This is for my Secret Santa entry on Livejournal (Rochu SS)! First chapter, and more to come since...I kinda have to finish this by the 24th XD
Mind you, this part kinda sucks. Well, I think so. I was deciding between whether or not to do a oneshot or not...but I decided to do a multi-chapter, even though that is a billion times more difficult. My first multi-chapter story. Yay!
Oh, this is proof-read, so please tell me of any grammar mistakes.
Erm...enjoy, dearest, and be sure to review.
Also, this is going to be rated M later for lemons. You know me. Be sure to be aware of that.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Even the story idea. I just write.
The bottle of vodka in his hand was broken. Usually, he could rely on the vodka to abate the soreness of his soul, but at the moment it proved to be useless. The air was balmy, at points stifling, as the sun's rays continued to relentlessly attack the earth beneath it. Russia appreciated the warmth, but it did little to remove the pervasive iciness that was within his body. Underneath all the layers of clothing, there was nothing but a cold man. A scarred and cold man. No, not even a man. A nation. He was a nation whose barriers are being broken and whose boundaries no longer have any meaning. As he sat on the broken and splintered wooden step of a crumbled house, squeezing the shattered vodka bottle tightly in his hand, his violet eyes stared into the parched land before him and he couldn't help but feel that this land was much better than the frozen hell he managed to liberate himself from for the time being.
"Hello, aru?" a young voice said before him. Russia plastered a smile onto his face and looked down at the boy. Bright, yellow-amber eyes stared up at him curiously, the inquisitive round face beholding a small, welcoming smile. Dark strands of silky black hair framed that face, flowing into a ponytail that fell past his shoulders. His petite body was clad in a red and simple mandarin jacket, the hem and cloth buttons colored lustrous gold. Russia suddenly felt the coldness that was ever-present within his body melt slightly in one glance at this young, beautiful boy. The smile on his face gained some actuality as he looked upon the small being before him.
"Hello, da," he answered in a cheerful voice. His grip on the vodka bottle loosened a bit and his shoulders relaxed. There was at least one other person who acknowledged his existence, but even with this thought, he remained cautious. Everyone left him at one point or another.
The young boy seemed to be a bit taken aback by his accent but remained calm nonetheless, the curiosity a constant aspect of his countenance. He bowed slightly before going on to say, "I am the nation of China. My name is Wang Yao, aru." He rose and seemed to contemplate something about the large man in a trench coat. "Who are you?"
Russia giggled. "I am Russia. My name is Ivan Braginski, da." The Chinese boy's eyebrows knit together as he attempted to roll the words upon his untrained tongue.
"Ru—rus-Russia," he said, a hint of triumphant pride in his voice. The ebony haired youth let the corners of his mouth rise up a bit more at his success at saying the Russian's formal name. Ivan's heart seemed to flutter at the utter cuteness of China's earnest struggles in saying his name.
"Yes, I'm Russia, da." Shimmering violet eyes appraised the small nation before noticing an angry red mark across the back of his smooth hand, which was hanging by his side. The darker part of Russia, the side which was slowly becoming more prominent as time continued to flow, enjoyed the appearance of the wound. A sick yet utterly addictive chill ran down his spine. But the humane part of him, the one that at the moment won over the inherent sadistic personality, formed the words, "What happened to your hand, da?"
China lifted his hand to see what the Russian was speaking of and noticed the mark. He blushed, ashamed, and attempted to hide his hand behind his back, but before he was able to do so, the Russian grabbed his wrist. The young boy cringed. Retaining his cheerful façade, he inquired, "Who did this to you, Yao?"
The ebony haired youth bit his lip, a troubled expression on his face. "…Mongols," he whispered after a few moments of contemplation. Dread and anger spread throughout Russia at the mention of the name, his grip tightening on the thin and fragile wrist, but the smile only widened and his eyes flashed violet. He had enough pain at the hands of the Mongols. More than half the scars on his body came from them, scars which would continue to fester on his mind for the longest of time. It was accepted that he would go through this pain. But not this young, beautiful, naïve boy. No, this boy shouldn't be broken like he was.
"It hurts, aru…" he muttered, wincing, glancing at him with trepidation. Russia loosened his grip but pulled the boy closer to him, bringing the small hand close to his mouth. He needed to somehow make this scar disappear. It wasn't possible at the moment, so the best thing was to place another memory on it. One that didn't trace back to pain. The Chinese boy was too stunned to struggle as Russia lightly kissed the marred skin, his cold but soft lips lingering.
A glowing blush blossomed across China's cheeks, tingling sensations passing through his arm into his spine, radiating through his whole body. Confused and unable to understand the force of the reaction he was experiencing, he tore his hand away and scurried in a completely unknown direction, his face intensely burning.
Violet eyes followed the back clad in red until it disappeared from sight. Sighing, yet still smiling, Russia dropped the bottle to the ground and placed both his hands on his knees. I will certainly find Yao Wang again… he thought as he stared at the parched land before him.