Cannonfire and Half-Mast Flags (Axis Powers Hetalia, Russia/China)
What's this? A ficpost from a Puel? Why yes. Yes it is.
I have missed writing, I really have.
Title: Cannonfire and Half-Mast Flags
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Russia/China
Rating: PG-13, for allusions to sexuality and possibly disturbing imagery
Wordcount: ~4300
Timestamp: March 8-9, 1953
Summary: “There are so many of them.” Russia’s voice swells, shakes. “So many have come to me.” China attends Stalin's funeral, and isn't quite sure what to make of what he sees.
March 8, 1953
Russia’s boss is dead, and Russia’s bed is cold. This is what first occurs to China when he wakes, or what he first acknowledges.
He rises, spares a look at Russia beside him-Russia sleeps on, and China doesn’t wake him, merely winds one of the thicker blankets strewn across the bed around his shoulders and walks to the window. The floorboards freeze the soles of his feet, but China can endure such momentary discomforts. It is March in Moscow, cold and grey but not silent. Hushed, China decides; even the trains bearing thousands into the city rattle more quietly along their tracks and muffle their belches of steam, out of respect for the dead. The spires of Saint Basil’s Cathedral pierce the gathering gloom, and he frowns at the other peaks and towers clustered near it. So many buildings competing for attention, striving to be higher than the next. Russia’s bosses, he thinks, must not approve. In truth, China prefers the symmetry of his own pagodas, though even that silhouette is changing now. Changing, changing, changing, always this talk of changing. China sighs. One blanket is not enough to keep the chill out.
He turns from the window. Russia sleeps on his side, his broad arms curled around his pillow, pulling it tight to his chest. His snores resemble sobs, and he trembles with the force of them, knots his fist more tightly in his scarf. China tiptoes to his side and rests his hand on Russia’s shoulder; Russia keeps his eyes screwed shut and draws his knees closer to his chest. If he is trying to make himself smaller, it isn’t working. They are both too old for this, China decides, shakes Russia’s shoulder again, and calls his name.
“China,” Russia murmurs, “China, where are you?”
“Awake,” China replies, “and standing by your bed.”
Russia’s eyes struggle open, and he swipes his scarf over them, grunting. “Come here, China. The covers are warm.”
He shakes his head, tucks the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, buries his nose in the quilt, and inhales. “We ought to dress and see him,” China says, “before the crowds grow too large.”
Russia rolls over and buries his face in his pillow.
“Russia.”
“Come back to bed with me,” Russia says, his voice muffled. “It is so much colder without you in it.”
China rests his hand on the back of Russia’s neck gingerly; his skin is cool, clammy to the touch. Russia sniffs, turns his head and blinks blearily at China with downturned eyes and a dragging mouth. He could mistake it for stoicism, or sleepiness, were it not for the way Russia’s jaw trembles when China strokes it. China has always been attentive to detail, to form. If a thing is to be done, it should be done correctly, and China will do this correctly, will follow the Russian forms no matter how unsightly they are, no matter how ugly the noise rending through the Red Square is, but he cannot be expected to do that if Russia remains in bed. “Your people are waiting for you,” he says.
“There are so many of them.” Russia’s voice swells, shakes. “So many have come to me.”
“Yes.”
He tangles his fingers in China’s hair and pulls him down to the bed-China would protest, but Russia’s lips cover his, Russia’s breath fills his mouth before he breaks away, and even after he does, Russia’s arms encircle China’s waist and muffle him in their grasp. “You have come to me,” he says, his lips pressed to China’s ear.
China pauses before he again responds, “Yes.”
“How long will you stay?”
He does not ask how long Russia wishes him to. “Until our business is resolved,” he says. “Zhou En-Lai and his delegation should arrive tomorrow, for the funeral.”
Russia fluffs the pillow under China’s head. “Your boss will not come with them?”
“He is required in Beijing.” Someone must assume the reins and steer the people; thus has it always been, even in such times of loss. Doubtless Russia is doing the same now. Someone must organize the funeral, someone must direct the traffic of trains flowing into Moscow, someone must prepare the Red Square for the millions of mourners flooding it, someone must fund the processions and parades. The living care for the dead. Thus has it always been.
“You are here,” Russia says.
“China is more than a man.” He puts his hand in Russia’s, and Russia’s fingers encompass the whole of his wrist. “And China is with you.”
“China is all of his people, and so am I,” Russia agrees. “It is a good thing to be, yes?”
“Yes,” he says, and adds, “and you should be with them now.”
“The others will know how good it is someday,” Russia continues, as though he has not heard.
“To be one?”
Russia kisses China again, pets his unbound hair. There is a dirge playing below them, lachrymose and stately, and Russia’s tongue moves against China’s teeth to the tune. He doubts Russia is aware of it. “Yes,” Russia whispers when the kiss is broken. “There is so much to do, China. There are so many things we must make better…”
“You will make no one better if you stay here and sleep.”
“I have stood with the honor guard for two days.” Russia’s fingers curl around China’s shoulders, and China hides his gasp at the gesture; his back throbs as Russia kneads the muscle, bears down on the knots with his knuckles. “It hurts, China.”
“What hurts?”
“My feet, and my chest.”
China frowns. “Your chest?”
“It is very tight-China, China, he is dead and I cannot breathe-”
Neither can China, when Russia crushes him closer. Hot water spills across his forehead, and the pillow absorbs the rest of it. China says nothing, though he tries to squirm away from the path of Russia’s tears.
Slowly, Russia hauls himself to sitting and drags China up with him, tucks China’s head under his chin. Together, they watch the sun creep over Moscow and the Red Square, over the black-clad crowds choking the streets. They still wear mourning dress here, China thinks, heavy clothes that bow their shoulders and heads, or perhaps they do so only for special occasions. But why should the death of one man be ranked above another in Russia’s lands? He can supply his own answers to that-some families have more fortune than others, some families scrimp and save to have prayers said every seven days, and some families cannot shoulder the expense-but none of the answers are what he ought to say, so he does not say them. There is a time and a place for everything, or there was once.
“There are so many people,” Russia says again.
“They have gathered to support you.”
Russia nods absently; he looks at the Red Square, not at China. “To support me…”
“You know your people better than I know them.”
China feels a shudder run through Russia’s chest, over his ribs. “But they say so many things, and sometimes they lie-he was very good at catching the liars, China, he told me all about it, but now he cannot do that.”
“It is never simple,” China says.
Russia’s arms draw tighter around his chest. “It would be,” he says, “if everyone were good.”
Low wails drift from below, mingled with the bellows of trains, the hoarse voices of Russia’s officers trying to keep order.
“So many,” Russia repeats, to himself more than to China. “He was a great man.”
China agrees, but remarks, “A dynasty must last beyond one man.”
“I do not think that is a good word for these times, China.”
“Of course.” He twists from Russia’s grasp, kneels by his traveling chest and unlocks it. He will wear a suit today, crisp and Western, black tie and black shirt and a gloss of black on his shoes. He thinks of the mourning bands endorsed by his Party and wonders if he is overdressed, but Russia says nothing of his clothes as he dons them and China isn’t inclined to press the point. Instead, he says, “You know my meaning.”
There are screams amidst the wails, harsh and ragged sounds. Russia does not speak.
***
Russia dresses and takes coffee while China finishes his tea, and the two of them leave the hotel before the sun has finished rising. The walk would have been easier had they both stayed in the Kremlin, but Russia is the only Nation permitted within its walls now. China says nothing of this. Russia is holding his hand tight enough to throttle it, and China is almost grateful for it when the two of them are thrust into the thick of the crowd, with bodies pressing in on all sides. China nearly gags, and Russia grips him tighter. “Shh,” he thinks he hears him say, “shh,” but the wails of Russia’s people drown out all gentler sounds. They have not yet crossed into the Red Square, China doesn’t think, though he can barely see over the shoulders of the people crowding around him. If he tips his head all the way back, he can glimpse some of the taller landmarks, and they point the way, but in pausing to do this he is jostled, nearly wrenched away from Russia-
“China,” Russia shouts, “China, don’t leave-”
“I’m here,” China starts to say, before a group of women sends him sprawling into Russia’s chest. He chokes on Russia’s scarf and wrenches his head back, lest he inhale the tassels. Breathing is difficult enough as it is. Russia weaves through his people and pulls China along with him, but his strides are shorter, and China does not think it is only the presence of the crowd that curtails his steps.
“You must not leave,” Russia is saying, “I cannot keep you safe if I do not know where you are.”
China does his best to memorize the route through the Red Square, so Russia will not have to lead him along it like a child tomorrow. The thought galls him. “I thank you for your concern,” he says.
“Look at them, China, look at them all,” and though Russia’s voice is heavy, there is wonder in it.
“It is good that you came, then?” he asks over the heated curses of a couple next to him.
Russia pauses in the middle of the street, or nearly does; the crowd is large enough to drag even him forward when he remains still for too long. “It is bad that I had to come at all. Bad, and strange. But it is good that they-it is good that they want to be here. For me.”
If he sobs with the rest of his people, China doesn’t see it. He only feels Russia draped over him, heavier than his coat. The street they are on is about to spill into the square, and Russia grips China’s wrist-
-and a fresh tide of people sweeps closer and nearly bowls them both over. Before China can right himself, the crowd surges again and pins him in place, bears him away from Russia-Russia’s head is barely visible above the crowd and then disappears in it, and though China struggles to break free of the crowd’s hold, he does not know which direction he should push towards. His heels scrape the cobblestones, at last, and he is deposited on his feet, gasping for breath a long time in coming.
Millions of mourners flood the Red Square and shuffle to the House of Trade Unions to pay his last respects. The sheer mass of people overwhelms the high towers and red walls of the Kremlin, the long arches and lined friezes of the Main Department Store opposite it, the gold spires of the cathedral behind him as the crowd impels him north, to where Russia’s boss rests in state. China draws near enough to see a portrait of him hanging before the House of Trade Unions, surrounded by red flags and garlands. Red for the Red Square, red for the Party: China knows it fits, but his gut screams that the red is wrong. The crowd churns beneath his gaze, which to China seems not to be fixed on them at all but on something much further, and he reserves his smile for that sight. People pour in and out of the building in a scuffling lurching line, which bristles with each new addition. The shape is ungainly, unwieldy, and China nearly finds himself swept up again, carried bodily by the suffocating press of the crowd; he covers his mouth with his sleeve and breathes through the cloth to alleviate the thick odor of onions seeping into his nose and throat, the smell of cooling sweat. When he closes his eyes, he hears the sound of bones cracking.
It’s hard to distinguish one person from another in this, and China imagines that to be the point, and Russia is still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he is inside already. If he is, very well; China can manage without his assistance now. He thinks he picks out the three Baltic states standing by the door, half-tucked in the recesses framing it, pale and silent. He nods to them, and the eldest bows his head briefly in acknowledgment. They acknowledge him; few others in the crowd can spare a thought for a Nation not their own, and China will not fault them for this. Russia’s sisters cover their heads and clutch handkerchiefs to their throats. Albania wipes his nose with the heel of his hand, little blond Poland shifts from foot to foot and stares at the crowd, and Austria’s wife and Germany’s brother stand under one of the pines nestled against the Kremlin’s wall. Their lips barely move, and the snow drifting down from the branches masks their mouths even more, but they are speaking, and their circumspection is from caution and not from respect for the dead, if China observes correctly. And China does see. He has prided himself on this for centuries, millennia-far before the Mongol chained Russia to his yoke.
Russia’s boss was seventy-four. That isn’t so old.
Why, then, do Russia’s people walk with such weight, as though they have the years piled on their backs and dragging at their heels? It is the burden the bourgeoisie places on them, his bosses and Russia’s would say, and they have not yet learned to stand straight. The reason is as good as any other. The skies churn overhead, grow grey and thick, but release nothing. No breeze stirs in the Red Square, no breath blows, only sobs that suck more air away. Again, China covers his mouth with his fist, pulls his elbows in as the line at his back pushes him forward. He finds himself lifted off his feet, crushed between two and then three and then at least ten bodies clustered around him, choking-his toes don’t scrape the ground and his arms are pinned to his sides and the sound of cracking bone swells-
The grooves on the walls. If he can grasp them…China struggles, and lunges towards the nearest wall as best he can, half-wrenches his arms out of their sockets to reach forward; his fingers trail in the fluting but don’t catch on anything, merely skitter down and brush across as the masses thrust him in another direction, bear him towards the entrance, but that is barely broad enough to fit four men abreast and they cannot all squeeze themselves through, there isn’t room for them all, where are Russia’s Party organizers, where is the order in this-
A hand catches his. China starts.
“I’ve got you,” he thinks he hears someone say, and he is dragged against the current of bodies until his back bumps the side of one of the recesses. He breathes in deeply-there’s a pocket of air here-and looks at the man grasping his hand. The eldest of the Baltics again, and despite the youth the shape of his face suggests, China notices the dark circles under his eyes, the lines around his mouth. He can almost recall the Nation’s name-ah. Lithuania. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” Lithuania responds, and glances over China’s shoulder. “I think some of them have been crushed to death…”
China is not surprised to hear it.
“Russia sent me to look for you. He wanted to make sure you were safe-he said he couldn’t see where the crowd took you.”
“Russia,” China says, “should give all his people that assurance.”
Lithuania does not bow his head or look away, but meets China’s gaze levelly. “He thinks he is.”
A thrill runs up China’s back.
“He likes to keep as many of them as close as he can,” Lithuania says. “He doesn’t…” But he trails off, and shakes his head.
China arches his eyebrow, and Lithuania presses his finger to his lips, looks up towards the windows. Dim silhouettes stand in them, unmoving, facing the faceless crowds.
“Even now?” China asks, and anticipates Lithuania’s answer: “Especially now.”
Of course.
Lithuania coughs, says, “Follow me, if you don’t mind.”
“You do not fear for your own safety?” China asks.
Lithuania’s answer is almost lost in the milieu, but China hears him over the dull clump of peasant boots and the splintering of squeezed bone: “I know how to keep Russia from crushing me.”
China nods, and permits Lithuania to usher him through the door; the two of them weave through the throngs and dodge around pillars and palm fronds. China’s heel catches on a curtain, and the lights from the chandeliers are more distracting than illuminating, as China finds himself drawn to the crystals suspended from them, to his fractured reflection-no. He wrenches his head away, curses the organizers for failing to cover the mirrors, curses himself for forgetting-but no, he’s allowing superstition to guide him, and he must not. He must not. The old must yield to the new...
Crystal and marble. He remembers the clean lines of Lenin’s tomb and chews on his lip. There is so much here, so much of everything, and China knows what vastness is but were it not for Lithuania’s grip on his wrist, he would be lost here, buffeted about like a butterfly in a storm, and it does not suit him.
They approach the body. It isn’t a sight to be missed. The coffin rests on red velvet and a bed of flowers: white flowers everywhere, spilling over the sides and clustered around his head. China starts, wants to shout at them to take the red away unless they want to be haunted-
And if they do?
China looks at the shadows under Russia’s eyes and sighs, says nothing.
Besides, nobody listens to him, now.
“You are here,” Russia says quietly, his eyes and cheeks ruddier than China has seen them in some time. They are not the rich red of the velvet, but they are close. Lithuania peels away from the two of them and rejoins the crowds before the coffin; Russia does not summon him back. “I am glad I found you, China. Stand here, next to me.”
Doubtless the crowd still moves and makes noise. China sees and hears none of it. Is he implying-?
A man in the honor guard shakes his head, taps Russia’s shoulder, and whispers in his ear. “Oh,” Russia says, and his face falls. “The honor guard is only for me, and for senior Party members.”
And who among them is older than I am? China thinks, but presses his lips together.
“You will wait outside with Lithuania and Latvia and Estonia, yes?” Russia asks. “And then I will come fetch you.”
“I can find my way back to the hotel,” says China.
He stares at the corpse. How many of your agents are still in my cities? he could ask it. Where is the aid you promised me? But the dead give no useful advice in these times, and Russia’s old boss lied while he lived. Why should his behavior change now?
Russia’s people file past the coffin. They do not bow, do not offer prayers, give only sobs and longing looks. No-China frowns. Some of them whisper even now, though they grow silent when they near the honor guard, but they are the same whispers Hungary and Prussia spoke in earlier, ones that barely use words at all. Words are still dangerous, China supposes. Some steal furtive glances around corners and at their neighbors’ shoes, but glance away quickly, as though they do not wish to know what they have seen. This is a funeral, but there is nothing still here, nothing silent.
China joins the line trundling back to the Red Square, and is absorbed into the crowd after that. The sweat smeared on the fur lining of his coat condenses and freezes, and China draws his arms around himself, stares at the formless grey sky.
Something snaps under his feet when he steps forwards. He squints down, tries to see around the boots beating the cobbles, crushing the-
Crushing the body beneath.
Blood wells and thickens in the cracks between the cobblestones. China breathes in sharply and tastes copper in the air, mingled with the sweat and starch and screams.
The dead have come to the funeral, China thinks. An elbow digs in his back, a shoulder, a knee. So many, he remembers Russia saying: so many, too many, too much, too many sucked under the crowd and swallowed and subsumed-
There is dead flesh clinging to his shoe. China is very, very cold.
***
Russia braids China’s hair clumsily, no matter how many times China attempts to instruct him in it. “My hands are so big, and your hair is so fine,” Russia explains, but he enjoys doing it; he likes having something to do with his hands, he says. And so China lets him run his fingers through his hair, cup the back of China’s head in his palms, stroke China’s neck with his thumbs. He yanks China’s braid tighter tonight and nearly pulls some of his hair out by the roots, but Russia does not hear China hiss, or chooses not to, and mumbles to himself in his own language as he attempts to stuff the escaped strands back into place.
“We will be together at the funeral,” Russia says, almost chanting the words, “and my people will watch, and so will the whole world.”
China closes his eyes. “Yes.”
“And we will be sad, but we will be sad together-” Russia twists China’s braid hard enough that tears bead at the corners of his eyes, is the man still so unaware of his own strength and oh China’s scalp burns-“And we will be strong together.” Another tug, this one strong enough to nearly lift China off his stomach. “Yes?”
“Russia, the braid is finished-”
“But it looks wrong,” Russia says, and adds, “and I wish it wouldn’t…”
His hands tremble in China’s hair. China gives Russia time to collect himself, or to collect himself as best he can.
“But things, they will look better tomorrow,” he says, his voice rougher than China is used to. “I want them to. I very much want them to, China.”
He says, “I saw a woman crushed to death today.”
Slowly, slowly, Russia’s hands withdraw from China’s hair.
“The crowd trampled her,” he continues. “I think there were others-there was not enough room in the Hall for all of them, and so many wanted to get in.”
“So many.” Russia’s voice is barely a whisper. China looks up, sees the corners of his mouth droop. It would be cruel to continue; cruel and also true, if the events are approached from a certain angle. China sighs to himself. Russia presents such a large target, such a tempting one. Surely he knows this about himself by now. It is a quality he shares with China, after all.
“That should not have happened,” Russia is saying softly, “Beria said-China, how am I to trust him to watch over me if he cannot keep my people safe?”
“Perhaps someone else, then,” China suggests.
“Yes, yes.” He pauses, cups China’s cheek. “There are still many who want to help, yes? I still have good children, I still have such very good children…but why do they make themselves so hard to find?”
China does not answer.
“Your boss will need to learn how to find them, too.”
“My boss knows how.”
“Of course.” It occurs to China that Russia has not yet smiled today, and he doesn’t do so now, though the lines of his mouth soften. “China?”
“Yes?”
“My people. Were they very angry with me?”
“No,” China says. “They grieved.”
“We all mourn,” Russia says, and China echoes him: “We all mourn.”
***
March 9, 1953
The five minutes of silence starts in Moscow and radiates across the world, stretches to London and Paris and New York and Berlin and Beijing. And in Beijing they bow before portraits of Russia’s boss, fly the flags at half-mast, bear funeral wreaths down the streets, write their condolences in their best calligraphy, and salute him with a barrage of cannonfire. It is not quite the mourning ceremony his own boss wants him to adopt, but it is not his old funerals, either.
Russia clutches China’s shoulder and pulls him closer, closer until the wool of his coat muffles the side of China’s face and scratches his neck. China tilts his chin up to breathe better: wool, he remembers, is good for trapping but not for breathing. He has known this for a long time. He has known many things for a long time.
He wonders how long this will last.
***
Stalin died on March 5, 1953, after suffering a stroke four days earlier. Millions of people attended his funeral, and hundreds were crushed to death in the Red Square when they tried to view his body. They were his last victims.
By 1953, the CCP was starting to encourage people to abandon funeral rites associated with superstition and the old regime in favor of cremation, but the new practices were by no means entrenched.
***
Hopefully I will not wait another month to post fic. I don't think I will. Ideas, I has them.
I have missed writing, I really have.
Title: Cannonfire and Half-Mast Flags
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairing: Russia/China
Rating: PG-13, for allusions to sexuality and possibly disturbing imagery
Wordcount: ~4300
Timestamp: March 8-9, 1953
Summary: “There are so many of them.” Russia’s voice swells, shakes. “So many have come to me.” China attends Stalin's funeral, and isn't quite sure what to make of what he sees.
March 8, 1953
Russia’s boss is dead, and Russia’s bed is cold. This is what first occurs to China when he wakes, or what he first acknowledges.
He rises, spares a look at Russia beside him-Russia sleeps on, and China doesn’t wake him, merely winds one of the thicker blankets strewn across the bed around his shoulders and walks to the window. The floorboards freeze the soles of his feet, but China can endure such momentary discomforts. It is March in Moscow, cold and grey but not silent. Hushed, China decides; even the trains bearing thousands into the city rattle more quietly along their tracks and muffle their belches of steam, out of respect for the dead. The spires of Saint Basil’s Cathedral pierce the gathering gloom, and he frowns at the other peaks and towers clustered near it. So many buildings competing for attention, striving to be higher than the next. Russia’s bosses, he thinks, must not approve. In truth, China prefers the symmetry of his own pagodas, though even that silhouette is changing now. Changing, changing, changing, always this talk of changing. China sighs. One blanket is not enough to keep the chill out.
He turns from the window. Russia sleeps on his side, his broad arms curled around his pillow, pulling it tight to his chest. His snores resemble sobs, and he trembles with the force of them, knots his fist more tightly in his scarf. China tiptoes to his side and rests his hand on Russia’s shoulder; Russia keeps his eyes screwed shut and draws his knees closer to his chest. If he is trying to make himself smaller, it isn’t working. They are both too old for this, China decides, shakes Russia’s shoulder again, and calls his name.
“China,” Russia murmurs, “China, where are you?”
“Awake,” China replies, “and standing by your bed.”
Russia’s eyes struggle open, and he swipes his scarf over them, grunting. “Come here, China. The covers are warm.”
He shakes his head, tucks the blanket more tightly around his shoulders, buries his nose in the quilt, and inhales. “We ought to dress and see him,” China says, “before the crowds grow too large.”
Russia rolls over and buries his face in his pillow.
“Russia.”
“Come back to bed with me,” Russia says, his voice muffled. “It is so much colder without you in it.”
China rests his hand on the back of Russia’s neck gingerly; his skin is cool, clammy to the touch. Russia sniffs, turns his head and blinks blearily at China with downturned eyes and a dragging mouth. He could mistake it for stoicism, or sleepiness, were it not for the way Russia’s jaw trembles when China strokes it. China has always been attentive to detail, to form. If a thing is to be done, it should be done correctly, and China will do this correctly, will follow the Russian forms no matter how unsightly they are, no matter how ugly the noise rending through the Red Square is, but he cannot be expected to do that if Russia remains in bed. “Your people are waiting for you,” he says.
“There are so many of them.” Russia’s voice swells, shakes. “So many have come to me.”
“Yes.”
He tangles his fingers in China’s hair and pulls him down to the bed-China would protest, but Russia’s lips cover his, Russia’s breath fills his mouth before he breaks away, and even after he does, Russia’s arms encircle China’s waist and muffle him in their grasp. “You have come to me,” he says, his lips pressed to China’s ear.
China pauses before he again responds, “Yes.”
“How long will you stay?”
He does not ask how long Russia wishes him to. “Until our business is resolved,” he says. “Zhou En-Lai and his delegation should arrive tomorrow, for the funeral.”
Russia fluffs the pillow under China’s head. “Your boss will not come with them?”
“He is required in Beijing.” Someone must assume the reins and steer the people; thus has it always been, even in such times of loss. Doubtless Russia is doing the same now. Someone must organize the funeral, someone must direct the traffic of trains flowing into Moscow, someone must prepare the Red Square for the millions of mourners flooding it, someone must fund the processions and parades. The living care for the dead. Thus has it always been.
“You are here,” Russia says.
“China is more than a man.” He puts his hand in Russia’s, and Russia’s fingers encompass the whole of his wrist. “And China is with you.”
“China is all of his people, and so am I,” Russia agrees. “It is a good thing to be, yes?”
“Yes,” he says, and adds, “and you should be with them now.”
“The others will know how good it is someday,” Russia continues, as though he has not heard.
“To be one?”
Russia kisses China again, pets his unbound hair. There is a dirge playing below them, lachrymose and stately, and Russia’s tongue moves against China’s teeth to the tune. He doubts Russia is aware of it. “Yes,” Russia whispers when the kiss is broken. “There is so much to do, China. There are so many things we must make better…”
“You will make no one better if you stay here and sleep.”
“I have stood with the honor guard for two days.” Russia’s fingers curl around China’s shoulders, and China hides his gasp at the gesture; his back throbs as Russia kneads the muscle, bears down on the knots with his knuckles. “It hurts, China.”
“What hurts?”
“My feet, and my chest.”
China frowns. “Your chest?”
“It is very tight-China, China, he is dead and I cannot breathe-”
Neither can China, when Russia crushes him closer. Hot water spills across his forehead, and the pillow absorbs the rest of it. China says nothing, though he tries to squirm away from the path of Russia’s tears.
Slowly, Russia hauls himself to sitting and drags China up with him, tucks China’s head under his chin. Together, they watch the sun creep over Moscow and the Red Square, over the black-clad crowds choking the streets. They still wear mourning dress here, China thinks, heavy clothes that bow their shoulders and heads, or perhaps they do so only for special occasions. But why should the death of one man be ranked above another in Russia’s lands? He can supply his own answers to that-some families have more fortune than others, some families scrimp and save to have prayers said every seven days, and some families cannot shoulder the expense-but none of the answers are what he ought to say, so he does not say them. There is a time and a place for everything, or there was once.
“There are so many people,” Russia says again.
“They have gathered to support you.”
Russia nods absently; he looks at the Red Square, not at China. “To support me…”
“You know your people better than I know them.”
China feels a shudder run through Russia’s chest, over his ribs. “But they say so many things, and sometimes they lie-he was very good at catching the liars, China, he told me all about it, but now he cannot do that.”
“It is never simple,” China says.
Russia’s arms draw tighter around his chest. “It would be,” he says, “if everyone were good.”
Low wails drift from below, mingled with the bellows of trains, the hoarse voices of Russia’s officers trying to keep order.
“So many,” Russia repeats, to himself more than to China. “He was a great man.”
China agrees, but remarks, “A dynasty must last beyond one man.”
“I do not think that is a good word for these times, China.”
“Of course.” He twists from Russia’s grasp, kneels by his traveling chest and unlocks it. He will wear a suit today, crisp and Western, black tie and black shirt and a gloss of black on his shoes. He thinks of the mourning bands endorsed by his Party and wonders if he is overdressed, but Russia says nothing of his clothes as he dons them and China isn’t inclined to press the point. Instead, he says, “You know my meaning.”
There are screams amidst the wails, harsh and ragged sounds. Russia does not speak.
***
Russia dresses and takes coffee while China finishes his tea, and the two of them leave the hotel before the sun has finished rising. The walk would have been easier had they both stayed in the Kremlin, but Russia is the only Nation permitted within its walls now. China says nothing of this. Russia is holding his hand tight enough to throttle it, and China is almost grateful for it when the two of them are thrust into the thick of the crowd, with bodies pressing in on all sides. China nearly gags, and Russia grips him tighter. “Shh,” he thinks he hears him say, “shh,” but the wails of Russia’s people drown out all gentler sounds. They have not yet crossed into the Red Square, China doesn’t think, though he can barely see over the shoulders of the people crowding around him. If he tips his head all the way back, he can glimpse some of the taller landmarks, and they point the way, but in pausing to do this he is jostled, nearly wrenched away from Russia-
“China,” Russia shouts, “China, don’t leave-”
“I’m here,” China starts to say, before a group of women sends him sprawling into Russia’s chest. He chokes on Russia’s scarf and wrenches his head back, lest he inhale the tassels. Breathing is difficult enough as it is. Russia weaves through his people and pulls China along with him, but his strides are shorter, and China does not think it is only the presence of the crowd that curtails his steps.
“You must not leave,” Russia is saying, “I cannot keep you safe if I do not know where you are.”
China does his best to memorize the route through the Red Square, so Russia will not have to lead him along it like a child tomorrow. The thought galls him. “I thank you for your concern,” he says.
“Look at them, China, look at them all,” and though Russia’s voice is heavy, there is wonder in it.
“It is good that you came, then?” he asks over the heated curses of a couple next to him.
Russia pauses in the middle of the street, or nearly does; the crowd is large enough to drag even him forward when he remains still for too long. “It is bad that I had to come at all. Bad, and strange. But it is good that they-it is good that they want to be here. For me.”
If he sobs with the rest of his people, China doesn’t see it. He only feels Russia draped over him, heavier than his coat. The street they are on is about to spill into the square, and Russia grips China’s wrist-
-and a fresh tide of people sweeps closer and nearly bowls them both over. Before China can right himself, the crowd surges again and pins him in place, bears him away from Russia-Russia’s head is barely visible above the crowd and then disappears in it, and though China struggles to break free of the crowd’s hold, he does not know which direction he should push towards. His heels scrape the cobblestones, at last, and he is deposited on his feet, gasping for breath a long time in coming.
Millions of mourners flood the Red Square and shuffle to the House of Trade Unions to pay his last respects. The sheer mass of people overwhelms the high towers and red walls of the Kremlin, the long arches and lined friezes of the Main Department Store opposite it, the gold spires of the cathedral behind him as the crowd impels him north, to where Russia’s boss rests in state. China draws near enough to see a portrait of him hanging before the House of Trade Unions, surrounded by red flags and garlands. Red for the Red Square, red for the Party: China knows it fits, but his gut screams that the red is wrong. The crowd churns beneath his gaze, which to China seems not to be fixed on them at all but on something much further, and he reserves his smile for that sight. People pour in and out of the building in a scuffling lurching line, which bristles with each new addition. The shape is ungainly, unwieldy, and China nearly finds himself swept up again, carried bodily by the suffocating press of the crowd; he covers his mouth with his sleeve and breathes through the cloth to alleviate the thick odor of onions seeping into his nose and throat, the smell of cooling sweat. When he closes his eyes, he hears the sound of bones cracking.
It’s hard to distinguish one person from another in this, and China imagines that to be the point, and Russia is still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he is inside already. If he is, very well; China can manage without his assistance now. He thinks he picks out the three Baltic states standing by the door, half-tucked in the recesses framing it, pale and silent. He nods to them, and the eldest bows his head briefly in acknowledgment. They acknowledge him; few others in the crowd can spare a thought for a Nation not their own, and China will not fault them for this. Russia’s sisters cover their heads and clutch handkerchiefs to their throats. Albania wipes his nose with the heel of his hand, little blond Poland shifts from foot to foot and stares at the crowd, and Austria’s wife and Germany’s brother stand under one of the pines nestled against the Kremlin’s wall. Their lips barely move, and the snow drifting down from the branches masks their mouths even more, but they are speaking, and their circumspection is from caution and not from respect for the dead, if China observes correctly. And China does see. He has prided himself on this for centuries, millennia-far before the Mongol chained Russia to his yoke.
Russia’s boss was seventy-four. That isn’t so old.
Why, then, do Russia’s people walk with such weight, as though they have the years piled on their backs and dragging at their heels? It is the burden the bourgeoisie places on them, his bosses and Russia’s would say, and they have not yet learned to stand straight. The reason is as good as any other. The skies churn overhead, grow grey and thick, but release nothing. No breeze stirs in the Red Square, no breath blows, only sobs that suck more air away. Again, China covers his mouth with his fist, pulls his elbows in as the line at his back pushes him forward. He finds himself lifted off his feet, crushed between two and then three and then at least ten bodies clustered around him, choking-his toes don’t scrape the ground and his arms are pinned to his sides and the sound of cracking bone swells-
The grooves on the walls. If he can grasp them…China struggles, and lunges towards the nearest wall as best he can, half-wrenches his arms out of their sockets to reach forward; his fingers trail in the fluting but don’t catch on anything, merely skitter down and brush across as the masses thrust him in another direction, bear him towards the entrance, but that is barely broad enough to fit four men abreast and they cannot all squeeze themselves through, there isn’t room for them all, where are Russia’s Party organizers, where is the order in this-
A hand catches his. China starts.
“I’ve got you,” he thinks he hears someone say, and he is dragged against the current of bodies until his back bumps the side of one of the recesses. He breathes in deeply-there’s a pocket of air here-and looks at the man grasping his hand. The eldest of the Baltics again, and despite the youth the shape of his face suggests, China notices the dark circles under his eyes, the lines around his mouth. He can almost recall the Nation’s name-ah. Lithuania. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome,” Lithuania responds, and glances over China’s shoulder. “I think some of them have been crushed to death…”
China is not surprised to hear it.
“Russia sent me to look for you. He wanted to make sure you were safe-he said he couldn’t see where the crowd took you.”
“Russia,” China says, “should give all his people that assurance.”
Lithuania does not bow his head or look away, but meets China’s gaze levelly. “He thinks he is.”
A thrill runs up China’s back.
“He likes to keep as many of them as close as he can,” Lithuania says. “He doesn’t…” But he trails off, and shakes his head.
China arches his eyebrow, and Lithuania presses his finger to his lips, looks up towards the windows. Dim silhouettes stand in them, unmoving, facing the faceless crowds.
“Even now?” China asks, and anticipates Lithuania’s answer: “Especially now.”
Of course.
Lithuania coughs, says, “Follow me, if you don’t mind.”
“You do not fear for your own safety?” China asks.
Lithuania’s answer is almost lost in the milieu, but China hears him over the dull clump of peasant boots and the splintering of squeezed bone: “I know how to keep Russia from crushing me.”
China nods, and permits Lithuania to usher him through the door; the two of them weave through the throngs and dodge around pillars and palm fronds. China’s heel catches on a curtain, and the lights from the chandeliers are more distracting than illuminating, as China finds himself drawn to the crystals suspended from them, to his fractured reflection-no. He wrenches his head away, curses the organizers for failing to cover the mirrors, curses himself for forgetting-but no, he’s allowing superstition to guide him, and he must not. He must not. The old must yield to the new...
Crystal and marble. He remembers the clean lines of Lenin’s tomb and chews on his lip. There is so much here, so much of everything, and China knows what vastness is but were it not for Lithuania’s grip on his wrist, he would be lost here, buffeted about like a butterfly in a storm, and it does not suit him.
They approach the body. It isn’t a sight to be missed. The coffin rests on red velvet and a bed of flowers: white flowers everywhere, spilling over the sides and clustered around his head. China starts, wants to shout at them to take the red away unless they want to be haunted-
And if they do?
China looks at the shadows under Russia’s eyes and sighs, says nothing.
Besides, nobody listens to him, now.
“You are here,” Russia says quietly, his eyes and cheeks ruddier than China has seen them in some time. They are not the rich red of the velvet, but they are close. Lithuania peels away from the two of them and rejoins the crowds before the coffin; Russia does not summon him back. “I am glad I found you, China. Stand here, next to me.”
Doubtless the crowd still moves and makes noise. China sees and hears none of it. Is he implying-?
A man in the honor guard shakes his head, taps Russia’s shoulder, and whispers in his ear. “Oh,” Russia says, and his face falls. “The honor guard is only for me, and for senior Party members.”
And who among them is older than I am? China thinks, but presses his lips together.
“You will wait outside with Lithuania and Latvia and Estonia, yes?” Russia asks. “And then I will come fetch you.”
“I can find my way back to the hotel,” says China.
He stares at the corpse. How many of your agents are still in my cities? he could ask it. Where is the aid you promised me? But the dead give no useful advice in these times, and Russia’s old boss lied while he lived. Why should his behavior change now?
Russia’s people file past the coffin. They do not bow, do not offer prayers, give only sobs and longing looks. No-China frowns. Some of them whisper even now, though they grow silent when they near the honor guard, but they are the same whispers Hungary and Prussia spoke in earlier, ones that barely use words at all. Words are still dangerous, China supposes. Some steal furtive glances around corners and at their neighbors’ shoes, but glance away quickly, as though they do not wish to know what they have seen. This is a funeral, but there is nothing still here, nothing silent.
China joins the line trundling back to the Red Square, and is absorbed into the crowd after that. The sweat smeared on the fur lining of his coat condenses and freezes, and China draws his arms around himself, stares at the formless grey sky.
Something snaps under his feet when he steps forwards. He squints down, tries to see around the boots beating the cobbles, crushing the-
Crushing the body beneath.
Blood wells and thickens in the cracks between the cobblestones. China breathes in sharply and tastes copper in the air, mingled with the sweat and starch and screams.
The dead have come to the funeral, China thinks. An elbow digs in his back, a shoulder, a knee. So many, he remembers Russia saying: so many, too many, too much, too many sucked under the crowd and swallowed and subsumed-
There is dead flesh clinging to his shoe. China is very, very cold.
***
Russia braids China’s hair clumsily, no matter how many times China attempts to instruct him in it. “My hands are so big, and your hair is so fine,” Russia explains, but he enjoys doing it; he likes having something to do with his hands, he says. And so China lets him run his fingers through his hair, cup the back of China’s head in his palms, stroke China’s neck with his thumbs. He yanks China’s braid tighter tonight and nearly pulls some of his hair out by the roots, but Russia does not hear China hiss, or chooses not to, and mumbles to himself in his own language as he attempts to stuff the escaped strands back into place.
“We will be together at the funeral,” Russia says, almost chanting the words, “and my people will watch, and so will the whole world.”
China closes his eyes. “Yes.”
“And we will be sad, but we will be sad together-” Russia twists China’s braid hard enough that tears bead at the corners of his eyes, is the man still so unaware of his own strength and oh China’s scalp burns-“And we will be strong together.” Another tug, this one strong enough to nearly lift China off his stomach. “Yes?”
“Russia, the braid is finished-”
“But it looks wrong,” Russia says, and adds, “and I wish it wouldn’t…”
His hands tremble in China’s hair. China gives Russia time to collect himself, or to collect himself as best he can.
“But things, they will look better tomorrow,” he says, his voice rougher than China is used to. “I want them to. I very much want them to, China.”
He says, “I saw a woman crushed to death today.”
Slowly, slowly, Russia’s hands withdraw from China’s hair.
“The crowd trampled her,” he continues. “I think there were others-there was not enough room in the Hall for all of them, and so many wanted to get in.”
“So many.” Russia’s voice is barely a whisper. China looks up, sees the corners of his mouth droop. It would be cruel to continue; cruel and also true, if the events are approached from a certain angle. China sighs to himself. Russia presents such a large target, such a tempting one. Surely he knows this about himself by now. It is a quality he shares with China, after all.
“That should not have happened,” Russia is saying softly, “Beria said-China, how am I to trust him to watch over me if he cannot keep my people safe?”
“Perhaps someone else, then,” China suggests.
“Yes, yes.” He pauses, cups China’s cheek. “There are still many who want to help, yes? I still have good children, I still have such very good children…but why do they make themselves so hard to find?”
China does not answer.
“Your boss will need to learn how to find them, too.”
“My boss knows how.”
“Of course.” It occurs to China that Russia has not yet smiled today, and he doesn’t do so now, though the lines of his mouth soften. “China?”
“Yes?”
“My people. Were they very angry with me?”
“No,” China says. “They grieved.”
“We all mourn,” Russia says, and China echoes him: “We all mourn.”
***
March 9, 1953
The five minutes of silence starts in Moscow and radiates across the world, stretches to London and Paris and New York and Berlin and Beijing. And in Beijing they bow before portraits of Russia’s boss, fly the flags at half-mast, bear funeral wreaths down the streets, write their condolences in their best calligraphy, and salute him with a barrage of cannonfire. It is not quite the mourning ceremony his own boss wants him to adopt, but it is not his old funerals, either.
Russia clutches China’s shoulder and pulls him closer, closer until the wool of his coat muffles the side of China’s face and scratches his neck. China tilts his chin up to breathe better: wool, he remembers, is good for trapping but not for breathing. He has known this for a long time. He has known many things for a long time.
He wonders how long this will last.
***
Stalin died on March 5, 1953, after suffering a stroke four days earlier. Millions of people attended his funeral, and hundreds were crushed to death in the Red Square when they tried to view his body. They were his last victims.
By 1953, the CCP was starting to encourage people to abandon funeral rites associated with superstition and the old regime in favor of cremation, but the new practices were by no means entrenched.
***
Hopefully I will not wait another month to post fic. I don't think I will. Ideas, I has them.