Gale, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

Genre: Anime/Manga
Category: Axis Powers Hetalia
Summary: Step by painful step, the eastern gales slowly died. There was nothing around him—only snow, falling incessantly. RussiaxChina somewhat-AU fic. Human names used.
Disclaimer: Does it look like I own Hetalia? No. No, I don't.
Notes: I actually wrote this before "Anak ng Araw," but I kinda got distracted... So technically, this would be my first Hetalia fic XD Enjoy!

General Winter has no intentions of showing any sort of mercy towards the weak—especially those who are foreign to Russia's biting cold weather.

He can't remember how long it had been since he entered Russia's ice-laden fields. It seemed like such a long time ago that he had felt the warmth of the sun against his skin—to feel anything but the cold's numbness. Even the sharp pains from traversing the northern landscape had been frozen away beneath the chilling winter bandages that enveloped his body. He was so numb that he was no longer sure if he was even breathing anymore.

Ahead of him, behind him, at his sides, above and below—there was nothing but white. He hadn't the foggiest idea where he was at the moment, which direction he's walking in, or where he'll eventually end up. He didn't care—not anymore—and kept walking forward, step by agonizing step. His silken black tresses whipped around him as another snowy gust of wind pushed against him, and with his body exhausted (though it was barely noticed), he easily tipped over and landed on the white blankets of cold. His once-fierce eyes stared blankly at the gray clouds above, and watched the small speckles of diamond dust flicker down.

There was nothing around him—only snow, falling incessantly.

Time comes and goes, just like everything else. For him, time went far too quickly—and despite his leisurely appearance he never had any time to enjoy the simplicities, constantly having to play catch-up with everyone else in order to survive. He did it for the good of his people, for the good of his sibling nations. Now, he was tired. As he laid there on the snow, Wang Yao felt a warm feeble wind caress his face before he became cold again.

The eastern winds had died.

He had no recollection of losing consciousness. As his eyes fluttered open, Yao immediately felt pain, both aching and stinging, slowly seep its way into his back, his neck and his legs. It wasn't the best thing to wake up to, but he was experienced enough from all the wars and conflicts that took place over his four thousand years to simply shrug it off and keep going with his daily routines.

It was slightly warmer, Yao noticed as he forced himself to sit up, letting the wool blanket fall to the floor haphazardly. He didn't bother thinking about where said blanket came from—if he had been found, he would have most likely been tended too. His eyes were still blurry from sleep—all he could see where massive amounts of dark brown from what he assumed were the walls and the occasional lighter shade of some color elsewhere.

"Ah, you're awake." He heard a familiar voice call out. The Chinese turned to face where the voice came from, only to find its owner pick up the blanket off the floor and drape it around his slim shoulders, "You're still very cold. I had found you outside near frozen; it would've been a shame to see such a lovely thing wither away."

Ivan Braginsky.

The beige-blonde haired Russian sat down next to him and started to rub the blanket lightly against his arms to warm him further. Yao had not seen him for quite some time, but the Russian's appearance was still the same—an innocent face, masking a cruelty far surpassing any other.

"It's fairly odd to see you in these parts." The tall man commented as he finished his task, "Usually I don't see you unless I'm attending a summit. Perhaps there is something you need?"

Yao's lips remained a thin line for quite some time as he contemplated his answer. Ivan sat still, waiting patiently. The Chinese man has usually been so quick to act, doing otherwise made him feel as a fish out of water. Not to mention, it would irk him greatly to be thought of as a hesitant idiot. He tilted his head down, finally coming to a decision.

"If I said that I wanted to become one with you," he started out slowly and quietly, "would you still accept me?"

His dark eyes stared into the violet ones in front of him. Ivan blinked in surprise before breaking out into a large smile.

"That's wonderful; of course I would!" he replied, hugging him. Yao's expression remained the same, unknown to the other man. He did not move to return the gesture, and merely inclined his head to rest on Ivan's broad shoulder.

Some would say that he had just made a pact with a demon. He knew that; he really did.

He was just too tired to care.

The house was exceptionally large. Of course, it was once home to six people, Ivan included.

In the few times Yao would leave his room when he had no chores to do, he would wander around. Shadows danced on the walls as he walked through the dimly lit corridors. The darkness veiled his appearance in such a way that it made his fair skin look transparently white, along with his soundless footsteps—it was almost ghost-like.

The portraits on the walls—the ones depicting the old czars of Russia—watched him come and go. Yao never escaped their observant stare, just as he never escaped the feeling of someone following him. It was not Ivan; he could tell. What he was sensing was even bitterer than the Russian's true gaze, if it was possible. It constantly sent chills down his spine.

The sensation was familiar somehow. But at the same time, it was something completely different.

To Yao, it felt similar to death—

—And surprisingly, he didn't mind it at all.

Ivan had found him one day, in front of a painting of his homeland's former sun-filled landscape. Yao, dressed in common Russian vestiary (he had not worn his red changshan since receiving the change of clothes he had requested soon after joining the household) with his hair curtaining the sides of his face, stood still in front of the painting. He stared with the most forlorn, dead eyes; looking almost as he wanted to drink in the forged sunshine itself.

"If it's the sun you're looking for, you won't find it here." The taller man told him quietly, traipsing over to the other's side, "By the looks of it, it won't shine anytime soon."

Yao replied, addressing him for the first time in days, "If you had forgotten, I already left it all behind."

The next World Summit had dawned upon the nations sooner than they had expected.

Small groups of three or four flowed through the door and either took their seats, or went to find others to converse with. When the group consisting of an oddly dispirited Francis Bonnefoy, a worried Arthur Kirkland, and a very dejected Kiku Honda came in, the conversations immediately hushed into low murmurs. The gesture only seemed to discourage the Japanese male more, the frown on his face deepening as the trio took their seats. The Englishman put a comforting arm around Kiku's shoulders, quietly whispering words of reassurances in his ear. Francis, as much as he wanted to help, thought that the situation was best left to Arthur.

However, he found that the situation was going to become much more difficult to manage when he heard a conversation between Ludwig and Roderich:

"To see him in such a condition—it's saddening. He used to shine with such confidence and pride…"

"If what occurred recently happened to you, you would be put in the same state, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed. I'll have to give him my condolences later; now might not be the appropriate time…"

"Mm. But you know… It has reported to me that Wang Yao is currently under the custody of Ivan Braginsky…"

Apparently, he was not the only person to have heard the conversation—Kiku's eyes widened at the information, putting his hands over his mouth in fear and worry. Those present fell into complete silence, looking at their companions with the same shock and worry that Kiku had. Toris nervously bit the inside of his bottom lip as he held Raivis' trembling hand.

"I…Ivan…?" the Japanese choked out

"It would seem that Austria's intelligence network is quite accurate and up-to-date."

All eyes went to the grandiose doors, where a lone Ivan stood, his faucet pipe in hand. His usual disarming smile splashed across his face, after single glance, the Baltic nations had clustered closer together. He strode into the large meeting room and promptly sat down.

Kiku's hands shook as he gripped the edge of the table. It wasn't long before he had gotten up and shouted, "What have you done with him!?"

"With whom?" he asked.

"Do not feign innocence! You know exactly who I am speaking of!" he yelled accusingly, "How dare you force Yao under you!?"

"Force? I'm afraid you're mistaken." Ivan said, "I've forced nothing on him. Yao came to me of his own accord."

"You lie!!" Kiku unsheathed his sword and would have charged towards him, if it had not been for Francis and Arthur's restraint, "You bastard, you lie!!!"

"Kiku, hush." The anger on the Japanese man's face quickly left as he and everyone else turned their attention back to the door. Incredulous expressions now adorned the faces of the majority of the attendees as Yao walked in his usual dainty step, and stood next to Ivan.

"Ivan did no wrong." The Chinese told them, "If anything, be thankful that he saved me from Death's grasp."

"But, Yao…Why?" Kiku asked, his arms falling limply to his sides and his sword clattering on the ground, "Why would you do such a thing? Did you not vehemently express your rejection to his demand?"

After a few moments with no reply from the other, the onyx-haired Japanese threw his hands down on the table, "Is it because of that? Is that what it is? If it is because of that, then could you not have come to me!? Why-!?"

Yao's eyes lit momentarily with anger as he raised his voice, "I've made my decisions, Kiku, and the reasons behind them are ones that you're not capable of understanding!"

The subsequent silence was thick with tension. His brother's outburst silenced Kiku, and he sat back down on his seat, eyes wide with shock and on the verge of tears. Ivan looked at Yao, and saw a look in his eyes that he recognized quite well.

Ludwig cleared his voice. The Orients' heads snapped in his direction, starling him a bit.

"N-Now, then…" he started off warily, "Shall we begin?"

For the entirety of the conference, not a single member dared to speak up unless necessary —even the usually chatty Alfred kept his mouth closed. The argument between the two Orients had left an after-effect on everyone else. They did not even bring up the subject of what had happened roughly a month ago, in fear of a raging Kiku and Yao.

The meeting concluded, going all too smoothly. As Ivan and Yao were about to leave they heard Kiku's voice, crestfallen but firm:

"You have not changed."

The Chinese man paused in his steps. He listened with his back still facing his younger brother as he continued, "You always had the chance to save them. All of them. Yet you always stayed back and did nothing, and went on as if nothing had happened at all."

Yao's eyes remained as blank as they were the day Ivan found him. He started to walk out the door again, his only reply being,

"You need to learn how to let go."

Once they returned to the house, Yao made a beeline for the kitchen to start preparing their evening meal. He was still learning about Russian cuisine and might not have been as good as Belarus was, but he was thankful that it was decent enough for Ivan to eat daily without complaint.

He fetched everything necessary to make the meal—pots, pans, cutlery, ingredients. He took the pot, filled it with water and placed it over the stove, leaving the water to boil. Taking a knife, he then started to cut the vegetables into small pieces. Cut after swift cut, Yao distracted himself in cooking.

He was distracted enough, in fact, to not be able to sense Ivan at the kitchen doorway. And if he had, he made no movement that indicated such.

The violet-eyed Russian stayed still, observing him as he moved his deft hands mechanically. Since finding him in the fields, he had never once seen anything else but a look of apathy on the shorter male's face. It was starting to make him wonder…

"Yao?" he finally spoke. Said person stopped in his dinner preparations and turned his head to look at him. Ivan gave him a smile as he slowly stepped closer, "Yao, are you grateful that I saved you?"

"I am, I suppose." Was the reply.

"You suppose? Are you not happy here?" the smile faded from his face as he came up to the Orient. Yao looked up at Ivan's domineering stature, without a trace of fear—unlike the looks he would get from Toris or Raivis before. He gave no answer this time. The gentle face from the towering Russian disappeared completely, and his eyes shone in a threateningly paralyzing manner. Yao still gave no reaction.

"Shouldn't you be happy that you're one with me?" Ivan questioned, his notoriously crazed tone starting to surface, "Why aren't you happy, Yao?"

Yao merely met his gaze with his own. That same stare—it was starting to annoy him greatly. His violet eyes narrowed with anger as he slapped the Chinese male with the back of his hand, hard enough that it sent him to the floor.

"Why aren't you happy!? Why, why, why!?" he yelled, so loud that it caused the house to tremble slightly. The lithe form remained still and quiet. Ivan thought of going to check if Yao was still alive. However, he knew that the black-haired Asian wouldn't be felled so easily. Giving his motionless body one last glance, the Russian quietly stepped out of the kitchen.

Yao remained on the floor for he-didn't-know-how-long-and-he-stopped-caring-a-while-ago. Eventually, though, he got up and resumed making dinner. Once that was finished, he filled a tray with a plate of food, a bowl of soup and a glass of water and made his way to his host's room.

The door was slightly ajar and, peeking inside, he saw that Ivan was facing away from the door. Putting the tray on the floor, he quietly opened the door just enough so he could push the tray inside before walking back to his own quarters soundlessly.

Later that night, a storm brewed. It wasn't the usual snowstorm, though—no, this time it was a thunderstorm.

He hadn't always hated thunderstorms. It was hard to believe that he has once taken comfort in them.

Not anymore.

Yao shakily placed a hand at the top endpoint of where the scar on his back was. It was storming when he had first got it. The thunder cackled as Kiku slashed with his blade, muffling his scream. Since then, every time a crack of thunder came, he could feel the stinging of his scar as a reminder of that time.

This was the reason he hadn't gone to Kiku.

It wasn't like he was afraid of the younger Japanese himself—no, he wasn't. He was more afraid of the fact that he might do something wrong again. Why else would Kiku have betrayed him that night? He must have done something wrong, right?

Was it because he was a bad brother? Because he coddled him too much? Because he was too simplistic?

He never found out.

Turning away from the window, with his blanket covering the back of his head, he tried to ignore the sounds of the cackling thunder. All he ever wanted was for his siblings to be happy. He took great pride in teaching them, and in seeing their smiling faces. If leaving his younger brother in the hands of the European man he was so infatuated with was what it took to achieve that, then he would leave him be.

Yao didn't want to take the chance of Kiku walking away from him again.

He didn't want to try and cope with another loss.

The next morning, as Yao came down to the kitchen, he noticed a washed tray, plate, bowl, glass, spoon and fork placed beside the sink, left to dry. Whether or not he was forgiven from the events last night, he didn't know—he couldn't tell.

You could never tell with Ivan. He was so gentle, yet so cruel, the Chinese male thought to himself as he put the dining things away. Just like everything else.

This was his punishment, he supposed. For being such a horrible person—a horrible brother, a horrible liar, a horribly ignorant and willingly oblivious fool—for being the person Wang Yao had come to be. And even now, he couldn't—didn't—want to face the penalty bestowed upon him. He wished to escape this suffering. He wanted it to stop.

It only amounted to more pain that he had to bear with an expressionless face. He was too stubborn to come to terms with it. If he has to pretend, he will pretend.

Perhaps he's being selfish. Perhaps he's been that way all along. Perhaps this was the reason why things had gone so, so wrong.

Yao finished his business in the kitchen and proceeded to wander around the house in those slow, ghostly steps of his. It was still dim outside, being too early for the sun to rise just yet, and he couldn't see a thing in the already-darkened halls, so he was left to walk blindly, just like what he had been doing before the Russian had found him.

For some reason, his feet had led him to the front door. Oddly enough, he found himself opening it and stepping out on the front porch.

The snowfall he managed to see by the fading moon's light was calm and gentle, with a faint breeze lifting his untied hair slightly. Yao pulled the blanket he had tighter around him before he slowly walked out into the snow, barefoot.

The white fluff underneath him made crisp crunching noises as he walked further away from the somewhat-open door. It enthralled the Chinese—how these lands that were once made ugly with lethal coats of ice and stone could now seem so pure.

Just like the world.

Just like Ivan.

Slowly, Yao kneeled down on the snow and shakily took some in his hands. It felt cold—so cold that he could actually feel a biting warmth from it. It glittered in his palms as the first rays of dawn started to rise from the perpetually distant horizon. The snow reminded him of them. He lowered his head, his black hair curtaining his face, as he clutched the melting snow in his hands. They didn't deserve it—they had been innocent, damn it, innocent.

Then again, he knew that white was the easiest color to stain—and that red was the most noticeably bright color with which to stain it

A blast of cold air came, blowing his hair behind him. Through grit teeth and welling eyes, he caught a glimpse of something in his peripheral vision.

Once he lifted his head, Yao could only gaze up with large eyes at the presence that had spawned from the gust of wind. The sun's rays revealed the dark, towering figure in front of him. His cloak was long and a dark gray, billowing in the still-blowing icy winds he seemed to have summoned. His hair and bushy moustache were frosted with a thin layer of ice—it looked like you could snap them off. He had the face of a military man— bearing the same worn creases Yao had often seen on his own veterans' faces. His eyes were deep, cold and empty.

Just like—no.

Those eyes were not like Ivan's own.

Those eyes were different—they chilled every bone in his body with fear.

"Who…are you?" the Chinese whispered, a white mist coming from his mouth due to cold. There was an awkward silence before the man replied, with a thick and heavy accent:

"The one who killed your family."

Ivan sighed before taking another swig of vodka.

It wasn't as if he was trying to get drunk—for one thing, he had developed a near-godly tolerance for liquor in general. Besides, the hangover that resulted afterwards only reminded him of things he would rather forget—Sofiya gently reprimanding him; Toris bringing him medicine; Natalia humming lowly from the kitchen as she made lunch; Eduard lightly hitting Raivis (who had been shakily peeking in from the hallway) on the head, telling the boy to stop disturbing him…

The burning taste of alcohol was swallowed and he pushed the images back to the dark depths of his mind, where they belonged. The Russian drank the bottle empty, before throwing it across the room nonchalantly. He wasn't angry or enraged. He had already taken it out on Yao.

Yao…

Strong, wise, elegant, proud—truly he was a rare and certainly beautiful Eastern flower that outshines the rest.

It hadn't been that long ago since the splitting of the Soviet Union. The ones who had lived within his house—those he had held dear to him—had all left, one by one. Whenever Ivan saw them at a world summit, he could see—feel—their relief of finally being free from his grasp. They had been happy for their independence. It wasn't fair that after all that time and work in trying to keep them together, he was the one left behind to pick up the pieces. It wasn't fair that they were happy and he wasn't because he wanted them to stay—because he loved them.

But then, when had anything been fair in his life?

When he had found Yao, unconscious and near frozen to death within Russian borders, he was genuinely surprised. And when he awoke, and asked to become one with him—it was almost too good to be true—he happily accepted the man. He wanted Yao to be the one that would stay with him.

Looking back at the memories of when the USSR was still one—remembering the horrified expressions of the Baltic brothers—Ivan had told himself that he would not make the same mistakes again. And thus he tended to the ebony-haired man, and left him alone, recollecting the fiery reaction he had previously gotten from former advances. In the end, though, it only amounted to him breaking his own word. He had done it again, and now he will have to make another vain effort in trying to keep Yao from leaving.

Old habits die hard, he supposed as he reached down next to him for a new bottle of vodka. However, he stopped as his fingers barely grazed the bottle cap.

What was he doing?

His mouth pressing into a firm line, the violet-eyed man retracted his hand and slouched back a bit on the seat. He stared at the shards of glass across the room from where he had thrown his previous bottle. Ivan's eyes narrowed in thought as he rested his cheek on the knuckles of his left hand. This had to stop, he thought to himself. This senseless cycle had to stop. He had to learn to leave his past behind him and move on. Leave the thinking and remembering to the scholars and the historians. Through the hardships and suffering he and his people had gone through, he will step forward. Russia was a land of pride and glory—he will endure, and he will overcome.

It was then that he sat up straight, eyes wide with realization.

"Yao…Was this the message you were trying to convey…?" he whispered under his breath. The pieces were starting to click together in his mind, and he finally understood. The broken shards from across the room started to glitter—alongside the room being coated with a faint glow of yellow. Turning his head, he felt warmth—though little, it was still there—on his face as the sun shone through the window for the first time in he-couldn't-even-remember-when. Ivan got up from his chair, the traces of a smile forming on his face, and slowly walked towards the window.

The Russian put his hand on the window's frame and stared out at the distant horizon. He sighed contently as the sun fully rose, harboring a new day, and his new beginning.

Shortly after his epiphany, however, he felt something strange. A warm breeze seeped from underneath the door crack. Even if the sun was up, the wind should still be cold. He felt the breeze wisp around him, as if trying to get his attention. As the breeze left his face and went lower, it caused him to glance down—and the traces of his smile immediately left his face.

"No…!"

Ivan dashed out the door, the broken vodka bottle forgotten. He ran through the halls, which were being lit by the coming daylight as his scarf trailed behind him. Not wanting to waste time going down the stairs, he made a hefty leap and landed only a few short feet from the front door. Reaching for the doorknob and swinging it open, the rest of the house was suddenly filled with sunshine. I will not make the same mistake again, he thought to himself as he heard the rapid crunching of snow under his boots with that strange, warm wind followed him.

This time, he will do things right.

Because he loved him.

"My…family…?" he managed to choke out. This feeling—he recognized it. That feeling of Death, the feeling of someone watching him, the presence that followed him around in Ivan's home—this was the one. The man stayed silent, looking blankly at Yao with eyes of immeasurable depth. The Chinese stared right into those cold gray-blue orbs, and saw the truth of the man's words.

He saw them dying. He saw Im Yong Soo; he saw Wenyang; he saw Chun-Tao; he saw Thu; he saw Kiet; he saw them all fall limp on the snow-covered ground, their lips blue as their lives were taken from their human vessels; he saw more than half of their people meet the same fate. There was no blood, no external wounds—and from that, Yao realized just who exactly this military man was.

"Why…?" he asked in a soft voice, dark eyes still wide, "Why did you kill them…?"

"It was necessary." General Winter replied, face impassive. With his frosted cloak whipping around him, he stepped closer to the ebony-haired man, who was still slumped on the snow. The general cast his shadow over him, and watched as Yao could do nothing but tremble slightly.

"You will join your brothers and sisters. This, too, is necessary." The man's voice deeply cut through the air, as his frozen hands reached out to him—

"No, it's not necessary."

—A tan color suddenly invaded his vision. Blinking, his eyes focused just enough to notice the mop of beige hair on the head of the one who was blocking him from certain doom. General Winter's frost-lined eyes narrowed as the Russian continued in his native tongue, sparing him no time to make any commands, "I won't move. I've tolerated your ways before, but now I refuse to accept this course of action."

"You're a foolish boy." General Winter said, the deep reverberation in his voice summoning hail to fly towards the taller male. Ivan stood firm as he was bombarded by the small shards of ice. Yao could only watch, with his eyes still wide with shock and confusion.

'You always had the chance to save them.'

He didn't know what happened. He didn't know what forced him to suddenly spring onto his feet and try to shield Ivan from the assault of hail. He didn't know how warm gusts of wind suddenly flew by towards General Winter—making the hail melt, making the man cringe back in the vaguest notion of pain. He didn't know what he had said to them, since he said it in Russian. He didn't hear Ivan whisper "You're alright now; we're going inside." He didn't know that said violet-eyed man cradled him in his arms as he carried him back to the house. He didn't know when he had passed out.

All he knew was that Kiku had been right.

"Does it hurt?"

Yao winced as he felt the disinfectant sting against the wound to his temple, "Slightly."

It hadn't taken long for the Chinese to regain his consciousness. When he opened his eyes, he experienced a moment of déjà vu—finding himself in a familiar bed, wrapped in a familiar blanket, with the familiar chill of snow slowly starting to fade away. Ivan, who had came in with a medicine box, immediately began to treat the wounds he'd sustained while trying to block the assault. Hail, Yao realized, hurt just as bad as any bullet.

"You should have let me taken that hit. My body is fairly used to it, having grown up here." The taller man said to him as he gingerly wrapped the bandage around his forehead, "Too tight?"

"…No, it's fine."

He noticed something different about the Russian—the softer expression on his face, the lighter hue of his eyes. Yao wondered if anything had happened to cause such a change. He seemed…happier now.

"There. All done." Ivan said, patting the slim porcelain-colored hand that rested on the blanket. His larger hands stayed put, holding Yao's in his own, as his thumb gently caressed the skin underneath it. There was an awkward silence between them for a long time, before the beige-blonde found the voice to say, "Yao, your reason for coming here… It was to forget your siblings' deaths, da?"

The Orient looked down and shook his head a bit, "I don't even know anymore. At first, it was to forget. Then, it was to punish myself for my mistakes. Now… I don't know. I just want the aching to go away."

"Why not someone else, then?"

"Because you understood more!" Yao said, lifting his head to face him. Ivan was surprised to see small prickles of tears forming at the corners of those dark eyes, "You understand it best. You understand how it is to lose one's siblings. Though they may not be gone, they still… It hurts just as much, doesn't it?"

The Russian soon found his hand resting on Yao's cheek as the smaller male started to cry. Against his usual actions, he took the Asian into his arms, "It does, Yao. It does."

Yao buried his face in the heavy fabrics of Ivan's coat, while the man held him through his shudders and sobs. For once, Ivan found himself comforting someone in what seemed to feel like the 'right way' as he whispered soft "It's okay"s and "Cry as much as you want"s. He felt a proud satisfaction that he could say those words with ease.

"I heard a saying once, a long time ago," He whispered, when Yao's crying started to fade into small sniffles and hiccups, "that when someone dies, their souls travel with the wind."

There was silence, which meant that Yao was listening, so he continued, "Recently, I have felt strange winds—warm ones that combated the usual cold of Russia. It makes me think that, perhaps your siblings have not gone either."

The Eastern nation looked up at him with wide, incredulous eyes. Ivan merely smiled and started to stroke his long, silken hair, "I have been thinking very much. Very, very much. I came across the realization that I approached things the wrong way, and that was why others misunderstood my intentions."

He gently cupped Yao's thin face gently in his hands, "And it was because I loved you so much that I was able to see that I was acting so childish—and that it may be best to change. I understand your plea now, and I will help you become the person I fell in love with again. And along the way, perhaps I can become someone worth accepting in your heart."

There was another bout of silence. Yao could do nothing but stare as the words slowly processed in his mind. He searched those violet eyes—previously deep, unreadable, cold; now bright, gentle, thawed. It was then that he, too, finally understood his purpose here. Forgetting and punishing hadn't been the reason why he was guided to these ice-laden lands. It was because he had wanted to reach out to him—to discard his pride and honor, and simply beg for an open ear and some understanding. He had wanted to be comforted, to be helped, to be loved.

Understanding was the first step.

And as he leaned forward and met Ivan's softly smiling lips, he knew they were going to be walking the next steps together.

It was safe to say that after the previous Summit, the nations were a bit nervous in coming to the next one. However, the world was in a questionable state, and issues needed to be addressed, so here they were. They were all chatting amongst one another, but everyone had at least given one anxious glance at two empty seats—which respectively belonged to Russian and Chinese representatives. Both of whom seemed to be running late. Ludwig looked at his watch and clicked his tongue. Whether they're here or not, they'll have to start soon…

The doors burst open suddenly, making the nations jump and whirl their heads towards the arrivals.

"Sorry we're late!" a shockingly cheery Ivan apologized, with a hand up in greeting, "Our flight had been delayed. We rushed over as fast as we could, but then Yao slipped on the ice…"

"Ivan, shut up!" Yao shouted embarrassedly at him, trying to hit him. He wasn't tall enough to reach, but the excess length of his changshan's sleeves did the job, "I told you not to talk about that!"

"Sorry, sorry." He laughed a bit, trying to ward off the changshan-sleeve assault. The other nations could only gape at the sight. It was a shock after what they had seen in last time, but hey, they didn't mind. As long as no one went crazy, it's fine.

Arthur glanced worriedly at Kiku, who was staring wide-eyed at his older brother. Francis noticed this too and mentally winced. This doesn't look good. The Japanese male's hands left their place on the Englishman's arm as he softly and slowly started to step towards Yao.

Said Chinese noticed his remaining sibling's advances and halted his hits aimed at Ivan. Kiku paused in his steps as the two Orients looked at each other.

"Yao…" Kiku could feel the tears coming.

The dark-eyed nation's melancholy expression broke out into an apologetic smile, before he spread his arms out towards him, "C'mere, you."

He wasted no time—running over and nearly knocking down his older brother, Kiku hugged him as he started to apologize profusely in his native tongue, crying. Yao couldn't help the tears that came from his own eyes, either, while he tried to calm the younger nation—exchanging apologies and comforts of his own.

The others sighed in relief. Once the two Easterners settled down and made up, Ludwig cleared his throat.

"Forgive the interruption. Shall we begin the meeting now?"

"There, that should do it!"

Ivan stepped away from the cliff and inspected his handiwork—five stone markers that were lined up near the cliff's edge. They had decided at the meeting to give proper resting places for the deceased Asian nations. The Russian volunteered to make them, since he had some vague idea about masonry. However, he did not know how to spell the names of Yao's siblings, so Yao had to stencil out the names in ink before he carved them into stone. But overall, he was pretty proud of himself!

"Ivan, please help me with these; I feel like I'm going to tip over!"

The violet-eyed nation turned his head to see his ebony-haired lover struggling to carry several mammoth sunflowers. The Chinese male never knew they could grow that big! Chuckling at the endearing sight, he walked over to the smaller nation and plucked some sunflowers from his cradling arms.

"You're very cute, Yao." He told his special person, relishing the adorable blush on the other's cheeks, "Now, then, where would you like these?"

The two had set two flowers down neatly at the base of each marker. Then, they proceeded to place and light incense at the center of the little memorial. Upon completion, Yao clasped his hands together and started to utter words of prayer, as the scent began to rise. His eyes opened again, when he was done, and he looked at each marker.

"Forgive me." He said out loud, "I'll miss you. All of you."

Ivan could tell that this was a hard time for Yao, as he was finally coming to terms with his siblings' deaths. He couldn't do much to help, but as he reached out to hold his hand, he promised that he will provide as much love as he could possibly give. He saw a loving smile on his special other's face.

"I love you all. Please, wait for me."

As the two of them left, Yao could faintly hear the sound of laughter and a sentence that vaguely resembled "Don't forget to use protection!" The Eastern nation shook his head lightly; he must've imagined it. But it sounded so much like something Yong Soo would have said…

"Something wrong?"

Yao looked up at Ivan, shaking his head, "No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, "Yeah. Just thought I heard something, is all."

As the two walked hand in hand, they felt a familiar warm breeze blowing from a certain direction. It was then that Yao stopped in his steps, causing Ivan to halt as well. The Chinese male wondered why the sensation felt so recognizable to him. The wind blew again from the same direction—this time, it was almost like it wrapped around the pair. They could have sworn they heard light voices from the breeze…

Looking at each other, Yao and Ivan came to the same conclusion and smiled.

The gale came from the east.

Oh my goodness, I'm done!

You probably noticed that I gave some names to the countries. For your knowing, here they are:

Sofiya – Ukraine
Wenyang – Hong Kong
Chun-Tao – Taiwan
Thu – Vietnam
Kiet - Thailand

This took quite a bit of time, and there might be a LOT of inaccuracies. But I don't mind it very much, and I hope you all enjoyed it as well! Thank you for reading!