Hello, I'm back with yet another series. This is a World War 3 fic, spanning from the fall of the Soviet Union to a few hundred years into the future.

What I can tell you about what to expect (without spoiling it, of course) is that:

- RoChu the main pairing, with a side serving of England/France. Alfred shares a close relationship with Ivan and Yao, and that's what drives the plot forward.

- Yao and Ivan will be a married couple for a good portion of the story.

- The story line is inspired by modern politics, but it's by no means a prediction of what's going to happen a few hundred years from now. I have sensationalized the plot a bit.

So I hope you'll stay tuned! :)

1991- Prologue

For Yao, the past few nights have not been kind at all, staying up until five in the morning signing paperwork and typing reports for his boss. Sleep is for the cowardly.

Though when he hands them in, Yao gets nothing back for his hard efforts but a quick nod and acknowledging grunt. There's no hope for promotion, not even a congratulatory pat on the back for his efforts. No matter, Yao knows this is his job, the same job that he has had for the past four thousand years. It is all the same tedious work, being a nation, despite having to shake hands with a new boss every few years. Nothing comes as a surprise to Yao anymore. He forecasts with fleckless precision, and acts accordingly.

The monotony actually serves as a great distraction from his private life. Admittedly, one of Yao's most dangerous, most prominent vices is his tendency to put off all of his headaches to deal with later, of which his personal matters hold a large share. But, later never comes, and his cloud would just accumulate until Yao finally snaps for good. Then, he'd be back where he started, having not made an inch of progress.

It's an unhealthy cycle that Yao has spun himself into, truly.

The couple hours of precious sleep per night is actually what Yao fears most of all. He'd write them off if he could, but the whole nation of China depends on the well-being of this damned sack of human flesh. These past few nights, whenever he shuts his eyes, all he sees is—

"Yao."

He feels a certain someone loom towards him from behind, and grasp him around the waist. Despite that the man's hold is constricting him, making him barely able to breath, Yao relishes in the warmth. He is allowed this one moment of weakness because, and only because it has been so long.

"Yao," the familiar deep, grunting voice repeats, as Yao's heart gives an aching throb, "I want you to come back to me again."

"No," is his lightning-fast response. There is no time to think. He doesn't allow it.

"Very well, just stand here and listen to me then."

Ivan made it sound as if he was giving Yao a chance to escape, like Yao could just freely walk away from the arms that held to him like chains.

But, if Ivan did give him a chance, Yao would still choose to stay standing beside this colossal pine tree, deep within the forest that defends the long, winding Sino-Russian border.

Ivan takes a deep breath, making Yao shudder. The air through his lips feel colder against Yao's neck than the whistling subarctic breeze.

"Everything I've ever done was all for you. Everything." He admits. Ivan's words are slow, but cutting. "Ever since I met you, Yao, I knew I had to make you mine. I knew I had to grow apart from the errant child I was, and become stronger. I built my empire from scratch and won more wars than I can count, just so I could prove my worth to you, that one pretty lady I had met in the palace so long ago."

"Am I worthy, Yao?" Ivan speaks out of irony, while Yao continues to look down at his feet. "If you come back to me, love, I swear I'll make everything right again..."

Ivan tightens his grip around him, while the other keeps his eyes closed and mouth shut.

"I'm sorry that I've hurt you, and no, you don't have to find it in your heart to forgive me. All I ask for is a second chance... There are days when I miss you so much that I don't know what to do with myself..."

Yao puts Ivan's hands down gently, and turns around to face him.

Ivan, I miss you too, he thinks, but cannot say.

Instead, he silently looks up at him, the man he has not seen in person for over a decade. Ivan has not changed much though. The same hair, same plump, childish face, same eyes, but maybe with darker circles from the sleepless nights he has also suffered through.

However, Yao does not allow to rest in nostalgia for long. He knows what must be done, despite the gnawing warmth in his heart.

"Thank you, Ivan," he says. Standing on tip-toes, Yao gently brushes his chapped lips against the other's cheek, and takes his leave. A mere kiss is all he can muster, and it's enough. As he walks away, Yao intentionally takes steady paces, while half-hoping that Ivan would chase after him. But, he never comes.

How can Yao forget about the many tender nights they had shared?

He simply can't, even after those nights became rougher and rougher. All the bruises and scars from the battles they fought are still stinging, reminding him of the mortal mistake he had made, giving his trust to a friend he had known for over eight centuries, ever since the man was a child. Oh, he was just the cutest, kindest, most loveable child.

Yao is sick of it, sick of all of the promises that Ivan had ever made to him, which were all betrayed in the end. Ivan had promised to restore Yao to his former glory, just so he could use Yao's weakened state to his advantage. Ivan had vowed to protect him with his life, and for a while, Yao was constantly frightened that Ivan would abandon him, just like everyone else did. But in the end, he became Yao's worst enemy, the man to fear above all of the Western devils.

At first, Yao felt sorry for Ivan. Whenever Ivan collapsed from exhaustion from the drunken, raging fits he had, or was knocked unconscious by Yao himself, Yao would always come back to lull him to sleep. If he didn't do what he could to quell Ivan's madness, the rest of the world would have to deal with it. But as time went on, Yao realized that if he didn't leave, he would be dragged along into this swirling whirlpool that could only go downwards.

The feelings he had for Ivan were beginning to kill him.

And so, Yao left, with nothing to show but a bullet wound on his shoulder that he still wears proudly today, to remind him of the most painful decision he had ever made.

How can Yao sleep when he is haunted by these memories playing over and over again in his head? Not to mention, for the past few days, all that is buzzing on TV, on the radio, in people's conversations, is the elusive, yet ever so intriguing topic of the "fall" of the Soviet Union— Ivan's grand empire. No broadcasting channel has failed to bring the general public updates about the coups, the riots, the throbbing tension between the beast's internal organs.

The Soviets have always been known for maintaining secrecy, a flawless facade, to an extent of madness. And now, during the last days, they are being exposed to the world to scrutinize, to ridicule.

And for Yao, paranoia works better as an insomnia agent than caffeine ever will.

Yao can care less about the empire itself. The Soviet Union has become more or less of a giant sphinx standing in the way of his own development. So, good riddance it is. Countries rise to power, and fall to ashes. Such is the sad truth, and Yao has had to say goodbye to many of his old friends before. So, he should be used to it, and do no more than gesture a salute and a bid a light farewell.

But this time, it is different.

Ivan's going to die.

He's going to die.

It took a little longer for this notion to sink in, but when it did, Yao's knees gave out, and hit the hard, stone floor of his study in a defeated thump.

In times like these, Yao always tells himself to stay calm, and find logical, effective solutions to the issue at hand. So, from what he has figures, the first rational thing to do is to call Ivan.

The dial tone rings and rings, but no one picks up... Yao's heart sinks. Damn it.

"I promise I'll send help, Ivan," Yao whispers to the answering machine, more as a vow to himself than anything else, "I won't let anything happen to you."

He hangs up. "I love you."

There, he said it, happy?

After settling himself down, Yao figures the next best person to call would be his boss. So, he takes a few deep breaths, gulps down a whole glass of water, and presses the direct-dial to the offices in Beijing.

"That's good news, if you ask me," his boss' lazy voice growls from the speaker, "Besides, it's their own fault. They were too fucking proud. Closed themselves to the rest of the world, thinking they were better than everyone else. It's only a matter of time before they're eaten inside out..." Yao heard him hack and spit into the cannister. "Besides, Yao, why do you care? They were bastards anyways."

That is when Yao realized that the same thing had happened to him a couple of centuries ago. That idiot Ivan, he had witnessed the fall of Yao's country first hand, and didn't learn a thing!

Yao buries his face into his hands. He isn't going to cry, not yet. He just needs to soothe his nerves somehow, and maybe find someone to talk to, someone he can trust to listen to him rant for a few minutes, a sad excuse for a friend.

He wants nothing to do with Kiku, and since the rise of the Berlin Wall, he has only seen Arthur and Francis a few times in person, but has not spoken a word to them. Which means, there's only one person left— Alfred.

Recently, Yao's been spending quite a bit of time with the kid, more time than he probably should, much to Ivan's spite. Alfred's an alright person, though a little demanding and impulsive at times. Everyone knows about the man's spat with Ivan, and Yao admits that part of the reason why he has inched closer to Alfred is because of it. Yao doesn't like the feeling of being tossed around like a common tramp by the more powerful players, which is why he maintains a safe, cool distance from Alfred, no matter how much the earnest youngster wants to close that gap.

"Hey babe, you have reached the voicemail of Alfred F. Jones—"

Yao tosses the handset to the wall, and after letting out a roar of hopeless rage, he rams his fist into the wooden office table before him. The surface immediately cracks in two, leaving Yao to hiss at his bleeding knuckles. Kicking his chair to the side, he storms out of his office, and slams the door behind him.

Instead of relying on the unreliable, Yao decides to take the matter to his own hands, and go to Moscow himself. While he knows that a single unit doesn't have the power to save a whole nation from dissolving, Yao is determined to see Ivan one last time.

Hopefully after the final goodbyes are bid, Yao may have dreamless nights once more.

Please tell me your thoughts!

I should be able to update this pretty often. I found these chapters pretty easy to write, so...