimes even his face and Kiku has stopped asking ‘who did this’ because Yao never gives him a straight answer. Really it could be any of them, and Kiku doesn’t know who he hates more, the nations who circle like vultures slowly picking Yao apart or Yao himself for letting it happen. Except that he hadn’t, because Yao was many things but never passive and he had fought it, he had fought back. Yao had been too isolated though, too out of touch with the rest of the world, and the British Empire Arthur had been stronger.
Yao stank there days, of death and decay and fear. He was almost never sober too, always wreaked of opium, eyes cloudy and unfocused. He comes to Kiku not because his so called ‘bosses’ want him to, and not because there is any kind of official agreement “relationship” between them. He comes because he has nowhere else to go, nowhere that is safe. Kiku hates that Yao thinks he is safe. He hates that Yao stumbles into his house drugged out of his mind and half dead, and passes out wherever he falls, the garden, or the courtyard even. Most of all he hates that he can’t turn Yao away, can’t say no. Every time he takes Yao in, washes him, feeds him, puts him to bed on Kiku’s own futon, and hates himself for doing it.
Yao looks like a child though, too pale skin stretched over fragile bones, dark hair spilling everywhere. He sleeps curled up like a child, as if he’s trying to protect himself even in sleep. Kiku watches him, hands folded in his lap, lips pressed together in a straight controlled line, trying to hold all his emotions at bay, trying to get himself under control. Kiku likes to think that he isn’t someone easily moved to hate, but Yao always seems to bring out the worst in him.
I will not become him.
Sometimes Yao wakes up crying. He twists himself in the blankets trying to curl into himself before getting free and crawling across the room to Kiku. Yao winds himself around the smaller nation, crying silently and Kiku doesn’t have the heart to push him away. When Yao's tears finally stop and he curls up, head in Kiku’s lap and Kiku strokes his hair. It’s in these moments that Kiku sometimes lets himself forget that Yao is China and he is Japan. He kisses Yao’s forehead, strokes his hair back from his face, kisses each of Yao’s paper-thin eyelids in turn. Yao seems almost peaceful like that as Kiku holds him, but Yao's eyes flutter open eventually golden and unearthly. Kiku is forced to remember who this is that he holds in his arms, forced to remember how old and beautiful and strange Yao is.
Yao reaches up with one too-thin hand and strokes his fingertips against Kiku face and Kiku doesn’t let himself shudder, doesn’t lean into the touch. Yao smiles at that a small secret smile and his fingertips move down the line of Kiku throat before Kiku grabs the other nation's hand, forcing it away from his own body. He can’t think, can’t breathe when Yao’s touching him. Yao gives him an almost wistful look and Kiku gets a small amount of vindictive pleasure from the fact that he knows Yao would willingly give him what Author had to take by force. At least now, weak and half drugged out of his mind Yao would give him that and the pleasure dies inside of Kiku leaving him feeling more miserable then ever. Yao only leans forward and kisses him on the cheek.
My little Kiku, always such a good boy.
Eventually Yao body will begin to shake and sweat with need for more of the drug and Kiku knows that Yao will be leaving soon. Probably crawling back to Arthur to whore himself out for more, he thinks bitterly as Yao looks at him with blood-shot golden eyes. He doesn't say anything though only watches as the other nation pulls back on the clothes he had come to Kiku in. Kiku clenches his fists in his lap and swears silently to himself.
I will not become him. No matter what it takes or what I have to do I will never be him; invaded, divided up, drugged, broken, used.
“He doesn’t own me.” Kiku blinks in surprised and Yao slips his shirt back over his shoulders, red cloth obscuring soft skin. “He doesn’t own me, none of them do.” Yao’s voice is scratchy and tired, his hands shake a little but he smiles, that little secret smile, over his shoulder at Kiku. “And neither do you.” Too-thin fingers, which are nevertheless still unnaturally strong, fix around Kiku chin and the smaller man knows he could easily pull away, but he doesn’t. Dry, cracked lips brush across his forehead, light, gentle and teasing. “Think about that next time you pity me, little one.”
Then Yao is gone and Kiku let’s his hands unclench slowly, closes is eyes so he doesn’t have to see the unmade bed, the empty room.
Never, never, never, never like him.
He scrubs one hand across his face; sniffles a little now that he’s alone and hate himself most of all. Because Yao is still everything he ever wanted.
_____________________________________________
• in 1842 Britain forced the Chinese Emperor to sign The Treaty of Nanjing “opening” China to the West. Britain claimed control over several key Chinese ports as ‘spheres of influence’. By 1858 America, Russia and France had claimed their own ‘spheres of influence’. (http://afe.easia.columbia.edu/special/china_1750_opium.htm)
• This story takes place around 1860-ish by 1895 Japan had used China’s unstable political position to make claims on Korea and northeastern China. (http://afe.easia.columbia.edu/special/china_1750_opium.htm)
Author: slash4femme
Fandom: Hetalia
Pairing/Category: Japan/China
Rating: PG-13
Warning: violent images, reference made to non-con, The Treaty of Nanjing and The Opium War
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters, I do not make money off of doing this. The only thing I'm getting out of this is pure unadulterated creative enjoyment and less hours for me to spend doing my real work.
Summary: Kiku can never say no when Yao comes to him.
Author Note: Not beta'd, sorry guys. Written for silversword2010 who is a big Japan/China fan. I am neither a Chinese nor a Japanese historian so forgive me any historical errors.
I will not end up like this, like him.
Kiku remembers being a child, remembers the feeling of Yao’s hands on his face, the sound of the other nations laughter. Empire’s laughter, because Yao was China, huge and powerful, the panicle of civilization, that from which all light emanated. Kiku had feared him then and looked up to him although he had always tried to hide it. In those days Yao had been bright, beautiful and happy. That had been a long time ago though.
Yao is too thin, the bones in his wrists stick out making him look even more fragile then normal, making him look like a child even as the dark circles under his eyes make him look too old. There are usually bruises and cuts all over his arms and hands sometimes even his face and Kiku has stopped asking ‘who did this’ because Yao never gives him a straight answer. Really it could be any of them, and Kiku doesn’t know who he hates more, the nations who circle like vultures slowly picking Yao apart or Yao himself for letting it happen. Except that he hadn’t, because Yao was many things but never passive and he had fought it, he had fought back. Yao had been too isolated though, too out of touch with the rest of the world, and the British Empire Arthur had been stronger.
Yao stank there days, of death and decay and fear. He was almost never sober too, always wreaked of opium, eyes cloudy and unfocused. He comes to Kiku not because his so called ‘bosses’ want him to, and not because there is any kind of official agreement “relationship” between them. He comes because he has nowhere else to go, nowhere that is safe. Kiku hates that Yao thinks he is safe. He hates that Yao stumbles into his house drugged out of his mind and half dead, and passes out wherever he falls, the garden, or the courtyard even. Most of all he hates that he can’t turn Yao away, can’t say no. Every time he takes Yao in, washes him, feeds him, puts him to bed on Kiku’s own futon, and hates himself for doing it.
Yao looks like a child though, too pale skin stretched over fragile bones, dark hair spilling everywhere. He sleeps curled up like a child, as if he’s trying to protect himself even in sleep. Kiku watches him, hands folded in his lap, lips pressed together in a straight controlled line, trying to hold all his emotions at bay, trying to get himself under control. Kiku likes to think that he isn’t someone easily moved to hate, but Yao always seems to bring out the worst in him.
I will not become him.
Sometimes Yao wakes up crying. He twists himself in the blankets trying to curl into himself before getting free and crawling across the room to Kiku. Yao winds himself around the smaller nation, crying silently and Kiku doesn’t have the heart to push him away. When Yao's tears finally stop and he curls up, head in Kiku’s lap and Kiku strokes his hair. It’s in these moments that Kiku sometimes lets himself forget that Yao is China and he is Japan. He kisses Yao’s forehead, strokes his hair back from his face, kisses each of Yao’s paper-thin eyelids in turn. Yao seems almost peaceful like that as Kiku holds him, but Yao's eyes flutter open eventually golden and unearthly. Kiku is forced to remember who this is that he holds in his arms, forced to remember how old and beautiful and strange Yao is.
Yao reaches up with one too-thin hand and strokes his fingertips against Kiku face and Kiku doesn’t let himself shudder, doesn’t lean into the touch. Yao smiles at that a small secret smile and his fingertips move down the line of Kiku throat before Kiku grabs the other nation's hand, forcing it away from his own body. He can’t think, can’t breathe when Yao’s touching him. Yao gives him an almost wistful look and Kiku gets a small amount of vindictive pleasure from the fact that he knows Yao would willingly give him what Author had to take by force. At least now, weak and half drugged out of his mind Yao would give him that and the pleasure dies inside of Kiku leaving him feeling more miserable then ever. Yao only leans forward and kisses him on the cheek.
My little Kiku, always such a good boy.
Eventually Yao body will begin to shake and sweat with need for more of the drug and Kiku knows that Yao will be leaving soon. Probably crawling back to Arthur to whore himself out for more, he thinks bitterly as Yao looks at him with blood-shot golden eyes. He doesn't say anything though only watches as the other nation pulls back on the clothes he had come to Kiku in. Kiku clenches his fists in his lap and swears silently to himself.
I will not become him. No matter what it takes or what I have to do I will never be him; invaded, divided up, drugged, broken, used.
“He doesn’t own me.” Kiku blinks in surprised and Yao slips his shirt back over his shoulders, red cloth obscuring soft skin. “He doesn’t own me, none of them do.” Yao’s voice is scratchy and tired, his hands shake a little but he smiles, that little secret smile, over his shoulder at Kiku. “And neither do you.” Too-thin fingers, which are nevertheless still unnaturally strong, fix around Kiku chin and the smaller man knows he could easily pull away, but he doesn’t. Dry, cracked lips brush across his forehead, light, gentle and teasing. “Think about that next time you pity me, little one.”
Then Yao is gone and Kiku let’s his hands unclench slowly, closes is eyes so he doesn’t have to see the unmade bed, the empty room.
Never, never, never, never like him.
He scrubs one hand across his face; sniffles a little now that he’s alone and hate himself most of all. Because Yao is still everything he ever wanted.
_____________________________________________
• in 1842 Britain forced the Chinese Emperor to sign The Treaty of Nanjing “opening” China to the West. Britain claimed control over several key Chinese ports as ‘spheres of influence’. By 1858 America, Russia and France had claimed their own ‘spheres of influence’. (http://afe.easia.columbia.edu/special/china_1750_opium.htm)
• This story takes place around 1860-ish by 1895 Japan had used China’s unstable political position to make claims on Korea and northeastern China. (http://afe.easia.columbia.edu/special/china_1750_opium.htm)