The house is very quiet, Russia thinks.

There is a space in his thoughts after that, a blank, heedless space filled only with the muted colors of Russia's empty dining room around him and the reflections of voices in his open eyes. No, it is not quiet. His house is never quiet, even in the dead of his frozen winters. Thousands of footsteps drum the pavement of roads, the Moscow Metro rattles and spills out the countless people commuting in the morning rush, the sound of wood splitting on the chopping blocks cracks loudly in the cold countryside air. It is not quiet, and there is work to be done.

Russia sits and doesn't move from his place at the dining room table, all blank, dark glossy wood, and just thinks of summer's warmth and running children laughing; and fields of sunflowers so vast they drown him in the yellow smell.

_#_#_

'The days are still cold here in March,' China remembers. He breathes warmth on his fingertips as he walks, the hot air swirling past his face, and he casts a glance at the cars and variously colored taxis rushing by on his left. Most of his memory of Russia's land is vague, he does not remember much of the roads, for example, despite having visited several times. Nevertheless, he remembers enough to walk the last leg of his journey instead of taking a taxi the whole way. He does not really want anyone, even a driver who will very likely never realize who he is and what he signifies, to know where he is going today.

Since today he is going to see Russia. In this kind of today; with their governments still on bad terms with each other. China hasn't even spoken to Russia since they split a few decades ago, let alone paid him a visit. Russia has likewise made no attempt to break their mutual, cold silence. 'And why would he?' They were both doing just fine without each other.

Fine, that is, until last year when the Soviet Union had collapsed and Russia had stopped coming to the world meetings all together.

Which is why – 'the only reason why' – China is here now. It wasn't even entirely his idea. At the last world meeting, Belarus had raised the issue: Russia, she informed them, had not been seen at all since everyone had left his house. Not at political talks, not at the world meetings, not even around his own house. Her eyes and voice had been lowered unusually in her concern. She had then gone on to propose – in the interest of checking his well-being, she ensured – breaking into her brother's house. Through the front door. With her bare hands, if necessary. At this point Ukraine had carefully and nervously dissuaded her younger sister from such a course of action. Russia, she'd suggested softly, might just want some time alone.

...Russia, wanting to be alone? As if.

Belarus had eventually, reluctantly backed down. America had shrugged, a little uneasily, and proclaimed with stubborn optimism that Russia was a capable enough guy to stand up on his own again. No problem. Just give him some space, let him sort things out a bit, he'd be back harassing people before you knew it. Right.

And that had been that. Or it should have been, if China could keep Belarus' words from nagging at him. Russia had not been seen at all since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. The silence from the north, China was used to, but... this? Being completely reclusive? As a nation, as a neighbor, he couldn't help but find it... strange. Curious. Disconcerting. He wasn't even sure what he thought. And somehow that had lead his thoughts on a convoluted trail of logic with the conclusion that a short visit, at least, just to check how Russia was doing, should be... acceptable. Perhaps.

Or, as China draws near to Russia's apartment, maybe not. Considering that this 'short visit' of his was not actually endorsed by his government. Or really even known by his government. And how had he managed to convince himself to do this again he didn't even–

His footsteps scuff on the pavement as he stops in front of the apartment building. China looks up at the elegant pre-Revolutionary building, at once familiar and different. This is the closest he has approached his northern neighbor for a long time. China hesitates, presses his lips together as if in reproof of his hesitation – yes, Russia is his neighbor, and as such he has every right to visit him – and strides the last small distance to the building.

Inside, he walks up the stairs at a reserved pace, pauses in front of Russia's door – 'yes,' he remembers 'it's this one' – and knocks solidly on it.

The unknown interior of the apartment swallows the sounds of the knocking. China waits a bit, knocks again, stands there.

After a long moment, he considers if kung-fu kicking the door in movie-style would actually work in real life, and whether that counts as an invasion. An invasion is the last thing he wants to be mistaken for doing right now. Then he considers the various punch-lines of that kind of situation and tries the door handle.

It opens, easily. China's eyebrows rise as he twists it, before he pushes the door inwards.

Light seeps into the apartment from the opened doorway. It's dank inside; all the curtains are closed, smothering the daylight from the tall windows. China inhales the stale, suffocating, and faintly alcoholic-tasting air as he pokes his head tentatively inside. It is as if the place has been completely sealed off for months. It is not a pleasant thought. For a moment, China hovers uncertainly in the doorway, trying to remember what Russia's penalties for trespassing are. He eventually gives up and steps carefully across the threshold. He is not here as a diplomat anyway. 'No', he thought, he was here as Wang Yao.

A few steps inside, the sound and texture of broken glass crunches under a shoe. China looks down and slowly raises his foot. The glass rasps again and catches tiny bits of what light is available in tiny, white fragments. It is, well, was, unmistakably a vodka bottle. Several vodka bottles.

China, frowning, raises his head again, takes a breath of the alcohol-pungent air and calls in a voice made louder by the silence, "Iv-" He stops himself, "Russia!"

There is no answer. He is not surprised, somehow, seeing the state of Russia's house from the inside. He calls again and when the echo of his voice ends this time immediately listens.

Silent, for a moment. Then, a minute scraping sound from somewhere further in twitches at China's ears.

China steps over the broken glass and walks straight towards the sound. He wonders, briefly, at the boldness of his actions and their potentially disastrous consequences. They certainly don't stop him though, from striding down the shadow-swallowed hallway and halting in front of a familiar wooden door. Or from knocking on it, twice, before twisting it unceremoniously open.

Glass tinkles again as the door pushes it aside. More broken bottles. China releases the door handle, folds his arms and stares at Russia.

Russia is sitting at the foot of his bed, facing the left wall. It is hard to tell in the dimness but he looks... thinner. And his hair and clothes are rumpled like he has not cared for them in – China does not want to think for how long. The blankets covering the bed are also rumpled, but made, as if he has slept on top of them rather than in them. China drags his eyes around the room, to survey the similar neglect. The furniture and ornaments look barely touched under their shawl of dust. Indeed, the cleanest-looking surfaces in the room are those of the countless glass vodka bottles, their edges capturing and glinting off scratches of light, some broken, some intact, all empty, and the sheer number of them littering the floor and tables is – 'There is no way Russia drank all that'

Slowly, fractionally, Russia shifts his head in China's direction, eyes sliding blindly over the wall. He is not looking at China when he asks, mumbles,

"Lithuania?" His voice is strained and rough.

China levels his gaze and keeps his voice steady, careful. "No. I'm not Lithuania."

Russia slumps slightly. Or, rather than slumping, he seemed to fold a little more into himself. China looks at him in silence again and then says, because he doesn't know what else to say, "Russia, I came to check on you."

Russia doesn't respond, in words or in gesture. China chews on his lip, his frown deepening. Then,

"I want my sisters."

It's a very small voice. His shoulders shake, just the tiniest bit, and China suddenly realizes, with a feeling like his stomach has gone hollow, that there are tears tracking down Russia's face.

Russia draws his knees up to his chest like a child, like he is trying to make himself smaller – and it looks almost ridiculous, on a man of his size – and drags a sleeve across his eyes. "I want Ukraine." His voice sounds pitiful, broken. "Where is Ukraine? Where is Belarus? Did they leave me, too?"

China stands there as if frozen to the spot, as Russia's sobs grow louder. The blonde nation scrapes at his eyes with his sleeve again, both sleeves now; he was like a child trying to stem his misery.

China's feet move across the glass-strewn floor. He shouldn't – physically, symbolically, politically, everything – but he does, he pulls Russia's head with his thickly-sleeved arms and presses the side of his tear-smudged face against his chest. Barely thinking, barely needing to think, he shushes and croons and rocks gently back and forth, back and forth, like he used to for his siblings when they were very, very young. Russia doesn't lean into the embrace, but he doesn't pull away either; just cries like there is no one here at all. And his tears are making a mess down the front of China's coat, but that's okay – that's the only thought in China's head as he cradles Russia, 'It's okay, it's okay, it's okay.'