(no subject)
The morning shines bright and blue, and the birds are singing. The sky is dotted with small shreds of clouds, and the general atmosphere is so good that any one tilting their heads up to smile at them in benevolent affection would think that they were curved in smiles back. Beijing shimmers softly as the winter presses her chill kisses over the city. The traffic hums in dull murmurs, the jams so long that more than one family has dozed at the wheel. Street peddlers cycle slowly through the snakes of battered cars, cigarettes dangling from their lips languorously. China loves to look at his city, this place of ugliness and beauty. Graffiti smears the alley, but in his mind’s eyes, he can see the Forbidden Palace, austere as a pearl in a still, moon-lit pond.
He is not looking at the city now. He has a sleek black cell phone out, and with proficiency he wishes would come to him other than in times of extreme agitation, is texting his boss with as much rapidity as water breaking loose from a dam. His fingers fly over the keyboards, and when the (lazymotherfuckingstupididiotic) dragon texts back, Wng, im in a meetng. Cn ths w@it? He nearly breaks the keyboard of his Blackberry in frustration.
He settles for calling the bloody dragon instead.
One ring, two, three… finally a voice answers, irritatedly, “This had better not be you.”
“WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING??!!” China screams at him. “WHY AREN’T YOU SENDING OUT NUCLEAR WARHEADS AIMED NORTH?!”
His superior sighs, and there is a faint rustling of paper and a discreet cough he recognizes to be Hu Jintao’s. While his true leader is a dragon, the embodiment of his past, he has other bosses too. In the background, he hears Wen Jiabao saying, his voice amused, “Oh, just go to him, Long. He won’t calm down otherwise.”
Good man, Wen. He had voted for him in the Party’s election, and is glad he had.
“I have a feeling we shouldn’t indulge him,” his boss answers. China opens his mouth to begin a deluge of insults beginning with turtles and ending in less comfortable methods of intercourse with animals, but it cuts off when Long hastily agrees that he will be there. He shouldn’t be this agitated, he knows, but this is what that- that bastard does to him, and he hates that he can still do it after thirty years.
The dragon arrives in less time than possible, considering the thick lines of immobile traffic, and he arrives in sleek human form, encased in a suit.
“Now,” he says, “What is this about?”
“This,” hisses China, “is about that.”
Description is not necessary. Long has lived far longer than China’s four thousand years, but even his mouth sags a little at the sight.
Sunflowers. There are dozens, hundreds, thousands of them piled everywhere. Spread over the ample roof of China’s comfortable house, and lining the walk way to the building. Perfect, lush, beautiful sunflowers, glimmering and winking at the two non-humans as they both contemplate the sight, China with murder in his eyes and nuclear warfare twitching to go, and Long, who is everything from amused to shocked to amazed.
They’re beautiful specimens of sunflowers. Long stoops to pick them up, and his long fingers catalogue the smooth touch which runs through his fingers like gold ink. Wonderful, amazing sunflowers, lining the path like riches fallen from the sky in trains of brown and shocking yellow.
“Well,” China clearly expects a response now. “What are we going to do about this?” The answer he hopes from Long is obviously one that goes along the lines of: “Why don’t we haul out our nuclear missiles and send them north into that bastard’s wasteland?”
Long sighs. “Don’t you think it’s rather romantic?”
“Romant-!” China doesn’t splutter- it doesn’t fit into his image of careful culture and elegance. But now, he gives a very good impression of a good, old-fashioned splutter of indignation. “I’ll show that bastard romantic! He thinks that he can just split apart and ignore me for thirty years, then come back and shower these- these nuisances over my house- I am going to show him what I will do to his brilliant thinking. That bloody bastard!”
Long shrugs. “You’re swearing more in an hour than I’ve heard you swear in a decade. Decide what you want to do with these, San Guo, because I don’t interfere with lover’s quarrels.” With that and a snort of what might be laughter, he turns on his heels, vanishing in a plume of slender smoke.
China stares. Lover’s quarr- “Dammit!” he swears again, and tramples over the sunflowers for good measure.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. He needs a glass of mao tai.
**
The night refreshes his memories of the past, and China stares up at the wooden planks of his ceiling. In his hand is a crumpled sunflower, and China traces its mutilated petals with his gaze still fixated above.
“I don’t know these,” China breathed, his face pink-cheeked. Russia looked at him, but China did not see the pleasure he took from noting the Asian nation’s strength since he had last seen him. China saw Russia’s smile, cold for everyone else, flare with warmth for him as he pressed the flower into China’s hand.
“I’ve heard of them before of course-“ China stopped as Russia moved closer.
“These are sunflowers,” Russia said. “They are for adoration.”
“Ado-“ China fumbled with the Russian’s pronunciation of his language before the light dawned. “Oh,” and his face turned redder than ever.
“The whole world knows that,” said Russia languidly. China immediately opened his mouth at the perceived barb, but Russia cut him off smoothly. “But they don’t usually know that the sunflower is also for haughtiness and arrogance.”
“Are you saying that I am arrogant and haughty-?” began China furiously.
“Yes,” and Russia smiled another one of his warmth tinged smiles that made China’s stomach drop with annoying rapidity. “I am. And I am also saying that I adore you for it.”
… The memory blurs and ripples, and it is trick of his mind. It is most definitely not because when China moves his hands up to his eyes, he finds them wet.
He realizes he sounds like a stupid, heart sick girl as he remembers this, but China is not prone to break downs often, and when one rains his roof with sunflowers, there is no escaping the past. China swears again, swears at his northern neighbour, swears at his own stupidity, and swears at his boss for being right about the swearing.
If Russia expects any kind of thanks, or blushing renewals of love, he will be sorely mistaken. China throws on his robe and pads outside. The night air is cold, and the flowers are dull with frost. China looks at them silently, at the grand parade of broken memories, eyes hooded and his breath hanging in the air in white puffs. Abruptly, he begins to shred every single flower, destroying their effervescent colour. He rips petals and leaves away, leaving them to decay on his path. The yellow will fade to brown, and they will die and be blown off by the wind. Petals like wounded carcasses float down to the ground, and China slams the door behind him.
**
He dresses for the next meeting in blood red, always his favourite colour. The colour of determination, the colour of battle, and China will need all the encouragement he can get to tell Russia politely that if he so much as waves another flower in China’s face, his corpse will be stuffed into a firecracker and that he, China, will commandeer a special seat just to see the cracker explode and shower the world with little Russia-sized leftovers.
It’s a lot of bravado, and much of it will never said. China is not stupid, and he knows Russia has a stockpile of post- Cold War weapons which make for their poor aim in their sheer quantities. He’s not afraid of Russia, but only idiots are not wary of that over-sized child and his cold, thin-lipped smile.
He heaves a sigh and tugs at his ponytail once more for luck in the United Nations bathroom. Then he straightens his shoulders, and marches into the meeting room, his strides long and purposeful as his legs bring him to Russia’s…
… empty seat.
Wait, what?
Russia is always in meetings, more often than not cradling a vodka bottle and drawing unrelated-to-current-meeting-topics circles on the pad of paper he should be taking notes on. When he’s not in meetings, it denotes a Cold War-esque disagreement with America, and America certainly hasn’t been doing anything of late.
The meeting goes badly. China should be talking about his policies on global warming, but his mind runs in frantic, useless whirls.
He’s not here. Why is he not here? Maybe he’s sick- Perhaps he’s dead. Maybe he fell of my roof putting those sunflowers there, and he’s broken his neck. No, Nations can’t die; he’d heal. So why is he not here? Does he have a cold?- Russia has been in bad shape thanks to the recession. Then how would he put flowers on my roof? I wonder where he got those flowers- they’re so expensive in winter. I’ve told him about spending his money on stupid things. I wish he’d listen, but then again, he never does. If he’s dead, he deserves it, for that stupid prank. What if he’s dead in my garden? I hope not.- Nations can’t die!-
It makes less and less sense when he thinks about it. By the end of the meeting, he has lost his notes on climate change, and poured ink over his briefcase because he wasn’t prepared when America called him up to speak, losing his footing as he went up to the podium.
This is all some evil plot to make me look stupid in front of the international community, fumes China, dabbing ineffectually at his suit.
When he gets home, he’s still snarling at the lack of understanding he has gained from the commute home about Russia’s whereabouts- or rather, his lack thereof.
At least his roof is clear of ridiculously effete sunflowers. China glances at the box he had dumped them in from his burst of outrage last night as he goes in, and has a pang of remorse for the mutilation of something so innocently charming. They had looked like magic last night, blown off the roof and dancing in the wind…
He kicks the box into a corner. He’s not going to think about that.
“Bastard,” he says aloud. “If you want to say something, at least say it to my face.”
He throws off his jacket- with relief; he hates Western suits- and begins pottering around his house, filling a tea pot with tea leaves and boiling water. Soon, the house is heated and muggy with the smell of expensive tea, and China is able to relax.
He’s being stupid, he muses, drawing a long breath of tea as he sips. If Russia wants to absent himself from meetings, it’s not to him to protest. They haven’t talked in thirty years now.
No, that’s not true. Russia has been an ally after they mended their differences. It had been a patchy fix; an alliance built on mutual distrust. The world still holds a memory of them being one: Russia and China, the two indomitable reds, even as the world turned starker and starker around them. China wishes it were that simple: sometime thirty years ago, they went down their own primrose paths.
The doorbell rings, and he puts away the reflection for another time.
“Yes?” he says, opening the door and peering around him. A rotund child peers back up at him, his eyes solemn and serious.
“Er,” China says, unsure of this unexpectedly short visitor. “Did you need something?”
The child nods, and says in a thick Beijing accent. “I’m lost.”
“Oh,” China is immediately concerned. He lets the child pulls him urgently by the hand, yanking him out from under the cover of his roofed porch.
“What-“ the word begins as a question, and ends as a choke.
An explosion of ardent yellow flowers burst over his head as he steps out from under the safety of his porch. Whole and on fire, they land on China and around him, showering explosions of russet gold and rich brown.
He stands motionless and the child is already gone (Four thousand years and he still believes in children? Naïve, naïve), no doubt gone to retrieve his reward for luring China out. He is left standing there, surrounded by flowers, some marred by his reaching hand and others, countless of others beautiful and whole, a promise to remember.
China stands, almost awe-struck, his mouth hanging open and his hands half-raised to catch the miracle blossoms. They shine in the setting sun, silk caught to flame, and the sight is so amazing that he’s laughing before he can help himself, remembering when it used to be him who was amazing Ivan with his fireworks. He has to bite his lip before he can make himself collect them and push them through a shredder.
He keeps one though. Just one, and it does not mean that Russia has won yet.
**
It doesn’t mean that he stops trying. Russia seems to be using all his Cold War espionage tricks to sneak in as many flowers into China’s house as possible. Boxes are no longer sufficient to hide them; China stares at the sheer mass of blooms in his living room and tells himself that the only reason he stopped shredding them is because it takes too much time. Besides, they look almost fetching, yellow against dark walls.
The flowers arrive in different, ingenious guises. Russia never simply leaves them in his house, or by his door. He seems to delight in tripping China into his diabolical plots, no matter how the latter nation tries to avoid falling for them. The most memorable of his subterfuges is when China once bought large fire-crackers to celebrate the New Year. He had pulled the string, and instead of flowers of smoke, flowers of auriferous splendour flew out, tossed into the air as though by a wilful child’s hand, and raining down on his family.
China leaves messages on Russia’s phone daily, when his briefcase is suddenly peppered with posies the size of his fists, when he is tossed a bouquet by a man dressed as a bride, when Japan hands him a Shinatty stuffed with sunflowers before turning tail and running to avoid the explosion.
The messages go something along the lines like:
Mess with my files again and I will stuff all those stupid flowers into your eyes and pinion them there with a fork. Answer your phone, you alcoholic.
And:
If the bride was supposed to be a hint, I will hunt you down and make you wear that dress when I shove you to the church with your sister. Pick up your phone.
And:
Shinatty has been ripped apart and is now hanging from my roof, as you will soon be as well if you don’t stalking me with flowers. If you want to tell me something, how about answering your phone instead of trying to drown me with flowers?
Russia fails to reply to every one of these carefully enunciated messages, which has China raging and fretting if his neighbour isn’t dead. Not that he’s worried; all he wants is for this barrage of buds to stop.
China stares belligerently at the flowers piled in his house, glowering at their cheerful splashes of colour. He cannot say that the sight of them cheers him very much: somehow, they remind him of the hollow ache in his chest and that a certain (fuckingirresponsiblecomepletelydeadwhenIfindhim) someone has been missing for weeks now.
He can’t wrap his head around this: this absence of Russia’s, and the endless barrage of sunflowers. China is strong and proud, but he has never been secure in relationships, and above all, he needs to know before he can take the leap of faith.
He admits he misses Russia. For his smiles, his child-like acceptance, for a dozen things unnamed.
He does not admit that it is more than that. For his own pride, for his barriers, for a hundred things gone wrong.
Even the other nations are beginning to notice his absence, and in a sea of more than two hundred of them, all battling political, racial and ideological differences, that is something. China feels a slight twinge of jealousy when America is the one to realize Russia’s non-existent attendance; that odd, out-of-angle relationship he used to share with Russia when they were staring at each other across the barrel of a gun seems to give him a kind of intuition. He finally looks up from his papers one day, and asks Where the hell is Russia?
And then there is the realization that nobody knows.
China is not blind. He sees the nations giving him odd little side-long glances. The Sino-Soviet split was mended publicly, out of respect for traditions, but they’re not like that anymore, and China wishes the world would stop thinking that they were. He’s beginning to think it too.
But they lost what it took years ago, and China cannot understand why Ivan sends him flowers if he won’t answer his calls.
Sometimes, when Russia has been gone for more than a month now, China pretends that the sunflowers are a way of saying I love you. He counts them when they arrive, reliving memories. I love you, one, two, three times… on and on. It’s not an admission of anything, when the thoughts are in your head and never on your lips.
It’s not like he looks forward to them. Intuitively, Russia gave up on the public displays long ago. Perhaps a memory of China’s sense of propriety, which included strictly platonic displays of affection in public, restricts his natural effervescence. After the house-lined fiasco and the shower of flowers bursting over his head and the bride (oh God, the bride) Russia leaves the theatrics, and works on simply having flowers there.
Two hundred and one, counts China silently, when he finds his boxes of tea emptied and filled with petals. He finds the tea stuffed in a neat box in his pantry, and is pleased- ludicrously pleased that Russia didn’t simply toss them out. He remembered that China can never function in the morning without his tea.
Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. He is pathetic, and this is pathetic, and so is Russia, for ignoring him.
China slams down his cup of tea, and picks up his phone. He dials.
**
Predictably, no one answers. China holds the phone absently to his cheek, and stares at the blank space between his calligraphy paintings on his kitchen wall. He counts down the rings till he is led to Russia’s voicemail. Five in total.
The person you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone. *beep*
China is beginning to hate that smooth, clinical beep.
“Look,” he breathes, feeling awkward talking to a machine. “Look, I’m not angry about the flowers anymore. I just… want to talk to you. Please.” This is beginning to sound like begging. “So come out, you utter and complete idiot.”
**
It begins slowly, a barely perceptible falter. It’s like one less tea leaf in a pot, the certainty of it moving in shadows. China thinks though, that he can pinpoint when it starts, the day the postman stops handing him heavy bouquets and the day there is room for variety in his vases.
It’s nothing, he tells himself, and arranges the aureate flowers in a cerulean vase. They look pretty that way. Two hundred and two.
And then- and then, it keeps on trickling, like a faulty tap. China stares at the flowers in the seat of his car- it’s too cold now in Beijing to walk, and China will die before he steps into public transport in his city- and furrows his brow. They’re smaller than usual.
Still, two hundred and three.
By the end of the week, the bouquets have stopped coming. Sunflowers come in pairs or singly, no longer as part of extravagant bouquets.
China tries to read this as some kind of code for- something. He examines every facet of this inconvenient phenomenon and finds that he cannot explain it by anything except that Russia is slowly losing interest.
The words ‘I told you so’ is at the back of his mind, and his head hurts for the rest of the week. It is not a good time for China: everything he sees is turning yellow and his head is spinning and there is an itchy cough at the corner of his throat, probably a result of the day he got one- one- flower and then went to the park to kick at the snow and throw rocks into the pond without a coat. He thinks about killing the postman, but decides against it. Then he thinks about killing Russia, which is sadly, not going to be sanctioned because of the oil deal they signed last week.
The bastard hadn’t even bothered to show up at the signing. China had waited and waited.
China collects all his received flowers with as much calm and dignity as he can, and shoves them all down the whirring blade in his sink.
He should have done it a long time ago.
**
The middle of the week confirms it: there is a stuffiness in his nose, a dull throb in his head, and everything around him is yellow. China hacks into the phone and tells Long that he won’t be able to come to the meeting today.
Long acts polite and sympathetic in response to the curt message snarled over the phone, and pretends not to know that China’s mood has been worsening ever since the flowers stopped coming, four days ago.
“Rest up,” is the last thing he tells his nation, before going back to the meeting with Hu Jintao and Wen Jiabao.
China throws down his phone with uncharacteristic disdain for neatness and wonders vaguely if he would feel better if he chopped off his head. It would stop the aching, completely horrible pain at the edge of his left eye. God, he’s getting old.
Confucius would recommend tea, and possibly calm, but China’s arms are too heavy to contemplate handling a pot. As long as he sits here in his kitchen breathing in the fumes of the last long jing he had made, he will be fine. His chest hurts too, dull and hollow, but that’s just part of the cold.
He’s sitting in the kitchen because it is his favourite part of his house, not because he’s waiting for flowers that stopped coming.
Quiet. The silence is his house weighs down like a heavy blanket. It is not a quilt, not the kind you can snuggle into and shut out the world and all its headaches. It shifts in his consciousness like silk sheets, damp and sleek and cold. China tries to ignore it. Rest, just rest.
He really wants some tea.
Lying in the quiet, he breathes slowly and evenly, as though he is practicing Tai Chi. This isn’t all that bad, he muses, as long as he keeps absolutely still and lies with his eyes closed. As long as the peace continues, and everything is absolute quiet-
The doorbell rings.
The silence hangs in shock, then shatters into irretrievable pieces. A sharp pain shoots into China’s head.
”Chao!”
Fumbling and slow, he shuffles to the door, swearing under his breath and condemning the idiot at his doorstep to numerous levels of hell. Pulling it open irately, he opens his mouth to tell them to go away and -
Russia grins at him, cherubic and innocent. He waves a little. His hair shines in the tepid winter sunlight.
China is suddenly very aware that his robes are a little dirty, and that his hair is a mess.
“Zdravstvuj,” he says, and his voice has not changed in thirty years.
“What-“ China’s voice sticks to his throat, vocal cords frozen as his mind scrambles to switch gears. “What are you doing here?” The run on: after disappearing for so long? hangs in the air, obvious but unspoken. Russia ignores it.
“I came to see you!” he proclaims, as if it is obvious. “See-I even brought you fruit as a get well present.” China glares at him. Bearings collected, he folds his arms over his chest and stands ever so slightly to the left, making it clear that he is barring the entry to his house.
“Go away.”
Russia only smiles back at him. “I don’t think you should be standing out here in the cold when you’re sick. Let me in, and we can discuss it inside your house.”
China snorts. “As if. I wasn’t born yesterday, Braginsky.”
“But I can make you some tea. You always like to have tea when you’re sick, and I know you can’t have made any for yourself in this state.”
Damn him. China wavers; he really does need some tea. Finally he nods yes. Russia smiles at him gratefully, and steps out from the cold and into them muzzy warmth of China’s house.
“Take off your shoes,” he instructs him. He can at least still give orders.
Russia does, obediently, and lines them up against the door like he’s always done. China stares at his large hands placing his shoes neatly against the wood- they’re even the same colour from what he remembers. The whole afternoon is taking on a sepia tone, as though China is looking back at this from a vintage camera.
Without waiting for him, Russia strides into the kitchen. China hears him opening the cabinets and drawers, lighting the stove, putting a kettle on to boil.
His head pokes back out.
“You still keep everything in the same place, Yao,” he grins nostalgically. “I’m not surprised.”
China shrugs, deigning to answer. He makes his way into the kitchen, settling himself carefully on a stool so that he can watch Russia potter in the kitchen. It is oddly soothing.
The tea takes a while. China’s stove is old, and the heat spreads unevenly to warm the kettle. Russia doesn’t seem to mind; he rocks back on his feet and stares at the old kitchen as though he is reliving every memory he ever had in it. His hand tentatively touches cupboards and shelves that have nothing to do with the tea. He shoots China glances occasionally, violet and unreadable, but China does not stop him. Then the kettle is shrieking, and Russia hurries to lift it off. China orders him around, his voice demanding. But Russia knows China well enough to see that he is comforted by the familiar smell of black tea.
“No, no sugar in it, bai chi. Who drinks sugar and tea together?”
“No, not that pot. That one- no, that one. The one to the left.”
“I don’t want it very bitter, so stop steeping it already and pour it out.
Finally it is done. Russia tries to help China to the table- “You don’t look very steady on your feet”- only to have his hand slapped away. He tries to shove away another smile; China pouting is an image he remembers well.
China sees it, and asks sharply, “What are you smiling at?”
“Nothing,” says Russia, and grins even wider.
Silence. Comfortable on Russia’s part, but China is curled into a tense ball. The tea wraps its soothing smell around him as he hooks his hand around the mug, like gentle hands persuading a child to smile, but China cannot. He raises his head and glowers at Russia, who ignores it.
They talk of little things, Russia chattering away about what he was doing away (visiting the Balkans and his sister Ukraine) and how his phone died when he was there, China answering stiffly only when it is required of him. The rest of the time he glowers at his tea, trying to find out what is strange about it.
“What happened to the flowers I gave you?” Russia suddenly asks. If China would pay attention, he would notice a current of tightness underneath that sing-songing child’s voice.
“The flowers?” he does not. “Your ridiculous flowers? I threw them out.”
“Ah.”
Somehow it all culminates. The tea feels odd in his hands, and so does Russia, sitting here in his kitchen, abruptly looking down at his hands as though China is the one who broke his heart. His head hurts and everything is so goddamn yellow, his hair is a mess and Russia is still sitting there looking at his hands, not saying anything except that ‘ah’.
He’s had fucking enough of it.
“’Ah’?” he explodes. “Is that all you can say- ah? I have had the worst time in my life because of you. Out of the blue you decide to send me hundreds of sunflowers, and you’re not there to explain them! I have been trying to find you for weeks now and you never called me even after I left you all those messages. And then- and then I actually started liking your stupid flowers and you stopped sending them! I was even counting them, because- because you once told me that sunflowers stood for love and adoration. So of course I had to shove them down the sink or else I’d be an idiot and you have no right to sit there and look like I just stabbed you in the back!”
Russia is looking up at him now, and there is a sparkle of hope in his lavender eyes.
“You liked them?” he repeats.
“No!- yes!- I- not at first,” China trails off uncertainly. There is another awkward silence, with Russia flashing a whole panoply of emotion, his eyes shining strangely, and China fighting with himself. He will not ask, no he will not. He is not going to be so weak-
“Why did you stop sending them?” he says finally, hating himself for having to know.
Russia suddenly turns red.
“I didn’t,” he mutters, and stares down at his hands studiously.
“Yes you did,” contradicts China.
“No, I didn’t,” Russia mumbles. “I- ah, I,” his back stiffens and suddenly he sounds as though he’s speaking in front of the United Nations. “I took the liberty of somewhat violating your sovereignty by replacing certain landmarks around your house with ones that I felt would be more… intriguing.”
“What does that mean?” China scowls. “And since when have you cared about sovereignty?”
Russia flushes even redder and China tries to focus on what he will say next, instead of how attractive that colour looks on Ivan’s pale skin. “I just… replaced some things. Switched your cushions for some yellow ones. And your slippers. And some of your plates. And your tea boxes. And now, your tea cup.” He motions to the one China is holding.
“Hmm?” He looks down, and finally realises what was wrong with the tea. It’s in a mug, instead of a neat tea cup, and there are masses of sunflowers plastered, grinning, over it. He stares around his house, and sees, for the first time, why everything is yellow.
Yellow cushions on his couch, with tiny, elegant sunflowers embroidered on them, instead of his sedately grey ones. His feet are encased in yellow, smiley sunflower slippers, in lieu of his red ones. In a daze, he hobbles off his chair and shuffles to his cupboards. Yellow plates, all screamingly bright and probably picked up at a thrift store. Each lined with sunflowers at the edges. Tea boxes renamed and rearranged, yellow and covered in sickeningly familiar flower patterns. Four days worth of missing flowers.
“You- you did that?” he asks, incredulous. He rounds on Russia, who is nervously chewing his lip. “You broke into my house and stole my plates and my slippers and my cups?! I’ve been thinking that I’ve been dying or going insane, because everything is yellow! You complete motherfucking bastard. Do you have no sense of borders, of privacy at all? You violated my sovereignty! I am not one of your Balkan states, or your third world countries. You do not come into my country without my permission, especially not to do something so- so completely stupid and idiotic. I don’t care if you think my rule is worth nothing in my country- if you don’t care about my sovereignty. If you think you’re going to force me back to you, you’ve got another think coming, you son of a turtle, you-“
Russia has been edging closer all the time, his eyes wide and scared, and just a little wild. China breaks off when he realises Russia’s violet eyes are close to this face, and his breath is blowing hot on his lips.
“I do,” whispers Russia. “I do care about your sovereignty.” And with that, he kisses China.
It feels like a million things all at once. It feels like a rush of hot air and a slap of cold, it tastes like vodka and peppermint candy, it feels new and rushed and messy, but most of all, it feels like the same kiss, thirty years ago. Russia’s tongue strokes along China’s, and before he knows it, he’s clinging to Russia, eager for more contact, despite his headache, despite his anger, despite everything.
“I don’t want to force you back,” pants Russia, when they break apart. He speaks closely, nose bumping nose as he stares at China. “I want it- I want it to be you, not a threat.”
And this is fragile. Like the petal of a flower, though their positions are anything but delicate. China’s fingers are twisted around Russia’s scarf almost to choking point, and he is unsure if he should lash out or resume contact. Russia is scared and asking, not demanding, and China knows that this is it. This is the leap of faith he’s never able to take.
But he’s never wanted anything else so badly.
“Fuck,” China hisses, and pulls Russia back down.
**
“Why can’t we keep the round one?”
“You want to know why? Because you broke into my house and replaced all my plates and my tea cups and my tea. You have no ground to stand on. We are not keeping the round plate.”
“But it’s cute! It’s got a smiling sunflower on it!”
“… Throw it out, Ivan.”
Notes:
- Long: literal translation: Dragon. An unorigianl name for China's boss.
- Hu Jintao and Wen Jiabao: the current leaders of the People's Republic of China. Voting in the Communist Party is not composed of different candidates from different political parties. Candidates are selected from the Communist Party.
- San Guo: literal translation: third country. Because China was a warring state before it became a united country, it was called san guo for a period of time, because it was split into three divisions all vying to control all of China. Long is older than China, so he calles China by that name.
- Russia had a history of storming out of UN meetings during the Cold War, especially when in disagreement with America. Or else it just used it's veto power like the bitch nasty Russia is.
- Espionage is a credited Russian trick, though it was later adopted by the rest of the world. Spies existed before, but hardcore espionage emerged in the Cold War, thanks to the Stalin's paranoia.
- Zdravstvuj: 'Hello' in Russian (Babel Fish; don't blame me if it's wrong)
- Traditionally, Chinese tea is drunk without sugar or lemon.
- China does have a touchy thing about sovereignty. Even today, there are border fights with the US, especially along the sea. There is also a disputed area somewhere in India, that hasn't really been settled on yet. During the Korean War, the Chinese were involved because American forces were advancing too close to their border. The Soviet Union also wanted to control China because it was a large communist country. However, the Chinese Communist Party was unable/did not accept much help from the USSR when it was trying to establish itself, partly because it meant accepting tied aid, and also because the Russians were on the side of the Kuomintang before it became clear that the CCP would win.
- The Balkans are obviously a Soviet sphere of influence. After the Cold War, Russia also tried to establish it's influence in third world countries by lending a lot of aid.