Dr. Crab's Prize, Give Unto Me, The Emperor is Dead

This is a side-bit for my Hetaoni-project "Hetaoni: Recovery"! I originally wrote it while Recovery was still on-going, then quite literally forgot to post it after completing the story!

It doesn't work as a chapter in Recovery or an epilogue because it's pairing-based, but most importantly it's about probably the unhealthiest relationship in the entire story: Romano and China.

Have fun, and leave a comment below!

Aftermath

It's not about love, and it's hardly about sex.

It's about power, and control, and the way pleasure works when you're backed into a corner with no choice but to enjoy it.

It's not about humiliation though. They aren't going to talk about this, and it isn't going to be something he'll lord over the nation gasping under him. It's about the hot skin sliding and slapping against his and running under his hands, a dark-skinned body he could have taken by force, but look at it sprawled willingly in front of him. Isn't it so much better like this?

So maybe it has something to do with sex when their mouths touch and tongues lap together. They don't have to do it this way, but he's enjoying himself that much more with an arm hooked behind his head and dragging him down. Isn't it so much hotter when you give in and feel just how good it is?

And lust has something to do with it too, because he makes the most wonderful sound when he cums hot and needy between their bodies. China's hand stops him from making too much of a mess, milking his orgasm for a few panting moments before he starts lapping at his partner's throat again with swollen lips. He just enjoys himself, nipping and sucking while he wipes the evidence off on the cotton sheets, his other hand resting over the thundering heart trying to escape from behind the other nation's ribs.

"Again…" China purrs, sliding his hips up with another thrust into the body going limp under him. It forces South Italy's eyes open with a gasp and China's almost positive that those are his toes curling, but then his muscles tighten up and the older nation just closes his eyes and savours that deliberate, teasing pressure that tries to take his breath away. Even down like this on his back, full of wine and exhausted from sex, he's still fighting back. "Do it again."

"Make me," Italy challenges, and there's just enough of an almost-smile on his mouth for China to welcome the invitation, dragging himself out before pushing back into that tight, resisting warmth. He keeps his eyes open so he can watch Italy's sore, spent body writhe again and try to adjust to him, his flaccid member resisting even when China makes those lips murmur stubborn encouragements and guidance.

It's about sex, and it's about lust, and it's about business when the next time they come together it's at the end of a long construction project: a new hydro-electric dam in Northern Italy, funded by Chinese partners and built by local hands. When it's not about being backed against a wall or forced into a corner anymore, because Italy comes straight from his brother's relieved and exhausted side and breaks open a bottle of wine with China instead. North Italy sleeps safely while South signs off debts with kisses and heaving breaths.

When it stops being about Rome because that was too long ago and this is right now. When Yao can't remember what Romulus tasted like because Lovino is dark earth and sweet wine and dusty summer heat.

When it's almost about love, but it never will be.

"My ambassador has been missing for thirty-eight hours."

Because China is Italy's master and those two things just don't go together.

"China-"

"I don't want excuses, Italy, I want answers: where is he, and who is responsible for this?"

When neither North or South Italy will look at him because corruption is still a heavy burden on them both. When they're standing in Italy's office in Rome but China is the one sitting behind the desk, fingers steepled and all the weight and power he can muster focused on both halves of the subject state he owns and will not let go of.

"We're searching-" North murmurs, which is exactly what China doesn't want to hear.

"Excuses!" China has his own demons back in Beijing to worry about, his own protests and movements. He cannot be called away from his own capital for too long to worry about and harass his political allies to do their jobs without him here to babysit them! "Where was he when he went missing? Where was he going?"

Drilling the brothers for information makes them glance shyly up at one another, their uniforms pressed blue and grey, medals on breasts and hats tucked under arms. North Italy breaks eye-contact first and South puts the admission together for him.

"Milan. He was on his way north to-"

"Then North will have to find him." China hisses through his teeth, watching Italy purse his lips in a tight line while the younger one finally looks up, watery brown eyes flickering between brother and master for answers. China won't tolerate his confusion, and he stands up immediately behind the desk, showing how fed up he is with their incompetence. "My plane leaves in twelve hours, Veneziano. Either you bring me the information I want, or I take Romano with me to explain to my bosses what happened here and apologize on your behalf."

The response is terrified pleas from the younger brother not to separate them, and a loud voice that's only allowed to yell at him until China cracks his hand across South Italy's face. The blow shuts them both up, and with a stern look North Italy is sent away with his twelve-hour deadline.

South Italy just stands there. There's anger burning in him but it's cooled by something China can read just fine through the harsh green stain of his eyes. It's not lust and it's not love, some part of it is about sex, but it's also about humiliation and just enough fear to poison the air.

"Get out," is all China says to him, because it will never be about love but that doesn't mean he has to make it into something about hate.

They don't touch each other while Italy is with him in Beijing, not until North finally contacts them with the dreaded news of a body that South remains in the city to receive. Both brothers are in Beijing for the funeral, and the apologies, and the regrets, and China stops being mad at them for just long enough to let sadness touch him for the child of his whose life was lost for no good reason at all.

It's raining for the funeral, and it keeps on raining long after the family and officials have left. The warm rain just doesn't stop, soaking through the shoulders and back of his wool jacket, steaming over his wet shoes and combing down through his restrained black hair. China's convinced he's alone in the downpour until he finally decides it's time to leave, and suddenly there's an umbrella over his head.

"I'm sorry."

It's not about sex, and it's not about love, and it's not about fear or humiliation or power. It's about kissing someone whose breath always carries the faintest hint of olive oil, someone who will stand and take responsibility not because his master demands it, but because he knows he should, or maybe because he wants to make things better.

The closest China comes to letting Romano take control is when they wake up half-naked the next morning in bed. He won't let it happen: not because he doesn't think it will feel good, not because he isn't curious, and not because he wouldn't love after such a difficult week to lay back and be caressed for an hour or two. China won't let it happen because it isn't about comfort and trust, so he lets Italy's lips cover his and his warm hands travel down his body. They tangle together with arms and legs and no clothes and some bed sheets, touching and searching with confident fingers, lapping and soothing with panting mouths.

"Don't separate Veneziano and I like that again," Italy tries to make him promise, whispering the words against sweaty skin with pale afternoon light dousing them both.

China refuses.

They don't see each other again until the next world summit, where after a private meeting between himself, Canada, Russia and the Italies, it isn't Italy Romano who stays behind to get his attention, it's Italy Veneziano.

"I know I can't stop you," that's how he begins. There's no lead-in, just the statement with his eyes slightly downcast. It's one of the few times where the younger brother has spoken out on his own in the years since they became allies, but this time his voice doesn't carry anger. "I mean stop either of you. It's not really my business, but it is. I just don't want things to get complicated, China."

"What do you mean by complicated?" So China humours him, or maybe he listens: the line is very thin.

"If it's just sex then I have to be okay with it." Veneziano drops his eyes even further, his red hair picking up the florescent lights over their heads. "Or if it's something else, then that's okay too. Just please make sure you're both on the same page."

This plea, if it's just a plea, should amuse China and nothing more. It's all North Italy has to say anyways, because after that he just salutes and leaves the room as quickly as he can without appearing to run.

The next time China sees them both at the conference, the brothers are standing practically arm in arm with one another, otherwise known as their default position for public events. They're speaking softly to Switzerland about something China has no interest in meddling with.

He leaves them be, because in his mind it's far more important to stop Germany and Russia from chatting without his presence.

Russia reports back to China a few weeks later that military standards and efficiency are rising in Italy as expected. The next time he speaks to Italy over the phone, it's to confirm some headway into dealing with southern corruption. China grants them the additional support they need for an armed crack-down on one of the criminal organizations based and meddling openly with shipping in the city of Naples.

Six quiet months go by where China is better off yelling across the water at Japan. There's the murmur of something in southern Europe as winter approaches, but China is too busy arguing first with India, then Australia, and then England for some strange reason about trade issues in south-east Asia.

England is the one who tells him in a spiteful voice that South Italy is dying.

"He told me not to talk to you," is all North Italy will tell him over the phone because South won't answer his e-mails or call him back, so China is on the next flight out to Rome.

From Rome he flies again, this time to Palermo on the island of Sicily. Both flights are plenty long enough for him to read up and understand what's going on by the time he hitches a ride in a taxi for an address North Italy was barely willing to give him. The military checkpoints he passes along the way also help him understand.

"You son of a bitch, if you'd told me you needed more support then I would have answered you!"

Families are fighting each other, organizations are fighting each other, the people caught in the middle are fighting the families and the military, the police are out-numbered, and anyone in a government uniform is a target. South Italy is teetering on the brink of what could turn into a civil war, and only firm, decisive actions from Rome and the Italian Leader are keeping him from going over that edge.

"Don't yell at him." The house where the brothers are staying is in the heart of the city, a narrow apartment that stacks up three stories high on a stone street. There are two plain-clothes military guards outside the door who stop and ask for China's ID, which he gives just for the sake of getting in the door. Another guard is there in the living room, a fourth in the kitchen, and North Italy is standing at the door to the bedroom to body-block China when he hisses through the gap at the stricken figure laying on the bed.

China nearly shoves North Italy out of his way, but when he stops and takes a better look at his furious yellow eyes, the stronger nation backs down. Italy Veneziano does not glare and he does not raise his voice. He does not threaten or get in other nations ways any more, but he stands in that doorway with his feet firmly planted, his sharp blue uniform lending him the strength to stand there and refuse to move.

"Step aside."

"Don't yell at him."

China does not expect a stand-off, but that's what he has as Veneziano ignores his demand in favour of giving one in return. North Italy is not just standing there, he's staring at him: making direct eye-contact in a way he hasn't done for years, because it upsets him to be bold and gather too much attention to himself. Now he's either overcome that persistent nervousness, or what's most important to him really is under some kind of imminent threat.

What North Italy has either forgotten or simply doesn't know is that his brother is important to China too.

But China is still their master, and as he stands there staring down the lesser state, he calls on that authority and conviction and simply muscles North Italy out of his way through sheer intimidation. He stands straighter, smoothes his own features, and when the cracks begin to form in the other nation's strong front, North Italy retreats back to the bed which dominates the chamber.

It's winter but the window next to the bed is open, the cool air blowing past sheer white curtains as the daylight bleeds down across the quilts and blankets. South Italy is awake but doesn't say anything as first his brother and then China himself both approach. The only sound in the room save the distant drone of cars and wind is the sharp, painful sound of the half-nation panting heavily for breath.

It's hard not to touch him, and because China owns them both he gives in sooner than he should. South Italy is lying on his side, doubled over with his arms wrapped tight around his gut. There's a sour smell this close to him that comes from many sources: the sweat-stains on the blankets around him, the astringent-soaked bandages wrapped around his throat and over one eye, the bucket of blood and bile from vomiting still sitting on the floor waiting to be washed away. He's sick to his core and his dark skin is pale, complexion washed out and clammy as China pushes his lank, thinning hair back to look at his face.

What look like burns are raised and red across the side of his face, and there are traces of blood on his night-shirt where it covers his back and sides. The trauma is bad enough that his skin has begun to split and bleed like a rotten melon.

England wasn't lying: South Italy is dying.

"When did this start?" One of Italy's eyes is covered in a gauze patch, the other is milky white when he tries to open it. China doesn't care which brother answers him and doesn't look up when North speaks for him.

"When we said it would." Like a kicked dog, there's a sharpness in Italy Veneziano's voice, a promise that he will bite if he feels threatened enough. "A mistake was made in Naples: misinformation sent our men after several members of a Mafia family, not the Camorra as planned." The Mafia is based in Sicily, the Camorra are Neapolitan, China knows this much.

"A Mafia wife was killed, her family attacked a Camorra business. Because we were involved a tiff between small families brought in the larger ones. Some are attacking government officials, others are going after the other organization. We had several successful missions which have shaken up and broken the chain of command across three regions."

There is no fighting fair with criminals like this: you don't use laws, you use guns. North Italy is not describing missions as investigations seeking arrests and charges, he means targets, attacks, and executions. The problem with force is that when it isn't used properly… it becomes a beast that can bring any powerful nation to its knees, nevermind the weaker ones. When civilians start to die the nation begins to crumble.

"Why didn't you contact me?" North Italy is standing on the other side of the bed, his eyes are locked on China's hand where it's still touching his brother's face, but he isn't moving and simply answers the question.

"Romano forbade it."

"Why didn't you contact Russia?"

"Because Russia would have spoken to you."

That answer upsets him. In fact it hurts him. He's hurting and he knows it, because there's very little China can do in the moment to make any of what's happening go away. Now he can begin to help, but that's it: he can't finish this, he can only start.

"Is he safe here in Palermo?" Yao asks the question because, again, there's nothing China can do until he has access to a phone and can make up a plan of action. Feliciano doesn't answer him right away, and that worries him.

"He refuses to leave. I've tried to convince him but he won't come." With Lovino in this state he shouldn't be able to fight, but Yao just brushes his hand back over sweaty dark hair again. Nations don't always gravitate to where they will be safest, they hurry to the place where they are needed.

"Are you co-ordinating efforts outside from here?" Yao could just bluntly demand to know what Feliciano is doing to help, but his words come out softer than intended.

"All military information on the island goes through me, and I receive hourly reports on progress being made to calm the disturbances in Naples." Meaning the younger brother is finally beginning to function on his own again, and he doesn't need his sibling there to hold his hand and guide his every step. They can begin to support each other again, not just have it be a one-way struggle.

"Bring me a report of what you require for the next thirty-six hours, for this week, and the next month." China is Italy's master, it's his responsibility to do absolutely everything in his power to help and support those in his care. If he can't do that, then what is the point of an Empire? "Go."

Feliciano Vargas moves very slowly, because for several moments he doesn't move at all. He's barely even breathing, and when he does sum up the power to move he leads with one foot, half-remembering to incline his head and completely refusing to salute. His eyes are locked with Yao's again, breaking only at the last moment as he turns so he can look down at his brother's stricken form. The panting is softer now, but Yao can feel every strangled breath rattling the body under his hand. Lovino needs help, and Yao will provide it, he just needs Feliciano to bring him that list.

Something turns the younger brother's heart just enough that as he leaves, he shuts the bedroom door. There are no guards here, no extra eyes or listening ears. Yao isn't looking at anything for a moment, his eyes locked on the white-washed surface of the door, his ears starting to echo with the raspy breaths struggling near him.

When he feels shaking fingertips try to hook around his wrist, Yao kneels because China can only stand and wait for the moment to act. He has one hand cradling the side of Lovino's face, the other brushing through his damp hair before he presses his lips against that sweaty, clammy brow.

"It hurts… it hurts…"

"I know it does, just breathe."

"Venezia…"

"He's working hard; he'll make the pain go away."

"Help me…" Yao can't help him, only hold him when the sickness grabs Lovino's body and he spews blood and polluted water into that sick vat left by his bed. He can weave his fingers between the shaking ones that reach for him, answer the questions half-breathed off trembling lips. He wipes away the blood and sweat with a damp rag the brother used for the same purpose, and he sits on the edge of the bed running his fingers through matted hair.

And it's not about sex or power or lust or control or humiliation. It's not about duty or obligation because Yao only leaves for a few hours with Italy's list so China can make orders, demands, and requests for aid and action. It can't be about love because it can't be about love, but it still ends up with Yao and Feliciano trading off four hour shifts at Lovino's side so the other can eat and sleep and bathe and work to make him feel better.

Somewhere far away Canada and Russia organize the UN, and peacekeepers are deployed to help control the violence in city centres and drag the death toll down as low as they can make it. The corruption dives beneath the skin and the fighting continues behind locked doors and in abandoned warehouses, but the bullets stop spraying, the fires stop burning, and after too many weeks of terror South Italy begins to recover.

A conference in Moscow a month later involves too much running around for Italy just yet. So it's North Italy who goes with Canada and Russia and keeps up with the other nations, and it's China and South Italy who retreat early to the hotel to talk about nothing and fall asleep, fully clothed, on Italy's bed.

The younger brother doesn't even wake them up when he comes back to the room and finds them like that. He just quietly tells the front desk to bring up three meals the next morning and then goes to sleep in his own bed.

"What is this?" Lovino whispers to him early the next morning, because they think Feliciano's still asleep and they're probably very wrong. Yao just lets him keep running the tip of his finger back and forth over his lips, because the gesture is intimate and kind and he likes it. He likes the sleepy way Lovino won't open his green eyes all the way in the morning light.

"Whatever you want to call it." He admits quietly, reaching with his lips to kiss that warm finger and the others that join it. Lovino's caress turns into a smooth stroke down Yao's cheek, so he adjusts his arm where it's wrapped around the other man's firm torso. "But I like it…"

"Mmm…" That sounds like agreement and Yao closes his eyes again slowly. "I shouldn't trust you."

"No, that would be a bad idea." Human subjects should trust their human masters, but that kind of trust between nations breeds betrayal.

"Do you love me?"

"If I did I would be making a terrible mistake." Because a human master best served the subjects he loved, but love could turn selfish and lead to neglect of duty.

"So I don't trust you, and you don't love me…" Lovino moves just a bit closer, his fingertip dragging down Yao's lips again until he's close enough for them to share a breath and touch noses gently. He can feel where the Italian's hand and arm are slipping around him in a hug, a warm embrace under soft Russian blankets. "But we like it like this."

"I like it like this…"

"I like it too…"

So they kiss again and know that it's about this.

Romachu, aka: a dynamic I enjoy in fiction but would raise hell and call the cops if I ever saw it IRL.