Title: Revolution Spring

No pairings. Some bad langauge, grammar issues, slight Japan-bashing unreliable narrator

Happy Birthday Kiramekki :)

hmm... it's about the Tank Man during the Tienanmen Square Protests. also.. my personal head canon is that China's chest area is Manchuria, if you get what I mean. I will be writing another chapter about the history behind everything eventually. Please review and critique on my writing. :)

edit: lolol I guess writing at nighttime with only caffeine as an energy source makes more mistakes :) Thanks cccf for reminding me to check my facts and not to do late-nighters. (Tienanmen was in 1989, not 1979)

1950, four years after World War II.

China is not the government. He was, and still is, the people. Their tears are his spilled blood, their anger is his wrath, and their dreams are his future. They dream of Communism and equality and strength and greatness. He knows that this will all come true, and he can feel it in his blood - in their blood. The Party will bring communism. The people will bring strength. Mao will bring a new greatness to him. And he'll never be weak. Never again.

But, for now, he lounges on some heavily embroidered silk pillows, as America devours the plate of wontons in one sentence, slurps down the sweet barley tea in the next, and resumes talking about recovery plans in the third.

"So South Korea's doing pretty well, and so is Japan," China frowns at the second name, but he does not interrupt America, "And Indochina is being a bit rebellious, but France is working on that, I think." To that, China shrugs and responds with an uncaring "Of course aru."

America does not notice his tone, as always.

"Well, we might have to shove a bit more cash into your military. We have to stop those commies from getting Asia, right?" America does not expect any independent opinions, but an affirmation of his statement.

"Of course aru," He does not mention that they already got him.

"After all, if one country goes down, so will the rest of Asia and we can't allow that to happen," America smiles blandly, "The commies already got Eastern Europe and they could get their slimy hands over Southeast Asia and South America."

"Of course aru," China smiles limply as he says it, his fingers wrapping around the cup tightly as the corners of his mouth barely tighten, "It's not like they benefit from communism," He lied.

"I know. It's just sad that all of these developing countries keep on turning to communism after they gain their independence. I don't see how that commie bastard's theory is better than my free market. I mean, my system will allow the world (you and those damn imperialists) to earn by his or her effort. And 'free' means 'freedom,' and freedom is great, isn't it? (I'll be far freer without you.)" America tells him, smiling like a parent who has caught a child with his hand stuck deep in the cookie jar, "I'll be happy to lend some money to you to stop the commies in your place."

China fails to mention that Communism came from Germany to America.

"I'm sure that my government will be able to crush the communist threat without your help, besides don't you have your own problems?"

America laughs, and pats him on the shoulder, "Nothing that my government can take care of, they're working on it. Like getting it through the media and other places. We already got some spies in the commie parties, no need to worry, we already got everything done."

China nods blandly and despite his refusal, America leaves him with a grey check, with too many zeros following a one. He hands it over to his boss sometime before dinner with Taiwan and runs back to the table and plops down on one of the cushions. Dinner was steamed lobster with mixed vegetables.

There's something light in his chest and he could cry at this scene, but he knows that China will always, always be together. And there will be more of these moments (once Hong Kong and Macau come back), so many, and his heart is full and warm.

1949, after the CCP took power

It's a gathering of nations and China leans against the marble wall of the palace in Vienna, tilting his head to the dangling chandelier. Fifteen feet away from him, Taiwan stands awkwardly, in a red gown and black dressy heels, as she is surrounded by America and France and his "allies."
She glances at China for a moment and it takes a poke from America to gain her attention (and a repeat of her new name).

America speaks her name loudly, intentionally or unintentionally, but it casts China's attention from the elegant crystals (mmm… shiny) of the chandelier to the small gaggle of groups. America was never the subtle type either way.

"So, China. How's your government?" America nonchalantly wraps his arm around her shoulder, "I heard it got into some trouble some time ago."

Taiwan nods feebly, eyes flickering to everywhere but him. She doesn't frown, doesn't weep like he thought she would, but swallows and weakly smiles. China remembers Taiwan survived Japan, after all.

And with that warm thought, Manchuria scratches at his leg, an itch for revenge waiting to be appeased and will never be. He glances at Japan, with a broken elbow and shot nerves in his leg, slumped over a glitzy couch. His crutches are neatly tucked under the couch and China knows that Japan is trying, failing, to keep their existence a secret. ("Japan, you shouldn't be doing this. It's dangerous! Be more careful, alright-aru?") China crushes that feeling and looks at everyone and everything, except Japan. Never Japan. Never Japan with his toys and fragile smile and his tiny pale hands. Never the Japan he gave piggy back rides to. Never Japan of the rising sun (ravaging Nanpei, blood coating his fingernails and white clothing).

"I'm fine. Everything," Taiwan looks at China and doesn't look away, "is doing well." He does not meet her eyes, brown and pure, like his. Or maybe not. He vows that he'll bring her back and locks that wish in his heart, in Beijing, in the Party, in his people. She belongs with him and he'll do anything. (Bring down the heavens, damn the world, anything to save her) To save her from the damn capitalists. Anything.

South Korea (Gorguryeo, Koryo, Korea) is walking around the ballroom, flirting with the waitresses and chatting with Russia and his brother. China watches him meander throughout the ballroom, politely talking with the other occupants, and watches him move his arms excitedly just like his forefather did in the past. He wonders why he wasn't replaced due to his civil war, but pushes down that thought and thinks of the future.

He shall be great. He feels it in his bones, in his blood, and thinks of the great iron furnaces producing steel and the tracks of farmland, where men and women and children work together as one for the dreams of one nation. They're equal, finally. He tastes it in the atmosphere and present and knows that he shall succeed.

America will become a pale shadow to his wealth, to his people, in the far away green future. China looks at America, at England, at the Koreas, at Taiwan, at everyone, and swears he'll share his beautiful, bountiful future with them. He'll save them all from the landowners' exploitation and capitalist greed. And it shall be a grand old future indeed.

June 1950, The Korean War

"I'm glad that you're here, Hyung-nim!" South Korea grins happily at him when he sees him. And he drops his chopsticks and lunges at him. The Korean gropes at his chest. China wants to scream. "Your breasts belong to us, I mean me, daze."

Goguryeo laughs at him, kicks at his chest, and rubs his fist on his already-messy hair. "Trying to get Manchuria back? Look at you, shorty!" China throws a dagger at him. He dodges and China wishes that he'll get blinded by a bird scratching out his eyes or humiliated epically. Or something. It's not gracious of him to wish harm to an older relative, but the bastard deserves it."I still own your breasts. Try again sometime later."

"Aiyaah! You stupid lug! You still remember that?" He kicks Korea in the chest and the tall man falls down on his back. He blushes angrily and waves his chopsticks in the air. "I got back that part in the Tang dynasty, you idiot!"

"I won," China smiles as he puts his jian at Goguryeo's throat. The former empire's face is blank, his mouth is not shaking, his shoulders are not trembling.

The Korean stares at his brother's face and smiles. "Yeah. It took you two hundred years though. Maybe you should eat more kimchi." He grins as smugly as always and says, "Well, not everyone gets to conquer your breasts and I got that little kid in the north's left pinkie." China presses the blade closer to his throat. "See you then."

He blinks and Goguryeo is gone.

"But, I owned them once! Well, I think I did. I have to find the documents about that, but I'm sure I did. I think…" He grins and rubs his hair. The face (what was it anyway) is smirking and China can swear that Goguryeo is that face. He always did everything to extremes in any way and the bastard haunting him in the form of a mutated strand of hair was perfectly him.

"I'm home, honey!" A voice calls out from the door, while China is cooking diner. They got some good beef from their neighbor in exchange for some of their rice and China wants to treat his family to a nice meal. And get rid of Taiwan's needling for sugared chestnuts. He turns slowly and Goguryeo skids to a halt in the kitchen. Grinning stupidly as he used too. China swore that around 250 years would be enough to shoo a spirit from haunting him. (It's rude to injure your dead relatives, but this was an exception) He lifts a spare wok and screams, "Hiyaah!" and whacks the ghost in the face. He looks at the downed spirit, then at his wok. Cast iron was a good choice.

China sighs and rubs his forehead. "Well… how are you and your brother doing? I'm-" Horrible, sick, tired, depressed, sordid, something. "fine." South Korea rolls his eyes and says, "You must be feeling more than fine."

Goguryeo is dancing and China hears the spirit humming in the crowd, rising and bubbling, like the sea. It is March 15th and he thinks he shouldn't have come here. There are so many meetings and battles for him and he can't be distracted by a stupid plan by his brother. Suddenly Goguryeo whispers "I'm tired," and China blinks. A gulf of people separates them. Was he the only one who heard? And he looks up. He is gone. Swept into hell, like Rome and the world.

He is gone. And two men remain.

1970, The Cultural Revolution

China waves his little red book and feels a million breathes form from the movement of a million little red books. This is the power of the people. To move the world with a swish and flick of a small book, to save a child from starvation, to serve the country faithfully. And his voice rises, along with the voices of a million others, shouting (screaming, whispering, weeping) Chairman Mao's name.

(Manchuria is weeping and he feels it in his chest, another broken ache on there. HE wonders for a moment, where all the food and the plows and the sickles are. Oh. Mao threw them into an inferno and they came out as scrap metal. He's so hungry and Grandma's hungry and Mai's sick and hungry and brother went out for food, but never came back.)

He wonders if Chairman Mao hears "China" in his name. Mao does. Mao will let a hundred buds bloom in China. Mao will bring greatness to China. Mao says something, but it is too difficult to hear it over the roar of the crowd and the gust birthed by a million books.

(The crops have not blossomed. There are empty stalks, with no flowers sprouting from their buds. They cannot grow fruit. And the vegetables shrivel and dry and die in harvest time. The rice beds are dry. And Li is so hungry and he wonders what happened to his dream of going to university and meeting a nice girl and.)

And he is at a smaller rally in Beijing College. Even though Mao is not there, even though the hero of this nation is not here, there is enough passion, enough strength in the youth to pull China's future into the world. It shall be beautiful.

He rises in the ranks quickly. He is their country after all. And soon he is planning with the student leaders from Beijing University.

"We should go there," A lean, tan boy jabs a finger at one of China's port cities, close to Hong Kong, "It's likely that the capitalists get their stuff from there." He wonders for a moment how Hong Kong is. Thirty-five more years until they reunite.

China knows that the boy is an honors student, top of his class in biology and chemistry, misses Manchuria, and hates his Chinese teacher and the Japanese. China also knows that going to the countryside dotted around the yellow river will allow their group to find more imperialists. (he is them as well) He raises his hand.

"Yes?"

"We should go there," China drags his finger through the Yellow River, ignoring the clandestine comments from his neighbor, a mousy looking teen with black glasses and hair, "It's more likely the imperialists are located here, since the black market there is an important source of Western goods-aru."

The lean, tan boy punches China. He swallows and curses at him, hands balled up into fists. "Shut up! Why are you saying what the Japanese think we say? It's not Chinese. It's the Westerners' jokes of Mao and China. That isn't China." The lean, tall boy kicks him again, in the ribs.

("Aru. Say aru, renxiong," Japan said, "You sound nice when you say it." He huffs and mutters, "I always sound nice," but he still says, "aru.")

He is demoted publicly and he washes out fruit from his hair. The next morning he asks for the president's forgiveness and he is forgiven. A thought bites angrily at him, 'You are a nation. Why let yourself be humbled by foolish youths?' But, he counters, "I am not higher than them. I am equal. We are all equal under our government."

But, why do you worship that man as a god?

They found a couple kissing in an alley and humiliated them. The Red Guards run amuck, finding scapegoats and each other to fight.

It was all for Chairman Mao after all. China thinks he overran a classroom and dragged out a teacher by his hair and beat him until he was the color of opium smoke.

1978, Democracy Wall

I have lived through the Qing Dynasty, the Nationalists' birth and death, and this new era of China. I wept when my people were crushed under the Qing and smiled when they were driven away. I wept when Manchuria was taken away from me, a second time, and smiled when we, not the Nationalists, freed my people. I wept when the Nationalists jailed our spirits and smiled when we overthrew them. And now I weep for the withering crops, the useless metal, the children taught again, the disappearing future. Where is this future I have wished for?

I am tired. We have tried to leap forward, but instead tumbled into a ditch and crashed into the earth. I decry the inequality of our ancestors, but why did we forget our patience? Were we so focused into this new and great future that we failed to see where we were walking? I gave up my old iron wok so you may forge a new future, but there was only scrap metal. You have betrayed us, me. Families were broken apart, schools destroyed, and our people died. My people died. But, all you did was mention propaganda and lies in your suitcase and ignore the people. I don't care about your reputation, we are above that, but you chose to hide your shame, instead of fixing your mistakes. There is pride and there is foolishness and you were foolish.

Don't turn your back on the revolution. Don't lose me. I don't-

(The sentence has been cut off and the entire letter is crossed out.)

1989, Tiananmen Square

Everything is burning. His heart beats painfully against his ribcage, twisting and choking. China moves the tank slowly through the streets, avoiding the rocks hurled at him and running over barricades. He sees a slim figure running through the street, carrying an injured man. The teenager runs past the tank and China thinks they saw each other.

"Hong Kong?" He whispers, but the boy is gone. He moves forward reluctantly, disliking his orders vehemently. He could leave and abandon his weapon, but what can he do in a prison. His heart hurts and he sees a woman running away from the land troops. She, whose name was Xing, draped flowers over his tank two days before, while telling him about de-mo-cra-cy.

He continues on to the square. In the distance, he sees the face of Chairman Mao Zedong on the gate of the Forbidden City. What would you do if you were here? Would you fight, like you did so long ago? China continues on, toward an almost-revolution.

Someone is in front of him. He grinds to a halt and stares at the youth's face. His face was so much like the kid in Beijing University who hated Japan, so much like the spirits of the Koreans, so much like Mao, before he went power-mad and replaced the government with the same. In his hands, lay the future.

China tries to move his tank without crushing the man. But he steps in his path again and again. China laughs softly and stops. The man climbs onto his tank and says, "Nihao. I'm Wang Yao. Thank you." China blinks and he feels the decay of a thousand blossoms in his heart.

He later sees the man dragged away by two men.