The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. –Unknown

He chucked the phone onto the bed with a shriek. One could hear the sound of gnashing teeth, over and over, until the cacophony ceased when he felt searing pain shoot through his jaw. A red haze dispersed into drops that splattered onto his chin, neck, and crimson silk shirt. Following his cell phone he threw his own weight onto the downy pillows; a wail could not help but erupt from his throat. It was scratchy and raw.

There was a riot of emotions raging inside of him. Frustration, contempt, betrayal. There was a storm of regrets brewing inside of him. The desire to turn back time.

To start the day over again, just for once.

He had seen invasions. Attempted colonization. The assault of his people by all races-all creeds and native tongues-but nothing felt as gut-wrenching as this moment in time. He wanted to give up.

China wanted to give up.

He was overreacting, sure. If there was another man in the room, they would by all means be able to calm him down. But China was all alone in that bedroom of his. In his house.

His siblings were all gone.

If there was one thing that the Middle Kingdom desired most, it was to be what he thought he was intended to be: a father of countries. A protector. The moment China had grown from a war-hungry juvenile Nation into a grown one he had perceived that he had reached enlightenment. He trekked into the bamboo and thought, 'I have found my calling.'

One by one he would pick up the infantile creatures and take them to his imperial home. When he was busy off fighting wars and conquering territory the apes he called, 'Humans' tended to the superior specie he had recovered from all across Eastern Asia, grooming and educating them. By the time China would return he would berate the ignorant humans for not treating them just right, and he'd take the children under his own wing and teach him characters himself-only to find they'd have their own artistic variations on his language. Then China would sit outside and watch the Jade Rabbit race across the moon every single night. And sometimes, the Nation children would waddle up to him, still sitting there, and crawl into his lap and beg him to tell them the story again. He felt obliged, after all.

They had names, these juveniles. The first was the cold-hearted, ambitious, 'Japan.' There were also the two boys that in present day are called, 'Korea.' Then there was Formosa-or Chinese Taipei-but she liked to be called 'Taiwan' nowadays. There was also sweet, four-eyed 'Macau.' Lastly, on his record, 'Hong Kong.'

He wailed again when that name crossed his mind.

Hong Kong. Hong Kong. His bright student, Hong Kong. The one the white man took away from him and corrupted into a Western sympathizer, a traitor, an unfaithful son-

China cursed out loud in an effort to relieve the pain. It swarmed his veins and paralyzed his limbs. He tried to reassure himself that the name would not stay tarnished in his mind. After all, the scar ripping his back open only ached slightly when he thought of Japan nowadays.

Slightly.

He took deep breaths to cure the ache in his liquefied brain. Ponytail draped across his face, it caught the stray tears that continued to fall even when he thought he'd stopped crying. China shrugged and assumed he just couldn't feel himself crying at this point. For once, after a few breaths in and out, there was an achy silence instead of rage making the blood pound in his ears like gongs. The Asian man took a moment to reflect on his reaction to the phone call, and he wanted to laugh, but he felt bloated and heavy and sick. He cursed himself out again. China messed everything up. It wasn't the boy's fault he was so frustrated with his teacher.

The phone vibrated.

Impulsively he snatched it from the pillow and pressed his eyes to the message. His heart sank.

"Privyet,

Reminding you about the SCO meeting today. India, Pakistan, Iran and Mongolia are having their member orientation. You need to be here on schedule this time.

Russia"

He was tempted to answer back with a "fuck you, I'm calling in sick" but he didn't have the guts. Instead, he put down the phone and burrowed his face in the pillow, groaning to himself a bit more. Responsibilities were not his top priority right now. The name, 'Russia' didn't ring well in his head then either. It was all about flaunting power for that nasty little white boy. As long as Russia was in control of things, China's northern neighbor couldn't care less about what happened to him.

…but by that logic, why would Russia send that message?

China was now having an argument with himself. Respond to the text—no, leave it be for now—you need to let him know you can be there—but you don't want to be there.

He sighed again, tears making his flushed face sticky, and lay there for a few heartbeats. A low sobbing would occasionally make him convulse once or twice. The elderly country's fingers scratched at the back of his phone with a lustful anxiety pulsating through each digit. Swollen, puffy eyes darted to it, then to the wall. Then back to the phone again.

China picked up the contraption once more.

Though he didn't feel like answering Russia's robotic-sounding text, deep down he was beginning to realize something: Russia cared enough about the situation at the Shanghai Cooperation Organization that he tried to make sure China still cared, too. To an extent, China could understand Russia's worry. He was the co-founder of the damn organization; he should be responsible for its upkeep. But that wasn't the point right now. China scrolled through his phone and pressed his thumb to Russia's icon. There, he saw the never-ending list of texts they'd send each other back and forth. The tears were starting to dry up as he read each text over again carefully.

Russia

There was something awfully threatening about the man. He was tall, with bluish eyes that were so pale China swore they'd reflect his image as he looked into them with his own amber. And he had the most daunting, most bone-chilling smile. That was the worst part—it wasn't a glower or a snarl on Russia's snow-white face, but a satisfied grin. China wasn't scared of him, like tabloids would say. China feared nothing about white men. What… "unsettled" China was Russia's pursuit of his own might. Russia was an equal, and for the first time in his history, the Middle Kingdom had a competitor who could match his skills in economy and combat. Historically speaking, Russia and China were more so rivals than the inseparable companions they were today. Under the rule of cruel, racist, imperialist bosses, Russia would flood China's northern territory with countless numbers of ruthless soldiers. They would gobble up his land, along with other Western spheres of influence. And when Russia became the USSR… that was a whole different story that made China's heart lurch with pangs of pain. Nowadays, however, the enjoyed relations that no other countries could boast of. They were a team of two that everyone feared. Together, they could annihilate entire civilizations if they pleased, according to Westerners. Thankfully, neither expressed interest in doing so. Whenever they would peer into each other's eyes, there was almost always a power struggle surging within.

But whenever Russia parted his lips to speak, the hairs on China's neck would cease their bristling.

The boy had the most soothing of voices. It was calm, and his pattern of speech was poetic. What Russia lacked in friendliness on the outside was instantly dispersed when he opened his mouth. China could listen to Russia speak for hours.

And there was a great kindness to Russia's words. Over and over again, Russia would follow China down the halls of the UN Headquarters, expressing his intense support for him whenever conflict would flare up in the South China Sea.

"They may be my allies," he would say, "but people who hurt you are no friends of mine!"

China definitely appreciated the support when everyone else labeled him an aggressor or, even worse, a monster. China detested that word and its historical meaning for him. In fact, though China kept his head down with his eyes focused on his papers, a small smile would creep on his lips. Of course, Russia's constant gushing over China didn't help, either. At times, Russia seemed more like an obsessed fan than a good friend. Not that China minded too much. When they would enter the Security Council meeting room, and the Westerners were not there, they'd sit down together and chat for what seemed like forever. Every other sentence Russia bellowed was sprinkled with compliments for the elder Asian. China would stare on, avoiding eye contact as a small blush colored his cheeks. Russia never seemed to notice.

"Eguo," China whispered. Russia twisted his head around, eager to hear China respond. "Why do you like me so much? Why me? Why not someone else?"

Russia smiled sweetly.

"Because you deserve it."

The most recent Olympics had proven China's new outlook on the Eurasian powerhouse that towered to the north of him. Flags of white, blue and red in each hand, he strutted out into the Opening Ceremony waving and wailing his solidarity for the unpopular host, and China's team followed suit. After the ceremony was over, Russia trudged over to his friend and squeezed him, unable to control his tears. China couldn't help but grin. It wasn't rare to see Russia cry, but it was highly uncommon to see him cry tears of joy. He felt blessed to be what seemed like Russia's only friend at the event.

China knew that Russia was lonely. From the moment Russia was a wee child the Asian observed his isolated geography and poor geopolitical skills would earn him little friends—and so it was that way for hundreds of years. He was grateful to be Russia's shoulder to cry on, even if it was for a little while.

"…and you deserve love, too, Eguo."

China forgave Russia for his wrongdoings because Russia was just too irresistible not to. They were friends now. Good friends. Great friends. China sometimes feared Russia would become another Japan or another—that name was taboo at the moment, but—Russia instead turned his guilt into passion to help China and China turned his resentment into passion to help Russia.

That was one man that China could always rely on.

China flicked his thumb to scroll down and view the other latest text messages he'd received. There was one with garbled words, riddled with the ever-so-helpful Autocorrect, and China had a hard time making out what the text was meant to mean. Of course, knowing whom it came from, China wasn't surprised it was so difficult to make out what it said.

North Korea

China had little sympathy for any nation these days. He was the one who would beckon younger countries to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and take on their responsibilities; of course, he wasn't always like this. Go back around two hundred years, give or take, and he would be open to take in any country which needed his aid. But betrayal after betrayal left him hopeless and starving for companionship—true companionship, at that. And he had little, especially when all of the small Asian nations he once called family had grown up to spit in his face and kick dirt on his robes.

All except for the sickly brother who just couldn't keep up.

He had a name before the split, but no one remembered it. People simply called the boy "North Korea" with a disgusted twinge in their face, uttering it in harsh whispers. Countries showed their true colors whenever the porcelain-faced child would hobble into the room. To China, North Korea—oh, how he detested calling his blood that name, but he would never respond to Bei Chaoxian for some reason—the hermit kingdom to his east was his last hope at rekindling the long lost feeling of true family. China's eyes watered when he remembered bundling up the tiny child and his twin brother in his arms, rocking them both into a lulling slumber as they wailed for comfort. His old heart lurched when he made eye contact with the walking weapon that was once the tiny, sweet baby boy China had raised on the Peninsula. The superpower had to calm the urge to snap at the ingrates who talked down to his one and only baby. Instead, China could do nothing but reach out to rub North Korea's shoulder, but North Korea would flinch away.

One day in the modern age, China overheard a sound he had not heard in not but a century. He recalled how much North Korea adored music. Back then, China would whip out his erhu and strum the instrument, and in response, a bouncy toddler would hop on his unstable feet and dance to the rhythm. While the southern Korea would go on to pursue other hobbies like dancing and advanced warfare with Japan, the other half shut himself inside, religiously practicing his gayageum. You could hear the enchanting sound a mile away if one listened intently enough. And on that day in the present, beyond the political turmoil and hunger and cold, North Korea played a song again.

In that instant China rushed over to North Korea's house and brought him to Beijing.

"You need food." The elder was sobbing as he prepared a feast for the weakened younger sibling.

"Food is not important to me right now," North Korea replied. "I was playing for my people, and for you."

China dropped the ladle and dragged his feet to the closet. There, he dusted off his ancient wooden erhu, still functioning even after centuries of wear and tear.

"Then I want you and me to play together."

Even if his last link was distant on the surface, China knew deep down that the love they both had for each other was still evident. After countless wars and colonization tore their original family apart, they were eternally grateful that they still had one last sibling to hold onto.

The old man's tears had dried completely at this point. Delving into the sweet memories—even if they were also a bit bitter as well—made his pathetic hiccupping sobs cease and his breath stabilize. Scrolling a bit more, he found another familiar face in his contacts. This one went a bit more far back than the age of modern technology; that was for sure.

Iran

Pride was one word that came to China's mind when attempting to describe the woman. Head held high, brown eyes shining almost gold. China couldn't help but smile whenever she'd enter the room, even when the Europeans and North Americans snarled. She would stare them all down, directly, and pull up a seat and mouth off whatever was on her mind. He noticed that she'd always been like this, and that made his grin expand more.

She was a lot older than many of the other countries, like China. No one really knew her exact age; hell, she never even disclosed it because it was so disputed between her people. But like China, it did not matter. She was an old bag (a phrase nations like America loved to use) just like her nearby companion. She, too, mourned the good old days.

She'd gone by many names over the years, the most commonly-known one being Persia, but the first time China had met her, she had called herself, "Parthia." It was so long ago that China couldn't even remember the date off the top of his head. When they first encountered one another on the old Silk Road, they were fascinated by each other. China was astounded that a female Nation could even exist in that region of the world and, when he proclaimed that to her, she replied with a slap to his face. Soon enough, though, they had gotten more and more used to each other. They became friends.

While their contact was limited for quite a while, as they were busy meandering with their growing empires, China started to notice a shift in himself—he enjoyed having friends, even if they were distant.

Parthia indirectly showed him the emotional power of having peers just like him.

They grew up together, sharing with one another anything that they each had never seen before. Parthia was now called Sassanid (her bosses essentially enforced that she changed her name whenever her rulers were overthrown, causing much confusion for China) and with that distinct change she brought embassies, foreign exchanges, and both land and sea trade. She was helping him grow.

Sometimes, however, she would falter. The horrific collapse of the Sasanian Empire by neighboring caliphates brought her decades of misery. But they also brought a new religion—Islam. Persia had then converted to Shia Islam and for the first time in decades China saw her with a smile on her face. She was truly happy then.

Hundreds of years had gone by and the distant feeling of friendship still lingered between them. White Nations would slaughter their people, hunger for their land, but they shrugged off the attempted invasions and vented about it to each other afterwards.

Persia—now called Iran—went through a metamorphosis that China would never have expected not but forty years ago. She was now required to cover her hair (she had never actually minded, though, as she would do it anyways beforehand) and follow strict religious law that made even the harsh Communist China cringe when he heard about it. Iran, however, was unfazed as ever. If only China had that kind of personal strength.

These days they'd sit together and chat about the annoying younger countries and laugh. Sometimes they'd reminisce.

"Hey, Yilang?" China blinked his amber eyes and glanced over at his companion.

"Yeah?" Iran was too busy examining her nails to look back at him.

"Do you… miss the old days?"

There was a pause, but then, she said:

"Of course I do, you little shit." She scoffed and shrugged her lean shoulders. "But the way I see it, as long as you and I are still around, the old days still exist."

There was one more name on the pathetically short list of contacts that had recently sent him a message. His heart suddenly warmed even more so than before when he saw the next name on the list. It was a name most would groan and even cringe at. But China adored the name. He adored it more than any other name that he could recall.

Pakistan

They had nothing in common, many claimed. On the outside, it seemed to be an evident truth. Pakistan was a nasty little thing. Every other word that would come out his mouth at a world meeting was full of scorn and spite. Other countries assumed China secretly hated Pakistan, and that their flaunted relationship was all but a kick. After all, what sort of elder country would tolerate such a poorly behaved young one?

Well, China would.

Pakistan was not one to come off as "nice." He was scruffy, with bright green eyes that could pierce through hearts and souls. China tried his best never to lie to him, for it was as if Pakistan's gaze could detect even that. However, that same gaze did not penetrate anything China would ever want to hide from the younger country. Pakistan's expression was always sweet and kind.

China could recall India dragging along a small child with him whenever the two would meet around five hundred years ago. The boy would whine and shout but India clutched his tiny wrist with a gut-wrenching might.

"You should learn to discipline him more." China warned.

India could only sigh. "He can't be disciplined."

Their first true meeting was certainly strange. China was dumbfounded to see a country formed out of an idea rather than an ethnic group right before his eyes. Before that, the only other Nation of that caliber was America. But this new Nation—dubbed "Pakistan" by his founding fathers—was certainly something different. In fact, the elder Asian couldn't believe that that wild child was born to become an independent state.

There were days when the isolated Maoist China would linger outside the UN headquarter building. He sighed plaintively; a sick feeling rumbled in his starving belly when he remembered that his own former allies had booted him out of the United Nations simply for identifying as the true "China." Those numbskulled Westerners really were puppets to their bosses. Then, after the meeting was over, a bulky figure would sneak outside. China froze as Pakistan came up to him. The boy beckoned him inside, but China shook his head. "They don't want me in there," the elder said.

"It doesn't matter what they think. You're still the real China. You belong in there."

It wasn't until 1972 that Pakistan finally convinced the Security Council to let China back in, finally kicking Taiwan from his rightful seat as one of the original Allies. And to think China only believed they were allied with each other because they both detested India—oh, how he was so wrong.

The year that defined their very relationship was 2008. China was exhausted from the brutal amount of hate being thrown every which way he walked when the Beijing Summer Olympics were fast approaching. It was his first time hosting such a gargantuan event, but all the rest of the world cared about were his human rights violations. Again, poor China was demonized to the extent of him locking himself in his house and sobbing quietly as the protests and cancelled torch relays continued. Only two months before the grand event was set to begin, more tragedy struck. Mother Nature inflicted her wrath upon his country and hundreds of thousands perished in a great quake that shattered almost all of the Sichuan province. Now paralyzed with physical pain, the amount of agony China was in was staggering. He had never wanted to perish so badly in his life.

But the boy who brought annoyance and grievances to most had brought nothing but hope to him.

Only a few days after the earthquake, a large truck full of supplies drove into the aid drop-off center. Out of the truck came Pakistan. He had given all his available tents and international aid supplies up just for China. China obliged to pay for them, but Pakistan refused.

"They're all for you, jaan. Get better now, will you?"

At that moment, the lack of aid money meant nothing to him. He dropped to his broken knees. Netizens saw this and, their hearts full of joy to see their Fatherland crying tears of joy, gave the seemingly misunderstood Nation a nickname: "Batie," meaning "iron Pakistan." Iron as in how steadfast of an ally he was.

Nowadays they were inseparable. China would back up the younger country that aided him in his time of need whenever he felt weak or sick from internal turmoil. In return, Pakistan still remained loyal to his best friend.

"Cheen…" Pakistan's gruff voice trailed off. "I must confess something. I've always been quite fond of you. I'm sorry for all the trouble life's caused you, and… I know how it feels to not have a family who loves you. I abandoned my own. All the guilt and shame that came with it has caught up to me. I just wanted somebody to like me again."

China paused, astounded that his companion would say something so profound out of the blue. However, rather than acting surprised he simply patted the boy's head.

"I don't need family when I have you around, Batie."

There was something that he realized, deep down, within him as he let the phone drop from his hand.

The fact was, it didn't matter if Hong Kong had dampened his spirits so badly. Even if the ungrateful spawn still ate off his resources and slept in the bed he had paid for, the hard feelings would pass. China endured so much more pain and misery throughout his long, long life. This was simply an argument through the telephone. Compared to the invasions he had endured, the physical and mental abuse he had taken from so many other countries, Hong Kong's anger with his teacher was all but a terrible start to his day.

One day out of millions.

China had to let go of the people he once called, "family." It was obvious that they did not care for nor want him in their lives at this time. But why should China be fazed? After all, unrequited love was a love that was useless to be sought after. Staring up at the off-white ceiling, the elderly Nation smiled.

He didn't need a blood family who couldn't care less if he was living or dead. He had friends from across the globe who depended on him, watched over him, and protected him. They may not all have shared blood with him, but they would gladly spill their blood if it meant giving China the happy life he so very much deserved.

Russia, the northern companion who began as a wish-washy enemy but turned out to be a lonely child who needed a hand.

North Korea, the only remaining family member whom would give his life in an instant to save China's welfare, even if his was already in danger.

Iran, one of the oldest friends he'd ever had, watching their ancient companions perish over the years but still finding time to spend with each other.

Pakistan, the misunderstood rogue whose demeanor was off-putting but heart was as pure as the name he was given.

And there were so many more that China could befriend if he'd give them a chance. If they'd give him a chance.

China wasn't the only one who felt lonely. His best friends were all quite lonesome, too. Maybe that was why they banded together. They were missing the feeling of companionship. China could relate to their struggle.

For the first time in days, China laughed a hearty laugh. His body was bursting with warmth.

Picking up the smart-phone, he tapped Russia's icon and began to type eagerly.

"Don't worry, Eguo. I'll be there in a sec! I couldn't miss out on this!"

He leaped from his bed and began changing into business attire. Confidently fixing his tie he stood with his face to the mirror. And he grinned again.

Dashing out the door with his suitcase in hand, China drove out to his native Shanghai. As he quickly paced to the entrance and opened the doors, there stood his friends.

They were patiently waiting for him, all smiling as he walked in.

China had finally found his place.