"There is a wisdom of the head, and... there is a wisdom of the heart."
January
"He doesn't have longer to live. A year, at the most."
It was a chronic decay, and like all things chronic, it was painful - to watch that person decay, to let your feelings decay along with them, to think about it after it all had passed, it simply hurt.
But was it worse to know you were dying? To be the one dying?
It was frustrating, and China didn't know. When he moved into Rome's house as his assigned caretaker, he had been greeted with embraces and bright words - and since that moment, he had lost all the things he thought he had known beforehand.
Those useless things were replaced with what he had stored away in his mind centuries upon centuries ago.
He never truly forgot where to hold Rome's waist, and nor did the contours of Rome's tanned arms ever fully leave his mind. Now, when they embraced, though as two friendly nations as opposed to doting lovers, China still knew where to hold him. Centuries of altruism had done nothing to make him forget.
"You fool, you were dying all this time, and you never told anyone?" China had said quietly, giving himself a moment to regain his composure before pulling away, suddenly engrossed in the suitcases he had brought.
"I'm not dying," Rome laughed and rubbed the back of his head. "I'm just getting older, like you."
"Very likely." China had muttered, struggling to open the closet door while balancing his belongings. "The optimist, as always."
But on the inside, he could only hope that maybe, the rest of them were all wrong, and Rome was still trodding along the path of his slow decline. Maybe, even if it was wrong to hope in this situation, they'd still have time left.
The worst position to be in of all, it seemed, was a state of helplessness.
Especially when you finally realised how helpless you really were in the grand scheme of this world.
February
"You don't have to if you don't want to. I can make arrangements for him to stay at my house." Germany motioned for China to sit down on the bench with him, brushing off the snow that had begun to gather all over it, a small reminder of the winter that was still here. "I'm sure Veneziano would relish the extra company. It's his grandfather, after all."
"He needs me, someone who's his age and understands his needs as well," China insisted. He didn't sit. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and gave Germany one of his 'looks', this time from the stubborn, 'elders know best' selection.
"He needs someone, just like we all do," Germany corrected, but China was already leaving, checking his phone for the train schedule and texting Rome that he was on his way back right now.
"I need him too, then." He only looked back at Germany once.
March
After two months of living with Rome, China realised that the old country hadn't changed much at all. He continued to lose everything he regarded as unimportant, he still liked to stare blankly at nothing while biting the insides of his mouth, and unfailingly, he'd stand up in the living room with his broadsword drawn, making wild and noisy reenactments of his youthful days.
Of course, when things went badly, he'd swing it and actually break something, as he had thousands of times before.
"Where are my glasses?" Rome called from downstairs. China cringed when he heard the smash that followed afterwards. "...Crap, I think I tipped over that Athenian vase from Heracles."
"Your house is practically a museum, treat it with some respect." Shaking his head, China grabbed the uncleaned pair of glasses off of Rome's nightstand and dropped the clothes he was folding to attend to Rome's demands. He didn't even make it to the bottom of the stairs before something was dropped with a loud clang.
"That was an accident that time!"
"You need a maid," China scoffed. He sidestepped the broadsword on the floor and handed the glasses to Rome, prepared to head right back upstairs to the laundry.
"Isn't that what you're here for?" Rome blinked as he put on his glasses, a grin growing onto his face. "We're still friends, right?"
"If that's what you want." Already, China was halfway up the stairs, yet he stopped where he was, a small series of tremolo-like heartbeats slowly taking over. He denied it, but he was waiting for Rome to speak. He'd wait forever for it, too.
"You need more friends, I need a maid; we can make this work." Rome sat down onto the sofa and closed his eyes. He sighed contentedly, letting a small silence settle before continuing. "I hope you aren't angry at me."
"Angry? I don't think that's the right word to describe how I feel." Try as he might, his words didn't come out the way he wanted them to. Even China knew that Rome was hiding a smile, and though he hated to admit it, he also found himself doing the same (only a bit) for a reason he couldn't identify.
"Then what's the right word?"
China paused for a moment to consider his question."What do they kids say these days? I'm done with you? That's the only phrase I can think right now, anyways. If only that counted as one word."
April
The rain came rushing down, a torrential current of water and cleansing for the entire world. It only seemed louder when its pattering echoed throughout the entirety of Rome's house - Rome's house, empty because its inhabitant seemed to no longer care about how well-kept it was, and because China had trouble keeping up with both the housekeeping and caretaking. It always seemed loud though, especially in the presence of rain.
It only became even louder, though, when Rome dashed out the back door to feel the rain, because China had to follow after him.
Outside, the cacophony was a hundred times amplified. The raindrops were violently hitting their faces and the downpour was the only sound to be heard the entire time, save for Rome's exuberant laughs and the occasional clap of thunder.
"You're going to catch a cold. Put a jacket on." Sighing, China slipped out of his own and draped it over Rome's shoulders. As a second thought, he pushed the hood up so it covered Rome's head as well.
"A cold can't kill me if war didn't," Rome retorted, but he tried to fit himself in the small jacket anyway. Halfway through the attempt, he got his arm stuck in the wet sleeve, and China had to intervene, tugging at the soggy fabric in an attempt to pull it over Rome's large arms.
"But a jacket leaves the mighty warrior at its mercy," China commented as he finally managed to slip the other country's arm through the sleeve. He was completely soaked now. And to boot, he was also acting like an utter fool.
"That's why I need the brains to help me." Still laughing, Rome pulled China closer to kiss him on the cheek. He ran his thumb over China's mouth, and without reason or ritual, kissed him again, smiling into it. "Or else my kingdom gets toppled by wet jackets."
"This isn't right. You shouldn't be acting like this." He had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes - but who was he to argue? There was a smile on China's face, so stupid, so ignorant, and so kissed by Rome's warm lips.
May
The line between lovers, friends, and comrades was very thin. Or so it seemed.
Like tennis balls, China and Rome would bounce back and forth, going across the net and then back again.
Bounce.
Exactly like that.
China taking Rome out for walks in the park for fear of the other country getting lost was the serve.
Bounce.
When they get home, they sit on the couch and watch television and snack in comfortable silence, curled up next to each other just so that they appeared to be close friends, and the ball would be hit back.
Bounce.
Then Rome would slowly work his way to grasping China's hand, and every time it happened, China entwined their fingers, hoping it seemed like nothing more than a casual gesture.
Bounce
The movie would end, and China would get up to make dinner while Rome dozed off on the couch. If he was lucky, they'd talk about the day, and Rome wouldn't forget the details of what had happened.
Miss.
And then, after a couple more hours of endless nothing, they'd go to sleep in their separate beds, and that'd be a day. Wake up the next morning, and the ball was served again. Eventually, they'd miss. That's just how it was.
Bounce.
Bounce.
Miss.
June
Even now, they dance.
It was no longer the lively, sliding steps they used to have, no longer skin brushing against skin or the small leaps in China's heart when Rome picked him up. Their bursts of passion had burned away, low laughs and hushed, love-drunk words without their lowness, hushedness, and all of their love-drunkenness. Dead, it seemed, in the coals of a fire long gone out.
But the steps never changed.
When dancing on the darkest of summer nights, when the crickets plucked their chirps into little strums and everything seemed to stop for love, it made it feel like nothing changed at all. The sky hadn't changed, the stars hadn't faded, and the night hadn't brightened. Millennia did nothing to wear away at their eternity.
Maybe that was the same case for them, on those nights where twisted reality became right.
July
What part of Rome loved him? Or rather, did Rome love him the way China hoped he did?
His heart was for the world, adventure, honour and glory and the happiness of a life that had long ago passed.
His head was for idle fancies, deep and flightful contemplations, and for leaking out everything he tried thinking about.
His legs and feet were for taking him to China, then away from China, and then back again, searching along every road and trail for what he wanted. That's why they were so worn.
His hands and arms also did that, but unlike his legs and feet, they never pushed away. They only pulled closer. They were foolish and tawny and clumsy movement mixed into one, and they were the part of him with the most scars. The part that felt the truest, or at least, the part that had convinced everyone around him that they were honest and real.
They made up for everything else, and they were why China loved them.
They stood for what he wished Rome was.
August
Time was the natural predator of the universe. Age was the vultures that flew steady, low circles around Time's victims, waiting for the last tick of their hearts to sound. They were the only forces that were capable of reducing an empire to ruins without effort at all. But not only could they erase it all, but they could brutally rip all the pages out of their story, and nothing could stand in its way.
"I can't remember," Rome said to China one day, "I can't remember. What month is it?"
All China could do was stare, eyebrow raised and mouth slightly open. After a few seconds, he put down his newspaper and leaned forwards, eyes taking in every one of the other nation's movements.
"Isn't it obvious?"
Rome rubbed the back of his head, and even then, a silly lopsided smile lit up his face, his grin like that of a child asking for apology. Ignorance and joy weren't that different, China gave him that.
"I forget the name. I mean, it's warm and…" he trailed off, waving his hand as if it meant something. The stupid smile stayed right where it was.
"And?"
"I'm not sure. It's a good feeling though; comfortable, I think. Is it Awkward?"
"August. The one that you named after one of your ridiculously pompous emperors." China picked up the newspaper again and moved to an armchair in a corner of the room. Only behind the protection of the paper's inky pages could he take the deep breaths he needed. He refused more emotion, refused to show Rome that he was losing it as well. Another deep breath, and he drew his legs up onto the couch, trying his best to concentrate on the contents of the paper.
The man whose empire once held the authority to change the calendar of the world, the man who once crushed other nations and danced in torchlit streets, guzzled down wine and had taken the riches of a universe into his hands - only a bit longer, and he would just cease to be.
September
In his head, there were a thousand things China wanted to do before it was all over. He wasn't sure which one he wanted to do first, or for that matter, whether they were even possible things. But at the end of the day, he thought he'd find a way to get it done. That's what he wanted and he was going to attempt it all anyways.
He wanted to reread Camus' works on philosophy and human thought, the Iliad's tales of bravery and self discovery; he wanted to return to his search for immortality that he had thrown away to fight pointless wars; he wanted to dash across a desert, learn how to speak Hebrew and Icelandic; he wanted to be able to sit in Rome's house, watching the depleting man try to piece together a basic puzzle, and not feel pained.
He wanted to know how many lies he's been told, and how many times he's lied to the world. The exact number.
"You look at the shorter hand - if it doesn't touch the number, it's still the hour before. Then you look at the long hand - each tick is a minute. So if it's at the one, then it's five minutes into the hour, and if it's at the two, then it's ten minutes in. Do you understand?" China asked, handing his neatly drawn diagram to Rome.
He wanted to know if he was really helping anyone, or if he was just trying to satisfy his own shallow wants.
"Do you understand?" China crossed his arms. "Do you need me to explain it again?"
"Why?" Rome swatted the paper away, batting at it like a cat would with a toy. A curious cat, at that, who could barely talk anymore.
"I don't know."
There was a long silence in which neither of them looked at the other.
He wanted to know what Rome was thinking then, if he had seen through China's facade and caught a glimpse of all the selfish desires that were hiding right behind it.
He wanted a lot, but though he hoped for it, he knew he wasn't getting it all.
October
Light, witty banter. That's all they used to be
Some silly phrases here and there, other failed moments of flirting scattered throughout their lives of forevers and a few days
What were they now?
A broken, dying man and his broken, dying lover.
Death in two different ways, that's what they were. Incoming death in different shades of reds, the last words of a story.
November
The year was getting closer to its end, and constantly, China found it harder to realise what he was doing. He'd doze off while sorting papers, he'd fall asleep while he waited for his coffee to cool, and at night, he'd lie awake and stare at the ceiling, knowing he needed the sleep he was foregoing. Every bump and ridge on the ceiling was engraved in his mind, and, he thought, it was almost like looking at a minefield of stars.
If the roof had fallen onto him on one of those nights, he wouldn't have noticed.
But eventually, he had to remind himself that this wasn't his house, and that it wasn't the time for him to leave the earth. Not yet.
His own house was vibrant chaos under the leash of wisdom. Rome's house was wisdom buried under all the other things he had. From Asian jars to gargoyles and spears hanging off walls to archaic sculptures and illegible scriptures, thousands of years compiled upon one another, but it was all there.
China liked to keep his house organised and simple, like how he wanted to keep his feelings and thoughts.
Simple, that was a joke.
December
Rome didn't say anything. All he did was squeeze the hand he was holding. He had no idea whose hand it was or why (the most important question), but he undoubtedly felt better. Or so, that's what China thought he was thinking. It had become a habit of his, to think for Rome. It made China feel better about himself.
"It'll be alright," China murmured, stroking the other nation's knuckles and running his own fingers over the other's warm skin. "It'll be alright soon."
He repeated it like a mantra, a prayer, and hoped that Rome would understand.
"I love you too much." Taking a deep breath, China tightened his grip on Rome's hand, his fingers, and continued. "Is that a mistake, or was it just how it's supposed to be?"
No reply.
"I can't say if it was wrong. But even if it was a mistake, I never regretted it."
Maybe his words went through, maybe they didn't. The only thing China felt in response was another squeeze of the hand, and that by itself, was enough for him. "We'll all remember you. Your grandchildren, their friends, all of the United Nations, we'll talk about your history all the time. Maybe we can get you a holiday; International Rome Day, that sounds like something you'd call it. How about it?"
It was stupid, really. He was being stupid. Rome probably didn't even remember how to walk, let alone comprehend a language.
Yet there must've been something, aand it must've gotten through, because Rome squeezed his hand again, resting his head onto China's shoulder. Moving a bit closer than usual, as if he knew.
And as they sat there in the darkness, listening to the clock's every tick and the forever it all represented, China couldn't help but ask himself why.
But to that question, there was no reply either. None at all.
(A/N): took this off my AO3 account that I've abandoned and polished it up a bit. I'm getting ready to get back into fanfiction, though I have no idea how true this statement will be. Keeping my old story on to track my improvements, it makes me cringe when I look back, but it's good to know that I know what's bad now. Feedback and concrit will always be welcome, and I thank you for taking the time to read both the story and this note!
-cyon