By half-past eight, Russia has to admit that Yao was right about the wine. That in itself is probably a sign that he isn't altogether sober anymore, no matter how he'd scoffed earlier that the glorified grape juice Yao preferred had nothing on his many, many centuries of vodka-swilling experience. Moscow, he confirms with a wince, is shivering through a biting minus-two-degree chill tonight, but here in Beijing, the warmth of the alcohol (sweet, surprisingly potent) simmers through his veins. Leaning back into the sofa, he lolls his head languidly to his right to glance fondly at the nation beside him, and feels the hazy contentment flushing his cheeks flare to momentarily sear his bones. Perhaps not just the alcohol, then, but he isn't far gone enough to admit that.
"You are doing well?" he murmurs across the single cushion separating them. He frowns a little at himself, afterwards: that hadn't even made sense, given that they'd spent a perfectly pleasant evening together, first devouring the New Year's Eve dinner, and now watching the Spring Festival Gala, just as they had the year before, and the year before that, and every year of the decade before that. All the same, a decidedly uncharacteristic urge to talk has been nagging at him all evening. Since Yao had been the one to invite him to a dinner he'd undoubtedly spent the entire afternoon preparing, Russia reflects, it's only polite that he at least makes conversation. The bottle of vodka he makes a point of bringing every year had been promptly stowed away by Yao, who'd fussed that he doesn't need to bother with gifts, and that really, the vodka was too good to drink. As far as Russia knows, he has no idea as to the quality of the vodka: he's long since suspected that Yao has never touched a drop, and that somewhere in this hutong flat (roomy for one, cosy for two), there's a cupboard or trunk or hidden compartment in the wall that would swing open to reveal row upon row of New Years Eve vodka.
Unfortunately for Russia's attempt at being a thoughtful guest, Yao seems unusually downcast today. He's seen him upset before, that goes without saying, but he's usually never anything but joyfully energetic every time they battle over the niangao or watch CCTV, and dreamily enthusiastic when they contemplate the year to come (Yao, Russia has come to accept, will always be a hopeless romantic at heart). As a result, it rarely falls to Russia to fill a space ordinarily crowded by Yao's incessant chattering, which he only begins to properly respond to by the time he's seen the bottom of his third bottle of that not-completely-awful wine.
"Yao?" he prompts, after enough seconds have passed that a flicker of concern begins to dissipate his comfortable drowsiness. The other nation jumps as if he'd been absorbed in a thriller rather than witnessing an old man struggling to deliver lines the presenter is holding right before his eyes, turning to fix Russia with a startled gaze.
"Sorry," Yao says. Perhaps he catches on to Russia's dissatisfaction with that response, because a moment later he tacks on the non-sequitur, 'they shouldn't have made them stand up, not when they're that old'. Onscreen, the presenter grips the hand of a hundred-and-four-year old Red Army veteran in a wheelchair, and beams with reverent, irrepressible pride as she tells the world how 'grandmother' had her legs mangled by enemy shrapnel and her feet ruined by frostbite. Yao looks down and away.
"But that is not all." Russia frowns at himself, partly because he hadn't meant to sound so accusatory, and partly because he has an inkling as to why Yao has now taken the cushion onto his lap, slender fingers worrying the embroidery and picking at imperfections in the silk. They've known each other long enough, he and Yao, to have come to an understanding on many things; when it comes to easing the tense unhappiness from Yao's posture, he also knows that he falls short. He's never been a great believer in delicate conversations on topics sensitive enough to make a nation shudder with phantom pain, but he acknowledges that having someone to talk to would probably do Yao good. Something about this evening - the wine, being in Yao's home, the rows of China's finest youths singing of combat they'd never seen - throws him off-balance, and his insides twist in sharp, inexplicable regret that he's built with too much bluntness and poorly-tempered brutality to play that part.
Yao's fingers still on the cushion. "No," he says. Always more demonstrative than him, he closes the gap between them, and swivels on the sofa to level him with a serious look. "No, you know how it is." Russia holds his gaze as impassively as he can and pretends not to panic at Yao's fine-boned form, mere handspans away, at Yao's eyes, frank and more expressive than he knows how to deal with, staring directly into his own.
"It is New Year," he manages. He means it as reassurance, a shrug at what they cannot change and an encouragement to push it aside, as far as possible. This isn't his strength.
"Yes, I suppose," Yao nods, humouring him as if he's come up with something useful. Then, with a smile bright enough to hurt after Russia's stumbling effort to help, "I'm glad it is."
Automatically, he nods, and is instantly struck by the odd wish that he were more like France, or England, or even the loudmouth America, able to formulate witty or at least interesting responses between one breath and another. He marvels at a wine that has knocked his feelings so out of joint, and vows immediately never to drink it again.
Yao's voice, significantly less pensive and edged with exasperation, cuts across his reverie. "What I mean to say is, I'm glad you're here."
And if Russia's head chooses this moment to flood with dizzying elation, if sometime during the course of his evening one arm, then the other, ends up draped across Yao's narrow shoulders - never underestimate Yao's grape juice.