Title: Lingering Memories
Part: Prologue
Pairing: Russia/China, implied Sweden/Finland, implied Germany/Italy, implied Russia/US
Prompt: 2007 Year of China in Russia (photograph)
Rating: R
Summary: History isn't something full of flowers and love; History is violent, History is what we try to hide. War doesn't change the world – we change it; war doesn't take away what we treasure most – we do. Love isn't something that we search for, but something that finds us, and saves us.
Notes: This was a long fic exchange for a good friend a long time ago. Up til now I realized I never finished writing the Cold War section, and to be honest I don't know if I will.
During the course of this writing, I read something about the end of the world, and I decided that Russia/China would be perfect for that concept. So yes, this fic revolves around the idea that in the last century, there had been (at least) 10 times the world could have ended – some of them were forcibly molded to fit the theme, so I apologize in advance for a few plot holes, and ineffective bad writing used to cover it up. I took an extremely serious stance with this plot – my apologies for doing so with such a happy picture.
I've kept as true to history as possible but I had to re-invent some things so take any historical reference with a pinch of salt.
Written in Ivan's POV.
His hand was small and soft, and it fitted perfectly in mine.
He really hadn't changed. Not one bit. Not that I could tell, anyway.
I had not expected to see him, after all, he was the one person noticeably missing from Russia's own version of this celebration last year. Everyone would be flocking for the speeches, the crowds would have been ridiculous, he was probably busier than ever with China's integration into the modern world - but here he was. Yao didn't even indicate he noticed my presence, the two of us frozen in the middle of the hallway, as the crowds pushed by against our bodies, threatening to break my grip on him.
His fingers twitched gently in my hand, and he finally turned around.
"Hello, Yao," I said easily. Somehow, I felt comforted that the noisiness of the people around us drowned out the thumping of my heart. Each time our countries arranged a meeting, he was never there. Or maybe he was, but I had never seen him. Ever since the Soviet Union had been reformed into the Federation of Russia, I had not seen him once. When China had started their integration into the developed world, as perhaps a new Superpower, I started to wonder if our link had been lost. The last time I saw him was his back heading further and further away from me, the snowflakes catching in his hair in the cold Russian winter. Is it still possible for me to say I know him?
"Don't block the fucking way!" a voice rose from the crowd, and I was snapped back to the present time. I saw Yao glance quickly at the direction of the voice, before his fingers closed firmly around my palm.
For someone so small, Yao moved with remarkable dexterity. His fingers curled roughly around my clothes, before slamming me forcefully against the wall. The chairs around were shoved out of the way by my moving body, their contact against my legs making me wince from the pain of impact.
Yao's face was centimeters away from mine, his eyes blazing, his breaths coming in short, ragged pants. And I laughed, as I remembered the times we spent together, so long ago, as my arms were lifted from my side, and I pulled him into my body, hugging him tight.
"I miss you," I whispered. "Still do."
I heard a muffled laughed from my clothes, as Yao further buried his face into the folds of my scarf. "I know, you idiot. And you're still holding onto this stupid scarf."
"Of course," and without hesitation I pressed my lips fiercely against his.
