Rating: G
Pairing: England/China
Word Count: 390
Notes: Written in like 5 minutes. I am not proof-reading, okay? Okay.
xxx
The hug came more than 200 years too late.
England hadn't intended for it to happen that way.
Their conversation was formal, delicately planned. Polite, carefully chosen words were the only kind allowed in their exchange. They stood a few feet apart, both well-dressed, ties meticulously done. China held his head high, proud of where his country stood, and he eagerly spoke of Hong Kong and how happy he would be when England rightfully returned him.
But sorrow surrounded China. England caught it; the light sadly glistened in China's miserable eyes, and England had to swallow the lump in his throat. He nodded, casually answering China's questions.
England's chest hurt. It had hurt since the 1800s, but England had refused to remove his mask. He couldn't, not when he had everything to lose.
He looked at China, let his gaze linger for a second too long. England had proudly worn his mask—and betrayed and lied and ripped China apart—all because he was afraid to lose. But ...
Gold eyes met green ones, and England's heart skipped a beat.
He sighed. The important thing that mattered—the only thing that mattered all along, China, Yao—was lost, and he had foolishly lost Yao because of his ignorance and folly.
"Aiya, Arthur, stop daydreaming. How old are you? Fi—"
A hand clutched China's arm. China's body moved forward, pulled off balance. In an instant, China was in England's arms, eyes wide and confused.
England's jacket smelled of bergamot, but China wasn't sure what he was doing in England's arms in the first place, nose pressed against England's clothes. "Arthur ... what are you—"
Arms encircled China's torso and tightened around him. England pressed his cheek against China's head and breathed in his scent. He mumbled words far too faint for even China to hear, "I'm so sorry."
But China didn't have to hear the words to understand; the embrace was loud enough. His hands shook, but he brought them up to England's arms and clutched onto his clothes. "Opium bastard," he whispered, words shaking, trembling. He bit his bottom lip and buried his face in England's chest, hiding the tears that finally spilled.
England tightened his hold, crushing China against his body. He had senselessly waited 200 years to embrace China, but now he refused to let go.