A Little Ball of Hate
Notes: Uh, none really. This was done for a friend's birthday present in about three hours so if you find any typos and stuff, I apologize.
Belarus hates South Korea.
She hates his annoying insistence that everything originated in him, she hates his stupid hair curl that matches whatever stupid expression he has plastered on his face, she hates how much taller he is than her, which he uses to his advantage all the time.
But the thing she hates most about him is the damned look he gets on his face after Russia rejects her advances again, or uses Ukraine as a shield, or flat-out states the impossibility of them getting together. It's a look of understanding, because South Korea thinks he understands. He thinks he understands the feeling of being the least desired person on the earth, of being the last choice, the last thought, on anyone's mind, of being an utter failure, worthless, because nobody wants to sit next to her except her sister and that's only because she has nowhere else to sit; the emptiness she feels when Russia looks at you with fear in his eyes, fear that shouldn't be felt when looking at a flesh-and-blood relative; the tears Belarus sheds when she finds the gifts she poured her time, tears, blood, heart, soul, love into in the trash, half buried under snow and empty, broken vodka bottles.
The first moment she met him she hated him. It was a cold December morning and he had walked up to her with a hesitant on his face, as if he was nervous but still eager to meet her. She would have found him bearable, maybe even acceptable, if he hadn't opened his mouth and said the damn words in fumbling Russian. "I… I am the Republic of Korea. I think we can be good acquaintances. I have a brother, you see. And I love him. The same way you love yours."
She had stood, staring into his hopeful face for a few seconds, before clocking him in the face and running away, the dust of her shock tumbling into an airy rage at the impudent Korean, who thought himself equal to her, who thought he understood her, when all he is is a flake, a dandy, a chink.
Belarus hates him more than she hates imperfection. That she decides as she sits across from him at a small table in a café in fair Verona, where they both had business with the Italies. Looking at him from across the table, she can see all of his imperfections. His hair is in its usual rumpled state, his left cuff-link is half undone, his neck has a small ink mark on it, the corner of his mouth seems to have dried drool on it, and so on. She could have gone on forever.
They are at the café as they had both concluded their business with their Italy; Belarus with Romano about the rise of agro-tourism and their mutual benefits and losses, South Korea with Veneciano for some reason or another. They had left their earlier meetings at the same time, around 3 (they had taken their cues to leave when their respective half of Italy started yawning and undressing), and bumped into each other. South Korea had immediately latched onto her and dragged her all around the city, pointing out the various historical references like he actually knew what he was doing ("And that was where Romeo and Juliet from Shakespeare's play supposedly killed themselves!") and shopping for groceries ("They should sell kimchi here!"). It was a small blessing that they had stopped for a bite to eat.
Which brings Belarus to her current problem. Why is she still hanging around this doofus? Why hasn't she stabbed him, or maimed him, or at least gouged his eye out yet? Most importantly, why was he taking a bite of her tiramisu like they are Best Female Friends?
"That is mine," she hisses, scooting her small plate away from the reach of South Korea's fork.
"But you haven't even gotten through half of it yet!" he whines back like a puppy waiting for its master to come home. Belarus despises dogs.
It was true. South Korea had finished his desert a while ago and Belarus had eaten a grand total of five slivers from the cake.
"It's too hot here to enjoy anything," she grumbles, crossing her arms and looking at the fountain next to them. It's a partial lie— it is 30°C— but the Mediterranean climate makes it bearable and it isn't like Belarus is in her usual dark, long-sleeved outfit. She and South Korea made wise packing choices, bringing light cotton clothing in lighter colors. Their current outfits almost matches.
"Hmm…" South Korea mutters for a second, before sticking his finger into the air like he reached enlightenment and starts rummaging in his suitcase.
"Here!" he announces as he handed her a thin, rectangular package. It isn't big, and is covered in paper. She opens with care, as if it contains snakes and mice inside and slides out a worn folding fan.
She holds it up and inspects it. The fan is old, that is obvious, but it's not cheap; the wood is a sturdy and a good color, and instead of having cheap paper glued to the wooden sticks silk is attached to it, giving it an elegant look. The silk is dark red, and in black ink words are written on it, something Asian that Belarus cannot comprehend.
"Someone important gave that to me. It's kind of my lucky charm," South Korea hums, staring down at the old fan like it's made of gold and stardust. Belarus glances down at him, then back at his face. She has a sneaking suspicion as to who gave the fan to South Korea, but she keeps quiet and starts fanning herself instead.
They leave the café in silence, and the two wander around the Italian town. It's beautiful, nothing short of the expectations of a country that's famous for its wine and history. South Korea takes many pictures as Belarus eyes the various trinkets laid out in store display windows, lingering a bit over the wedding rings. She ignores the smirk South Korea gives her at that.
He buys ceramic pots layered with colored glaze and bottles of various wines and olive oils, placing each carefully into his suitcase after being wrapped in a plethora of newspapers and bubble wrap. She watches as he wraps each one; his fingers are calloused and long, slightly discolored but still beautiful— she snaps her mouth shut and looks away.
Belarus spends that night tossing and turning on her head, cursing herself for accepting the stupid fan on the nightstand provided by the hotel. Curses the stupid Asian for being in Verona the same time she is. Cursing at herself for cursing at the air.
The next day she slips into South Korea's hotel room (she doesn't know whether to be more afraid at the fact that she managed to find where he was or that he was in the same hotel as she was, two floors up.) He doesn't seem surprised at finding her sitting like a board on the chair next to his bed as he leaves the bathroom, or at the knife lodged by the open window.
"Good morning, Belarus. May I ask why you're–" he starts but she glares at him, with a slight lip curl. It's a look that says "Shut up. I'm talking now."
"Why are you so nice to me?" she says, all blunt words and sharp edges. South Korea still doesn't look surprised.
"Because I like you," he says back, reaching for a shirt and changing with his back towards her. (She scowls at his lack of shame before averting her eyes; honestly, after living for several centuries her fellow countries had lost any sense of modesty except for her.)
She throws the complimentary pen from the desk at him. The paper pad follows soon after.
"Liar," she hisses. If she was a dog, foam would have gathered around her mouth.
"I'm not," he states, dodging the thrown items as he shrugs on a jacket.
"Liar, liar, liar," she chants, her anger building with each word. "You like your brother. China."
South Korea presses his lips into a straight line at that, but shakes his head.
"You're nice act isn't working on me, I'm not stupid." Belarus spits the last word out, her normally composed, stoic tone taking on a more personal rage.
"I'm not acting–"
"Nor will I stand being your basket case. I don't need your pity," she continues, cutting off every word spilling from South Korea's lips.
"I don't pity you, I just–"
"I won't be used as a replacement either," she sniffs. Beside her, on the table, is the fan South Korea had lent her. His eyes widen for a second.
"… What do you mean?" he questions, enunciating each word.
Belarus looks at him without a trace of betrayal or hurt, nope, she is totally fine. Especially when she looked at the fan this morning, linked the writing on it to a certain Asian, and did not flip a table or two.
"I am not China, nor will I ever be," she says.
South Korea grows a shade paler.
"I never said you were—"
"Isn't this his?" She asks, holding up the fan.
"Well, he gave it to me, but—"
"But what? Am I just something to take up your time until you manage to grab his heart? Do you think that because I love my brother that we are the same? Because we aren't. We never will be," Belarus cuts him off. "Your brother is obviously in love with someone else. Stop clinging onto him like a child."
She drops the fan on the floor, hears a small crack, turns to the window and puts her foot on the windowsill. She doesn't have to turn to know that the look he's giving her is a mix of hurt and anger.
When she leaves, she doesn't say anything.
Belarus hates South Korea. But his silence seems to hate her more. He's stopped bugging her at conferences, sending her emails with the latest pictures of whatever he found, smiling at her when they occasionally lock eyes. She's gone back to her old ways, stalking her brothers and managing her country… alone. Again.
She hates him… But when she sees him reach into his pocket, she knows, just knows, that in there is the broken fan. That when someone ignores him again, or passes his plans off as tomfoolery, that he brushes his fingers against the broken wood and silk. That when his family teases him in ways that should sting like the shards of fiberglass, he doesn't falter until later, when he can take out that fan and stare at it, the empty promises embedded in the ink. Empty promises, the same ones that lie in the sweet words Russia gives her after he drinks too much alcohol at one time, that should make her feel so happy but doesn't.
Belarus may not like the Asian, but that doesn't mean she feels happy over this situation. So she sets out to somewhat fix it.
The next time they meet up again, it's at a World Conference in Rome, Italy. She seats herself across the table and two seats to the left from him, doesn't look at him except when he goes up to present, and keeps her head down and takes notes. When the inevitable chaos breaks out, she soldiers on until Germany calls for the break for Italy, who is passed out from pasta deficiency.
Everyone floods out of the room, a rampage to get to the best bars before everyone else, and only two minutes have passed when she's the only person left in the room. Not even South Korea paused to say bye, something that makes Belarus's chest hurt just a little.
No matter, she thinks. She steps onto the table and walks over to where he was sitting, manners be damned. She puts the thin, black rectangular covered fan from her pocket on his notes, and dashes to a corner of the large room when she hears the door open.
Her heart beats quickly when she sees South Korea walk in from her position behind a potted plant. He's carrying something pungent, she can smell it from her position halfway across the room, and pauses when he sees the new item on his notes.
South Korea walks over, puts his food down, and studies it. It's made of thick cloth embroidered with gold chrysanthemums and the edges are neatly sown together with purple ribbon. He pulls out the fan and opens it.
It's arranged the same way as his old one, but the similarities stop there. Instead of expensive glossy wood there's blue dyed wood with flowers and dash shaped holes in them. Painted on the wood there are butterflies and flowers in various colors: purple, green, orange, and pink; and to finish it off lavender linen covers the wooden sticks. A green phone charm hangs of the bottom of the fan, with a traditional Korean drum and two pretty clumps of tied string.
He looks up, around the room, and even at the ceiling as if his mysterious gift-giver is still in the room. Which she is.
Belarus returns to her seat only when a crowd of South American countries sweep in the room, blending in with them, but she doesn't miss the small quirk to South Korea's lips all during the rest of the meeting.
The next week she finds a piece of mail in your pile of documents, pink and covered in one of Japan's hideous children aimed kitten mascots. She opens it and a piece of scented stationary falls out.
Thank you.
Im Young Soo
At the next meeting, South Korea sits closer to her, an empty chair separating the two. When America walks to the podium with an extra large ice cold drink, South Korea pulls out his fan and starts cooling himself with it. When Belarus once again fails to get Russia, instead of looking at her with pity, he walks over, helps her up, and asks her if she wants to get a coffee.
She accepts.
Belarus hates South Korea. Or rather, she hates the way he can drink more pinta of beer than her and still manage to walk in a straight line. She hates the fact that since he's taller than her he holds the umbrella over her head, protecting her from the rain. She hates that he cries whenever he sees his Korean dramas, and the fact that he manages to cajole her into watching them with him. She hates that he knows to show up on her doorstep on her birthday with flowers and a cake, and hates that he even knows when her birthday is. She hates that when she cries about Russia and feelings and Why can't I have a happy ending too? he's there, holding her, crying too, over his brother, about his unhappy endings, and they mourn over their brothers together.
Mostly, she hates the fact that South Korea is witty, silly, serious, lonely, welcoming, and just himself. Because she hates the fact she finds that so appealing in contrast to Russia's painful humor, double sided demeanor, his refusal to understand his younger sister.
Belarus hates South Korea. Because she loves him.