the time that passes us by

by FujimoriChikaru

As the longest still-existing nation, China has done much, made many decisions for the sake of his land, and his people. But there is only one decision that China - Yao - has made that haunts him still, decades, centuries, even a millennium later. "I never should have let you go, aru." Yao has no intention of repeating this mistake. NiChu.

Hello lovely readers!

So, um, this was actually supposed to be up yesterday, but life happens, so. *shrugs*

Okay, well, as opposed to my previous NiChu fiction, this one is a bit darker, and goes into more depth with the relations between the two, but I do still hope you all enjoy, especially those who've read any of my other work.

This one is third-person limited, from only China's POV, so I'd like some feedback on how I did on that, if you dears wouldn't mind.

Also, this is rated M for smut.

EDIT: For any of you guys wondering, no, I did not just magically extend the story another 2-3k+ words - I added the footnotes~! And, yes, they are long and annoying, but if you take the time to read them, parts of this fic will make more sense.

ALSO: I want to add in the link to this specific chapter of the Hetalia manga, just because I think reading it before (only 6 pages you guys, don't panic) reading this would just, I dunno, add some insight? Or something? You don't have to, but if you do, here it is:

mangafox . me / manga / hetalia / vEX / c005 / 1 . html

Just delete the spaces between the periods and slashes.(edit: 2/15/13)

Well I think that's everything I needed to say. Now remember guys: I do not own Hetalia: Axis Powers

---

the time that passes us by

He blinks and it is an hour later, but he has not moved an inch.

He blinks and it is another hour later, and he is perhaps five steps closer.

He blinks and yet another hour passes, and the smooth wood of the sliding door is finally within reach. The sky is crimson with the rising sun, no longer the cold and gray of pre-dawn, nor the ink-like blackness when he'd first arrived – it is now a warning, he thinks, a threat, violent; it is vibrant as the spider lilies in the lawn he has passed, vibrant as the changshan he is wearing now, vibrant as-

-the blood that had been spilled from his back

He shakes his head, closes his eyes, and he is back ten years.

…

He is shaking. In his true, stubborn fashion he has refused to wear the tuxedos so popular and oft-used in Western culture, for formal circumstances and meetings and negotiations and the like, and in some Eastern culture, too, because he still remembers when he first saw Im Yong Soo and Meimei had worn such attire, he still remembers. He has accepted to wear such at World meetings, peace conferences, but this, this meeting is between two Eastern countries, nations, that have known one another for so, so long, he feels no need to wear such a suit today, here, now; no, he wears his favorite changshan. He is unwavering on this, but his fingers still twitch, his arms – right forearm tucked in his left sleeve – still tremble, and he clenches his jaw so his teeth will not chatter. He is shaking. (1)

Even so, he walks with a straight back, with even, unhesitating steps, with his chin up and unafraid to meet the eyes of everyone else in the room; centuries, millennium past, and he still has not forgotten the days where his land was an empire, the months of endless farming and harvesting his people had done to feed the country, the years of Dynasties he still uses to recount his life.

He may no longer rule over others, but he refuses to be looked down by a nation he'd once colonized-

-a nation who has already seen, and put, him at his most weak and vulnerable.

He takes his seat – next to Japan, who sits to his right, in fact, as always – with grace and an acknowledging nod that is formally and wordlessly returned.

The room is seated, settled, by now. In the short silent that will last until the formal document will be read, he closes his eyes, and he is back forty-eight years.

…

He feels faint. He won't ever admit as much aloud – not in these times of betrayal and back-stabbing, and he barely manages to suppress a wince at that line of thinking,when anyone could be an enemy, and allies are just the ones to keep a closer eye on. Vulnerability is the last thing he can afford to show, to expose–especially here. His body spasms occasionally in little shivers and he tells himself it's only the cold, despite his heavy layers of clothes, despite the ache in his chest. He feels faint. (2)

"China,"

He glances over to his right with blank, uncaring eyes and sees the wrong person, there should only be one person, ever, on his right, even if that person would stab him-

"It's time, da."

He holds the eerie, unwelcome gaze for another moment before he turns his head forward, again. He closes his eyes, and he is back three years.

…

He is suspicious. Too much of what he's seen and heard is just off, just wrong. This person talks too fast, laughs too loud, moves too often to be the soft-spoken, never-laughing, too-still nation this person, this stranger, pretends to be. The talking is not too fast to be understood, nor the laugh loud enough to grate on his nerves, nor the moving oft-enough to be considered unhealthy twitching, no – it is all some kind of middle-ground between an average person, and the one this stranger pretends to be. He is suspicious. (3)

This isn't the Kiku he knows – the Kiku he found and raised and fought and tried, tried so, so hard to get back in touch with, to get close to again, to get one, one friendly not-work-related-word from-

A far cry from America – the very cào this stranger is talking and laughing to, the very cào that makes this stranger fidget every so often – but still not the real Kiku he has known for decades, centuries, millennium, even, all because of that same cào who caused all of this, has made Kiku that stranger.

In the midst of eavesdropping on the odd one-sided conversation, he closes his eyes, and he is back two years.

…

He is in shock. His mind is racing, he can't tell whether or not his body is tense, because he can't feel, he can't even blink his wide eyes – eyes that he knows should be dry from not blinking but he thinks may be wet – or tell whether he is breathing though he knows he must be. He is in shock. (4)

He's not sure what pushed him that far – that America – that cào – used such horrible, unimaginable, incorrigible weapons on Kiku, that the same – underhanded, inexcusable – attack resulted in America winning the war and ending it for once and for all, or that everyone else would really celebrate the victory – the pain, the crippling, the deaths of so many – he's not sure. He's not sure, because he's lost sense of time.

His eyes, wide and unblinking and he thinks maybe more wet than before, scan the room, and find nothing he's looking for – was he looking for something? He's not sure. He doesn't know.

He can't think. All the noise – the talking, the laughing, the clinks of wine glasses housing celebratory champagne – is too loud, too much for him.

He takes large breaths that are too shallow, puts more of his weight against the wall behind him, slides down to the floor, and, from the cover of the long table in front of him, slides down to the floor, brings his knees up to his chest, cups his hands over his ears, tucks in his chin, rocks back and forth and back again with his still-wide, still-unblinking, maybe-misty eyes, but he can't – he can't ever – forget the cries and screams and shouts for mercy his own people begged from Kiku, no, Kiku's people. He manages a few more too-shallow breaths before he is no longer rocking but trembling faintly, and his hands press more firmly against his ears, but he still can't block out the cries the screams the shouts the begs and how could he do that to them the women the children how could he possibly ignore it HOW?!

He takes a few gulps to swallow down the lump in his throat he hadn't noticed, and then he closes his eyes, and he is back eight years.

…

He is in pain. Breathing is hard, not flinching is still harder, but both pale in comparison to the effort it takes to not cry. He is in pain. (5)

It burns. His eyes are shut tight, his face pinched, teeth clenched, but the scar still burns. Tiny beads of perspiration dot his hairline, his forehead, above his upper lip, and the scar still burns. He is tired, sore, and hurting, but he can't sleep, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to sleep again. The scar still burns.

He wants to turn back time, wants to change the past, somehow, ensure that that never happens. It's all he wants, all he can think of, in his still-hazy mind.

The scar still burns.

"War has really changed Japan, aru..." Kiku used to hate war, used to hate violence, used to hate bloodshed – even though his people... "Japan is not Japan anymore, aru..." He's not who I found who I raised who I brought up to live with honor and respect and that's not him an imposter a fake a liar. "I don't like it, aru..." I don't like what he's become what I've tried to keep him from becoming I don't like it.

"...So, China, did you ever ask Japan what's been on his mind?"

Russia. To his right where he shouldn't be where he doesn't belong only Kiku only Kiku could ever be there could ever belong there sits Russia atop the bar stool at the counter with him as he drinks (or he at least tries) his sorrows away with cheap alcohol, but it only leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, an aftertaste of shame that he would sink so low, to Opium's level.

"Soon after that, the war began and I haven't seen him since, aru." And I prefer it that way.

He tries to ignore how the thought makes his chest ache, fails, and gulps down the remains of amber liquid in his glass before gesturing for a refill.

The scar still burns.

He doesn't hear Russia's reply, too focused on the returning burning pain at his sore and sensitive back, but he stays seated with his elbows on the impersonal counter not-quite-hunched over to keep his weight off his back. Instead, he closes his eyes, and he is back thirty-five years.

…

He is offended. To think that, after everything he's done, taught, given for so, so many years, that Kiku – Kiku, his first, his very first of younger siblings, the first of smaller nations he would take under his care, the good, obedient, respectful one – would turn his back so quickly to Yao without so much as a second thought. To think that, off all the other nations out there, to think that of all of them, Kiku would rather alliance himself with-with him. He is offended. (6)

Yao still remembers, can still with perfect detail recall, when Xiang – Hong Kong, who Opium still insists on calling some funny Western name that always makes Yao curl his lip in a distasteful sneer – was taken away from him, to his utmost displeasure and heartbreaking reluctance, only to be returned in too-many years, or so says the paper he was forced to sign, and Yao will be lucky to catch even a glimpse of him here or there before then. Yao still remembers how he had cried in his room with the curtains drawn and door shut, with the accompany of only one other – and then two – in his too-empty house.

Though, he thinks, he shouldn't be surprised to see two heartless thieves get along, sharing that foul Earl Grey and burnt crackers as they laugh and sneer and boast on how they stole the last of his family from him. (7)

He wills himself not to cry when he throws himself face-first on his bed, automatically clutches something soft and plush to his chest, in the full knowledge that he is still alone in this once-full house.

He wills himself to not dwell on the past; instead he closes his eyes, and he is back seven years.

…

He feels betrayed. As he lays in bed, one second wailing his sorrow, the next staring blankly at his ceiling in silent shock, he wonders, and considers, and thinks, and tries, tries, tries so, so hard to understand, to understand why, why Kiku would do this to him, why Kiku would do this to him, why Kiku would do this to him, why Kiku would do this to him, to understand why-

-to understand why Kiku hates him.

He feels betrayed. (8)

A long, heartbroken sob tears itself from his bleeding lips, torn from the bites he'd inflicted in vain, useless attempts to keep his cries inside, locked in his throat until it would bleed, bleed so he can drown, drown so he wouldn't have to show his weak and vulnerable and useless face the face of a brother who can't even keep any of his brothers or his sister irresponsible unforgivable he can't live like this he can't live like this he can't live like this he can't live alone he can't live alone like this he can't understand-

-why does Kiku HATE him?!

He cries and wails and howls until his throat burns, burns and all he feels now is thirsty and pain and lonely so, so lonely but he can't even muster up the energy to walk, or stand, or sit up, because he also feels weak so, so weak that's why they were taken that's why they were taken that's why they were taken so, so weak that's why they were taken that's why they were taken that's why-

-you LET them be taken. (9)

There is too much space, in his room, too much space and he can't breathe because there's too much air, too much air too much space for him to breathe so he can't breathe he can't breathe he can't breathe.

There is no patter of tiny footsteps outside his hall, this time. There is no welcoming knock. There is no sound – not a single sound – in the house that isn't made by him. His house is empty, completely bereft of people – nations, no, people, yes – because he, too, is empty – he can't feel, he is hollow, there is nothing left in him.

He can't breathe.

He turns on his left side, and feels something soft and plush squished under his side. He pulls it off from under him only because it feels uncomfortable, but, when he sees what it is, he only cries harder, clutches the object to his chest, and, as the tears continue to fall and his chest heave desperate for breath and his lips tremble around every sob, he closes his eyes, and he is back forty-two years.

...

He is perturbed. Kiku, he's noticed, has been acting odd, recently. He fidgets, zones out mid-conversation, throws nervous glances behind him at random intervals; paranoia, Yao has no difficulty recognizing it as. Yao has tried to get Kiku to open to him, to, for once, speak to him, for Kiku to voice his concerns so Yao can help him, every step of the way if he needs to – or even if Kiku just wants him to, he wouldn't mind, he wouldn't mind at all! But, no matter how Yao tries to be of help, offer any kind of support, Kiku brushes him off, and never takes up his concerns, of course, and, now, he talks only about–modernizing. Yao stops by often as he can, concerned over the news he heard, the threats Kiku has supposedly received by some American, but Kiku spares just the bare minimum of time with him, hardly looks him in the eye – flinches oh-so-noticeably on the rare occasion he does. Kiku is concerned only about industrializing, and he seems to be branching away, distancing himself away from Yao. He is perturbed. (10)

Kiku and his people seem to concentrate only on working and catching up to the Western countries' standards. Yao has seen Kiku, has seen what Kiku is capable of, but still he worries that throwing so much together in such a short time will hurt Kiku and his people, that Kiku is putting too much into this. So, more than he is perturbed, Yao is–concerned, worried, about how all the pressure Kiku has put on himself – and, the pressure America has put on him, as well – may hurt him.

There is a pause when he finishes his last sentence, tries to catch up with Kiku as Im Yong Soo and Meimei run around and about, wreck chaos over every aspect they can of Kiku's home (11) – Meimei will happily clean up her own mess without prompt, and will force her brother to as well, they all know, by any means necessary, in any case. Yao waits, patiently, hopefully, with a patient, hopeful smile as he waits the eternal stretch of only a handful of seconds to hear Kiku's response – the confession of how the pressure to modernize stresses him, how tired he so-obviously is as shown by his slow-blinking half-dazed eyes with dark circles underneath, the complaints of aching and sore muscles and too-little free time. Yao waits, hoping his breaths are even but too focused on the constant and even tick... tock...s of the Western clock Kiku now has in his living room, a feature Yao knows had not been there when he visited last. He loses track of the time that passes, and he waits.

Finally, after audible seconds that pass altogether too-fast and too-slow, Kiku's lips part, and Yao, for a moment, a foolish moment, allows himself to hope.

"I am afraid I must end this meeting prematurely, Yao-san." Kiku turns just as the footsteps halt, only a few steps away from them both; the younger two had returned as soon as the first word left Kiku's lips, as if Im Yong Soo and Meimei had already known Kiku would say those very words, and, Yao thinks, that may have very well been the case. "It has been nice catching up with you all. Stay as long as you wish; you need not hasten to leave once my house has been restored."

Kiku stands, and, with a long, deep bow to his three guests, he leaves. A silence ensues, and Yao loses track of how many slow tick... tock...s pass before Meimei speaks up.

"I worry about him."

He tries to ignore the begrudging nod she receives from Im Yong Soo, (12) and he tries to forget his own concerns; he closes his eyes, and he is back eleven years.

...

He cannot breathe. When he returns to his home that is now short one more inhabitant – one more brother lost, taken – he can only rush to his room, close the door, close the curtains, curl up in his bed and cry, cry, cry at the aching loss he is forced to endure once more. The silence after his fit passes is overbearing with the lack of another's too-quiet company, stifling with all the air left in the room to breathe for him and him alone, and he chokes on every inhale, gags at every exhale. He cannot breathe. (13)

The barely-audible patter of tiny footsteps in the hall just outside his door catches his attention. Pausing only to wipe the tears from his eyes and cheeks, to take a deep, steadying breath, he runs to his door and slams it open, crouches and opens his arms wide to accept the child that runs to his arms with red-rimmed puffy, still-watering eyes and a face so devastated it breaks his heart all over again.

He tries not to give into the demands of his trembling lips, tries to instead console the child he lifts and with some difficulty carries to his bed, the child he sits upon his lap and envelops with welcoming arms and soothing whispers, the child he comforts – Shh, shh, I'm here, look at me, I'm here with you I will always be here with you so long as you don't leave you'll never be alone, shh, shh – like he has so many others.

As he rubs circles around the child's back, absently hums a lullaby, he closes his eyes, and he is back two hundred and forty-four years.

…

He is conflicted. Relations have been very stressed as of late, primarily because of Kiku and his ambitions – or, rather, Kiku's peoples' ambitions. He tries to keep himself calm, tries to keep his own personal ties with Kiku relatively peaceful and unaffected by the battles they and their people fight, by the tensions between their people; he tries to keep them close. But Kiku's – no, Kiku's peoples' – constant pursuits and violent ambitions toward Im Yong Soo's land and resources make these optimistic attempts pitiful and foolhardy; optimistic hopes from a pitiful, foolhardy man. Still, despite the words of his country's advisers, despite the new bruises and cuts, the new burns and scars, that adore his body, he continues, because Kiku is his brother, his oldest youngest brother, his first, and he doesn't think anything could ever deter the love he holds so strong to his heart for Kiku – no matter how these sentiments may offend, may pain Im Yong Soo in the end. He is conflicted. (14)

Maybe, he thinks as he puts ink-dipped brush to parchment, as he writes steadily as he is able with haste, maybe, maybe this time, this time, he will finally, finally answer, finally write to me.

He's never before received a letter from Kiku, and, as he does away with the brush, throwing it across his room, and blows out strong huffs of breath through an open grin, he finds the notion, the very possibility, somewhat exciting.

That very night, just before he sends the letter out, he takes a seat on his porch, looks up at the sky, sees the full moon, and he remembers a night similar to this, a night when he'd told Kiku, "The rabbit on the moon is mixing medical herbs, aru!" and Kiku had, as stubbornly as ever, countered with, "It's pounding rice cakes." (15)

He sighs, at the memory, at the parchment in his hands, at the realization that for the past three moon cycles – the past three months – Kiku has gone into isolation after his – or rather his peoples' – defeat, from perhaps shame, Yao thinks, or embarrassment, or perhaps even – and this possibility he fears most – anger, that Yao would help, would side with, Im Yong Soo, rather than Kiku.

The thought makes his heart sink, makes his breath come short, makes his eyes sting, but he tries not to dwell on it so much. He closes his eyes, and he is back nine hundred and thirty-five years.

…

He is anxious. Biting at his bottom lip, rocking on the balls of his feet, untying and brushing his fingers through his hair, pacing, napping in the sun with a conical hat over his face, he waits – much like a child – impatiently. He fidgets, twitches, squints off in the distance until his eyes water blindly and he feels as if his face will stick. He sighs, blows a few stray strands of hair out of his face, takes in deep breaths of sea and salt and sadness. He lays on his left side, fingers tapping an aimless rhythm on the wooden boards his left cheek is pressed against. He is anxious. (16)

He is early, he knows. He is early, but he can't help it, can't help the temptation – can't help himself. He has been here since dawn – three almost-mornings ago, and each night he returns home he returns more solemn and disappointed, and his hopes all the more crushed when, after he rushes to Ningbo – the port, the only place where they can meet – the ship he so longs to see has not arrived during his fitful sleep. The ship is not due to arrive for another week – if the winds have been favorable, and the weather clear, the seas calm. It could be anywhere from one week to two, perhaps even three – if the winds do not blow, or storms brew, or if the seas rage.

He is doing more bad than good, he is fully aware, to himself by showing up days earlier than need be, by letting his emotions get the better of him – by allowing himself to hope only to quickly fall into despair. He releases a heavy sigh and lets himself fall back, closes his eyes and sees vibrant oranges and violent reds behind his lids.

Two minutes later, he is sitting up again, hand shading his eyes as he squints once more hoping for the familiar shadow that will glide across the waters, and five minutes after that, he lies on his back with the conical hat over his face like a roof over a house, closes his eyes, and he is back six hundred and six years.

…

He is speechless. Never before had he been talked to in such a manner, never before had he been so insulted, mocked – especially by someone so young! He'd only introduced himself and offered help to a young, little boy – or, rather, a nation, a new one – with hair even darker than his own, emotionless brown eyes and a calm face – and all he receives in reply is an insult. He would never expect such a small child to speak so, so–openly, so brashly, so–rudely. He is speechless. (17)

Still, there is something about him-

"Hello, China-san, upon where the sun sets."

-something... something Yao cannot quite place-

"I am Japan." (18)

-that... draws Yao to this small boy – Japan, his name for at least the moment, Japan.

And so, preparing himself for another retort, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes...

...and, a moment later, he opens them to see the child – Japan – still in front of him, regarding him with his large, tilted head with an air of curiosity, an air of expectation, almost, though neither his eyes nor his face show any indication of either, and Yao wonders if he'd read the boy – Japan – correctly or, if he hadn't, if he would learn to.

"So, Japan," he thinks his heart may have leapt, may have fluttered, when the boy leans on the balls of his bare feet, tilts his head up to get a better look at Yao, blinks eyes that now radiate with – yes, curiosity and expectation, Yao is sure, and Yao can't help the pause in which he swallows somewhat anxiously. "Would you like to... live with me, aru? You're just a new country after all, aru, and-"

Yao doesn't finish; he lets his feet and legs and follow after the – Japan, after Japan who has taken hold of his wrist and is leading him, surprisingly, in the direction of the dwelling Yao had arrived at here, just a day ago, and, Yao realizes, Japan must have seen him long before Yao had seen Japan, and he can't help the softening of his face when Japan lets go, just as they are within reach of the screen door, and at Japan's curious and expectant and–nervous, Yao knows, somehow, expression. With an already-fond smile, he opens the door, puts a hand on Japan's now-tense shoulder, urges him inside and follows after.

"Do you have another name, Japan, aru?" Yao asks when he is seated beside Japan, picking at the collar of his hanfu.

"No," Japan answers, and Yao detects the hidden bout of uncertainty.

"Well," Yao begins, "I do. It is Yao, aru." Yao turns to Japan. "Would you like one as well aru?"

Japan says nothing but gives him a glance, so Yao casts his eyes about, pondering, finds the flower he'd brought with him on the way home.

"Ah! What about Ju, aru? It is very lovely, aru!" He exclaims, showing off the golden upturned petals to Japan, who only stares back blankly before turning to face forward. "Though," Yao continues, after a pause, "it is a name more fit for girls, aru..."

"Kiku," Japan says, and Yao takes more than a second to realize the word is Japan's for chrysanthemum, and that there is already a difference in the languages they will – and already – speak, but he still smiles.

"Kiku, Kiku," Yao says, tasting the word, as if he was considering it to be his own name, and he looks back to Japan once more. "Kiku," he says, and smiles wider.

"Kiku. Yes, it fits you, aru. Kiku."

And, later still, hours later, when the sky darkens, when Yao prepares for bed and he unashamedly holds Japan close to him, and, though the nation–boy–tenses for a long moment before he relaxes, when he does, Yao happily whispers, "Wăn'an, Kiku, aru."

He is happier still when Kiku sleepily replies, "Wăn'an, Yao-san."

He is happy, so happy, in fact, that his breath is ripped from his lungs, and he is speechless.

That night is one of many, in the year 259 of the Han Dynasty

In Western terms, the year is 57.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

The sun is too bright, though, directly above him, and he knows the time to be around noon. He winces, shuts his eyes once more, screwing them shut, and reaches blindly around for his hat, which he's certain he'd left over his head specifically so he wouldn't be in this painfully blind situation.

"Yao-san."

In less than a second Yao is sitting up on his knees, blinking his eyes rapidly to adjust his eyes to the brightness of daytime, reaching his arms out and about until his hand feels a brush of hemp cloth and so he grabs, holds on tight.

"Kiku, aru!"

With hardly a care in the world, he blindly throws his arms around Kiku, embraces him, holds him close, takes in his scent – still sweet, still soft, almost flowery, though the smell of seasalt for the most part impedes his nostrils. Yao's smile is wide, full of happiness and relief, his breaths deep and calm, finally relaxed, and when he lets go, when he lets go, it's the biggest mistake he'll ever make.

Yao's wipes his watering eyes, from the sun he tells himself, and feels a familiar weight over his head. He tilts his head back just enough so he can mock a glare at Kiku from under the rim of his returned conical hat. And, only because he's known Kiku for so long, he can see the barely visible upturned corners of Kiku's lips.

He loves Kiku's smile.

Yao grins wide, equal parts enraptured and disillusioned, by Kiku's presence, and Kiku's absence.

"Well, let's go, aru!" Yao exclaims, on his feet already and pulling Kiku up beside him, despite the fact that Kiku was already getting to his feet, but Kiku says nothing, only nods and follows, a silent, familiar shadow.

Yao breathes a little easier, though even as he leads Kiku to their home, he insists, though Kiku no longer lives with him, he is still anxious.

That day is one of many, in the year 45 of the Tang Dynasty.

In Western terms, the year is 663.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

There is no mistaking drops stuck to his lashes, the tears he lets fall, as he stands, illuminated by the full moon's beam.

He is not sure how long he stands there, crying at memories of years long past, but at some point – seconds later, minutes, perhaps hours, even – he hears–something. A noise of some sort of contact with the stone path that leads to his house–wood, he realizes. Wood against stone. Wood against stone. Wood against stone–

-when he finally looks over, he sees a person – a man – wearing wooden sandals, a conical hat, and clothing that Yao knows by sight – even from this distance of many steps away, even in the darkness of night with no light but the moon, even with his eyes hazed by the tears he cannot blink back – are made from hemp cloth.

Yao's breath comes short, and, when the person–man–continues until he is just a few steps out of arm's reach, and when he removes his conical hat, Yao is equal parts hardly surprised and bewildered, that the man is Kiku, and that Kiku is here.

Yao shuffles one foot, then the other, forward, before he breaks off in a run and collides with Kiku, but before Kiku can do anymore than stumble Yao has already embraced him, encased him into warm, always-open arms. Yao's chest heaves with each hitched breath, and his lips let out a sob for every tear that escapes his closed eyes. Kiku, Yao knows, is very much uncomfortable with the intimacies of physical contact, and so Yao is very much grateful and overjoyed, when Kiku reciprocates the hug with unsure arms and shaking, pleading hands.

"It's okay, aru." Yao somehow manages to whisper, voice hoarse and weak. "I forgive you, aru. It's okay."

Kiku's arms are much less unsure, now, but his hands remain beseeching.

In Yao's room, they talk over tea, and Kiku, before Yao can prompt him, claims that he is allowed to visit whenever he so wishes, as his own personal ties with Yao do not concern his people, and Yao has to hide a smile at the reasoning behind his porcelain cup as he takes a long sip.

That night Kiku sleeps on the floor atop and under several blankets Yao had scourged up, despite Yao's insistence that he sleep on the bed, but Kiku was and is unmoving – the only person who could ever outstubborn even him, Yao is sure.

Or, at least, he is until he settles beside Kiku on the unforgiving floor, unabashed and unashamed. He comfortably wraps his arms around Kiku's sleeping form, holding on tight because, after the last battle, when Yao had let Kiku go, when Yao had let Kiku go into isolation, he'd thought to himself that, surely, it was the biggest mistake he'd ever make.

Reminded of the turn out of the battle, he remembers that Im Yong Soo is already put to bed, two doors down, and that reminder stirs the guilt that now churns in his stomach. He does not want to hurt Im Yong Soo like this, but–surely Im Yong Soo knows the fighting was not Kiku's fault?

The excuse sounds flat, even to him, and he can't help pondering it further as he tries to rest. He is conflicted.

That night is one of many, in the year 230 of the Ming Dynasty.

In Western terms, the year is Anno Domini 1598.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

Meimei is still in his lap, crying her little heart out for Xiang. Only when Yao tiredly tries to bounce his knee under her heavy weight does he look, really look, at her again and see that she is no longer in the form of a human child six or seven or perhaps eight years, but approaching the human equivalent of thirteen, now – still a girl, but she is now slowly blooming into a young woman – and he wonders where the time had gone, for him to have missed her growing height, her slender limbs, the buds of developing breasts on her chest. When she nuzzles her head into his neck, he shifts to hold her closer, continues rubbing her back and humming old lullabies, and tries to think, tries to think but all he can think is she's growing up she's getting older she's growing up and soon she'll leave me and I'll be alone just like when Kiku just like when Im Yong Soo officially will–

-there is a knock at the door, and at once they both freeze. A few heavy breaths later another knock sounds, and Meimei begins to squirm her way out of Yao's hold but instead of relenting he clutches her closer, because he still remembers, he still remembers, he still remembers when he let Kiku leave when he let Kiku move out of his home it was their home once and it's the biggest mistake he'd ever made.

At the sound of the third knock Meimei worms her way out of Yao's arms and, without even a strange look because she understands, Yao knows she does, with a wipe at her tears with the back of her hand and a few sniffles, she scampers to the front door. Yao follows shortly after, afraid of losing her, too, because he can't, he can't, he can't lose another one don't let anyone take her, too, don't.

Meimei's watery voice and stifled sobs quicken his pace, but when he reaches her he sees there is no need because there at the front door is Kiku, kneeling and allowing Meimei to sit on his lap just as Yao had only seconds earlier, though Kiku looks faintly apprehensive, unsure of where to put his hands and what to say to the heartbroken girl that cries from her perch atop his right thigh, her arms wrapped around his neck. Yao lets a broken sound that is equal parts a sob and a laugh escape, that Kiku would be here when he is needed most, and at the expression on Kiku's face, the look Kiku shoots him over Meimei's quivering shoulder.

Yao only steps silently around them, closes the door, looks down at him with tears swimming in his own eyes. He sits himself next to Kiku, so that he is on Kiku's left and next to Kiku's unoccupied arm – Kiku's left arm is somewhat-hesitantly wrapped around Meimei – which Yao wraps around himself as he leans into Kiku's similarly unoccupied shoulder and cries, lets out his tears, his sorrows.

Kiku only sits, and occasionally he rubs a hand on either of their back, but for the most part he only sits and so Yao allows himself to indulge in Kiku's presence, to let himself out and take Kiku – his smell, the feel of him, the knowledge that he's here, he's right here – in.

Later, after they set Meimei down to nap, they speak in hushed whispers.

"I heard," Kiku says, when Yao asks why he is here. Yao's hand shakes, then, and some tea spills over the rim of his cup before he manages to set it down on his floor, and he takes Kiku into his arms, this time, not questioning how Kiku, his people still in isolation, would hear or know, only welcoming the fact that Kiku came all this way, to make sure he is okay.

Kiku came here, for me. The thought leaves him teary-eyed again. His chest aches incomprehensibly, but he thinks it might be him trying to take back the air that was ripped from his lungs. He is breathless.

That night is one of many in the year 198 of the Qing Dynasty.

In Western terms, the year is Anno Domini 1842.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

The sky from out the windows is dark, almost warningly so, and, after a few slow blinks, he realizes he'd fallen asleep.

He somehow musters the strength to push himself so he leans on his elbows, looks around, and forces himself to sit up further than return to sleep. He curls up in the blankets he finds were atop him, chilled, licks his lips, and waits. The house is silent, almost eerily so, until he once again takes note of the rhythmic tick... tock...s he'd heard earlier. He tries to ignore it, focuses instead on the fact that he's still here, in Kiku's home, at night. Meimei and Im Yong Soo, if he, too, decided to stay, must be asleep, then, he figures. He sighs, then, aware he will not sleep again soon, and that the time is late, else Meimei and Im Yong Soo would still be running about the house.

Yao sighs once more, too tired to make his way up to his designated guest room – meaning, of course, Kiku's room – and instead settles back against the couch cushions.

Tick... tock... tick... tock...

Yao's ears twitch and his brows frown with his grimace. He turns his mind blank, breaths in deep, then out, in, keeps the rhythm slow, even.

Tick... tock... tick...

In...

tock... tick... tock...

Out...

tick... tock... ti-

In...

-ck... tock... ti-

Out...

-ck... tock...

In...

tick... tock...

Out...

tick... to-

In...

-ck... tick...

In...

tock...

Out...

tick...

In...

tock...

Out...

ti-

Only then did Yao realize his breaths were becoming quicker, and immediately he let out a large breath, fuming at the interruption of the ridiculous clock. Left in his bad mood, Yao glares at the clock, at the quivering hand that continues on its circular path at every second.

tick...

tock...

tick...

tock...

Yao covers his head with the blanket and thinks of something else – Xiang. He tries to think of Xiang, wonders how Xiang is doing, how Xiang has been, and, just as any other time his mind takes this path, he is overcome by sorrow, loneliness, and the hollow ache in his chest is almost too much...

TICK...

TOCK...

TICK...

TOCK...

With a wince, Yao brings his knees up to his chest, covers his ears, presses his hands against them as if that could keep the noise out, but, remarkably, the effort only allows the noise to get louder.

TICK...

TOCK...

TI-

STOP IT!

Before the clock can make another noise, it is mercilessly thrown on the floor, then smashed in as Yao stomps the damnable invention in. A sort of glee overtakes him at the gears and other like shapes are spit out of the demonic thing – it had mocked him, leered at him, taunting him, I was made in the same country that stole your youngest brother the same land that is my home is now the home of your youngest brother the brother you let be taken from you THAT BROTHER YOU LET BE TAKEN HIS HOME IS MINE MINE MINE HE IS MINE NOW

Yao falls to the floor, hands cupped before his face, tears streaming from his eyes. His chest heaves, but his breaths are thin and weak weak, weak, just like he is weak, so weak, so, so weak he is so weak

"Yao-san?"

Yao breath hitches noticeably, too obviously, but he pretends he is fine, even as he thickly swallows. He bows his head lower, discreetly wipes his eyes. "Ah, I'm afraid I broke your clock, aru." Silence. "It was giving me a horrible headache, I suppose I just wanted to make the noise stop, and–" Yao's mouth runs dry, and he finds he can't say another word, so chocked up is he. He tilts his head, hoping his eyes aren't red nor his cheeks wet.

Yao freezes.

"Kiku, Kiku, did you just return home, aru?"

Kiku is pale, more so than usual, and the half-circles beneath each eye looks darker in comparison. He sways on his feet, clearly exhausted, and both his clothes and hair stick to him with sweat Yao can see and smell even from where he sits. Kiku was holding onto the wall, but removed his hand the moment he'd noticed Yao look up. Yao stands, ignoring the mess at his feet, and walks toward Kiku, arms outstretched in case Kiku should fall, but Kiku only clumsily waves him off, stumbles forward one step, two, three, before falling into Yao's arms. Kiku's hands, shaking, reach up and press over either of Yao's arms.

"What do you think you are doing, aru?" Yao mumbles worriedly, leading Kiku over to the couch and wrapping him in the heavy-set blankets. The night is still cold. Kiku doesn't speak, only looks blankly over at the clock Yao had destroyed. "You left so early in the morning, did you really come back just now, aru?" Kiku's head is bowed, and Yao can't make out his expression. "Kiku, aru?" Yao takes hold of Kiku's chin and turns Kiku to face him.

Kiku's lips are moving rapidly, mouthing over words without a voice, so Yao can't make out what Kiku is saying until the silence erupts into harsh whispers-

"I'd just made it I'd just made it I'll have to make another but no time now I have no time I'll just have to stay up to remake it if I have the equipment– do I have the equipment? I'll have to check but first I need sleep–no, no time for sleep now, I need to make sure I have the tools and the gears and–"

-that chill Yao to his very core.

Yao glances up, and sees Kiku's eyes, and, though he knows Kiku is mad at him for destroying the clock, he thinks he would have preferred for Kiku's eyes to glare at him, than the blank nothingness that is there. Kiku's not even blinking.

In the next second, Kiku's head turns harshly away, driven by the force of Yao's now-stinging palm. Yao can feel his chest moving but he can't hear his heavy breaths – he didn't even hear the smack of his hand against Kiku's now-red cheek, he couldn't hear anything over the buzzing of Kiku's whispers.

Relief spills out of Yao's eyes when Kiku turns to him with a confused frown and pained eyes, a hand against his flushing cheek. Yao hugs Kiku close, thinks to himself, see, this is why I didn't want to let you go this is why I knew something would happen I knew someone would come after you but you're so stubborn you wanted to leave so I had to let you go even though I didn't want to and it's the biggest mistake I could have ever made.

"I'll help you make the clock," Yao whispers into Kiku's ear, "I'll help you."

That night, after Kiku slumps on the couch, beyond exhausted, and Yao has picked up the remains of the clock and moved them elsewhere, Yao decides to sit next to Kiku, under the blankets wrapped around him. With a long sigh, Yao thinks he might get some sleep, after all, and looks back over to the candles he hadn't noticed were thoughtfully left lit for him before he'd awoken, by Meimei no doubt. He maneuvers Kiku to lay down, shifts behind him and drapes the blankets over them both. His arms wrapped around Kiku, he relaxes and prepares to sleep, when-

"Tick..."

-a shiver racks up his spine.

"Tock... tick... tock... tick..."

Yao shivers, shakes Kiku's shoulder to wake him, sighs when that doesn't work, holds him closer, and decides to stay as long as he is needed, but Kiku's eyes are still trained where the remains of the clock were, and Kiku's lips still move in time with the eerie whisper.

Yao is perturbed. But more than perturbed, he is worried, concerned.

That eerie night is one of many in the year 209 of the Qing Dynasty.

In Western terms, the year is Anno Domini 1853.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

So much has changed, so much has changed, and he doesn't quite understand what he's supposed to do. Kiku, Kiku, of all his children, has turned his back against him, and now he's lost. He used to stand so high, he used to have respect. And now–now, all that respect is lost, peeled away with every one of his siblings taken from him. He doesn't know what to do.

He doesn't know what to do.

He holds the soft and plush thing he'd found under him – the kitten doll Kiku had made for him so long ago. Through teary eyes, Yao once more studies the simple red bow on the left ear, the yarn-stitched whiskers, the beady eyes, yellow nose, the innocuous dress, the lack of a mouth. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he pets the–velvet? Is that what the material is called? He's not sure, but, the whiteness of the cat is pristine, and so impossibly soft. Yao sighs, hold the doll closer. And, even as tears fall, he only holds on closer still.

Yao feels betrayed, that the very first child he'd taken in as his own, the very one who'd given him a cat doll, would take the last child he'd had, would take Meimei, away. That first child he'd let go even though he never wanted to and now it's the biggest mistake he'd ever made.

That lonely day is one of many in the year 251 of the Qing Dynasty.

In Western terms, the year is 1895 AD.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

He'd fallen asleep, he realizes, when he looks out the window and sees speckled darkness where he'd expected to see brushstrokes of reds and oranges, blues and violets. He can feel the remains of tears on his cheeks, and he turns over his wet pillow before he sits up, the cat doll still in his lap. Absently he strokes its ears, runs his fingers over the bow, as he tries to ignore the weight bearing down on his chest.

The cat doll is cradled in his arms when he pads barefoot into his kitchen, opens a cabinet and sorts through the tea, and then he sees the Keemun, which he knows to be Kiku's favorite – Kiku's favorite, and, so overcome by rage is he, he grabs the canister and throws it across until it hits the opposite wall with a thwack! and enough force to make the smallest of dents. The lid has opened, and so the contents spill over his floors, spill like blood.

His breath is heavy, his chest heaving. He tries to hug himself, to calm himself, but something obstructs him, and when he looks down he sees it's the doll still in his arms, so instead he clutches it tighter to him and falls to the floor, knees pressed to his chest.

He tilts his head back, against the cabinets, and sees the full moon outside, and, like the night he'd been about to send Kiku that letter, he remembers a night even further back, a night when Kiku had said "... I want to become stronger. In time, the Western powers are probably going to come to Asia. I plan to fight at any cost when that time comes." (19)

"... to fight at any cost when that time comes."

"... at any cost when..."

"... at any cost when..."

Realization dawns on him, then, with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. He presses the doll even closer to him, and he's left unable to breathe.

And then comes another realization, that Kiku would rather be with the Western nations, would rather call them friends and family and perhaps even a lover in one of them than in one of the Eastern nations, nations he'd known for decades and centuries and millennium, even. That last thought, that last option – a lover – hurts most for reasons he doesn't quite understand and prefers to not dwell too far into.

But, the thought–the fact, because that is what it is, nothing more, nothing less–that Kiku feels as if he is better, so better than any of his siblings – it hurts. Yao feels offended.

He watches the sky until the sun rises, remembers a young boy's voice - "I am Japan." – and tears trace the curve of his face once more.

That lonely night is one of many in the year 258 of the Qing Dynasty.

In Western terms, the year is 1902 AD.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

"Are... you all right, China?" Russia asks, when Yao swallows the cup's contents in a gulp and without a pause gestures for another refill. Yao barely spares a glance before nodding.

"Um, I think you've had enough, China, ve." (20)

Yao frowns at the last word, trying to pick it apart, re-discover what it means, and wonders if his mind knows that his mind is a little too fuzzy for his taste. He laughs aloud at that thought, then stops abruptly. The bartender is staring – staring? can one stare if the eyes are closed? – concernedly at him, but it is the bartender's errant curl that catches Yao's attention. When it bobs, as if by the force of Yao's own stare, he can't resist reaching out to poke at it.

"China?"

Russia's hand is on his sleeve – don't touch me you can't you can't you can't – which he yanks away before he looks back at the bartender and realizes–it's Italy.

Yao brings his cup to his lips, takes a few gulps until he notices he's only swallowing air.

I shouldn't have let Kiku go, he wants to tell them, tell everyone, as he stares at the cup with empty eyes as if it will refill itself. It was the biggest mistake I ever made.

"Signore," Another, rougher, voice says, and when Yao sees another man, a bit taller and with darker hair but a similar curl to Italy's, Yao knows it's Italy's brother, "I think you've had enough." Italy's brother says firmly, taking a step between his brother and Yao, and this, this is how siblings are supposed to be, and that thought leaves tears to spill over his eyes for the nth time. He nods numbly, scoots off the stool, unintentionally slams a few bills on the counter.

"Signore," both brothers begin at the same time, but Yao only mutters for them to keep the change and asks where they keep the phone.

On the fifth try he manages to dial the correct number, and on the third try he manages an understandable request for a ride. The other three nations follow him, though he isn't sure why, but he can't help noticing Italy's brother turning to Italy after noticing him there and sternly whispering, "I told you to stay at the counter."

"A-ah, but, Romano-" a harsh look is shot at Italy, who falters, deflates. "Y-yes, Fratello, ve, mi dispiace."

Mi dispiace

Mi dispiace

Mi dispiace

The apology strikes a match in Yao's hazy mind, but it is too dark to find the candle to light. He frowns at the metaphor, shrugs and decides it might make sense later, when he's sober.

He barely remembers Russia or–Romano helping him in the car sent from his boss to take him to back to China – he doesn't remember why he chose to go to Italy to meet with Russia, he doesn't even remember how or when he got there; it must be the alcohol hazing his memory – yet he can easily recall, when he'd peeked back in the tavern before the car took off, Italy stepping beside Romano, clutching Romano's sleeve as they all watched Yao's car leave.

Only when he's back in his home, laying on his bed about to sleep despite the shining sun, tired from the long trip – the car was too uncomfortable for him to sleep in, not to mention his still-sensitive back – does he think back to the words that had stuck in his head - "Mi dispiace" – and, a moment before he can close his eyes, he remembers-

"...forgive me."

-Kiku's apology.

"Ah, Kiku. What are you doing at this late of night, aru?"

"... forgive me."

"I have just made Zongzi, aru. Come in." (21)

Yao blinks, pushes himself up with haste, closes his eyes. He doesn't have to think to reach for the cat doll he pulls into his lap and wraps his arms around.

"Ah, Kiku. What are you doing at this late of night, aru?"

"... forgive me."

"I have just–"

It's there, Yao can feel it–

"... at this late of night, aru?"

"... forgive me."

-there it is.

The match has just lit the candle.

"... forgive me."

He wasn't apologizing for being late, Yao realizes, belatedly, Kiku was apologizing for–

The scar sears. It burns, still, but for the first time, Yao can ignore it, welcome it, even, because-

Oh, Kiku, aru.

-he isn't hated, after all.

Always, aru. I'll always forgive you, no matter what, aru.

He is in pain. But, despite that pain, he sleeps peacefully from shortly after noon through the night.

That day is one of many in year 25 as the Republic of China.

In Western terms, the year is 1937 AD.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

He can only faintly hear the clomping of loud footsteps coming down from the stairs, and an ever louder voice. It is the polite "Mm", the barely-audible hum, hardly louder than a whisper, that makes his head snap up, his eyes open wide.

In America's arms, more fragile and delicate than even the first time Yao had ever seen him, is Kiku, cradled carefully as America carries him, in plain view of everyone else attending, a few steps away from the center of the room below deck. Kiku and his people must have formally signed the document just a few moments ago with America and his, then.

When Germany, Italy, Romano and Prussia follow, Yao is hardly surprised to see the first two carrying a wheelchair – Italy struggling and Germany with little effort – whilst the other two stroll casually in – Romano with a bored scowl and Prussia with a wide grin. Yao takes in the wheelchair, takes in Kiku's too-pale skin – just like ninety-two years ago, just like in 1853 with that dreadful clock – and thin-white kimono – a thicker, olive-green is draped over one of America's shoulders – and the weariness and exhaustion in his oft expressionless eyes easily enough, but it's only when Germany and Italy lower the wheelchair – Yao notices how Romano and Prussia's expressions turn indifferent, carefully neutral – and America lowers Japan into it do the presence of both click.

Yao begins to hyperventilate again, and he sinks his head lower.

The atmosphere is tense, pumped full of anxiety and careful treading, and Yao is still invisible from behind the long table, but, soon enough, he hears the squeak of approaching tires and he knows, he knows Kiku has found him. Kiku knows him far, far too well.

"Ya-... China-san."

It stings. It stings to his very core. He ignores the pain, though, wipes his tears, takes a quick breath and stands. "Kiku, aru." What Kiku has done doesn't change Yao's love for him, and it never will.

Kiku blinks, slowly. Then, he licks his lips, bows his head. When he shifts forward, Yao is by him in a second, hands firmly around his wrists.

"Don't," Yao says to Kiku in his firmest voice, for the first time in too-many years, "Don't bow, don't kneel to me, aru."

Yao knows him far, far too well.

Kiku, of course looks abashed. Yao's only too-pleased to see his cheeks pinken.

And then, Kiku smiles.

Yao is in shock, then. That Kiku can smile, still, and later, laugh with America – that cào – whose actions left him in so vulnerable a position. Yao is still in shock, when Kiku chatters with Italy, mutters to Romano – and Yao wonders at the looks those two shoot him – and easily accepts a scone from Opium, compliments France's clothes, exchanges terse pleasantries with Russia, clinks beer bottles and drinks a little at a time with Germany and Prussia. When Kiku is with Yao, though, they are silent. They make no noise, and Yao can only be reminded of their talks over tea, their talks that is more Yao ranting and Kiku nodding, and Yao is at a loss.

Yao was once the person closest to Kiku, but, now, he is far from that. They reunite after so long, yet they hardly say a word.

I should have never let you go, Yao wants – perhaps even needs, to tell him. It was the biggest mistake I ever made.

That quiet night is one of many in year 33 as the Republic of China.

In Western terms, the year is 1945 AD.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

Kiku has ended his ridiculously long phone call, and is instead watching him with a tilted head, upturned brows and eyes flickered with worry, when Yao sees him. But then Yao blinks, and the only trace left of Kiku's concern is in his eyes, the intensity with which they settle on Yao.

"What's the matter, aru?" Yao asks around a yawn. When he looks around, he sees through a window that the sky is colored a dim gray.

"Nothing," Kiku says, gingerly stepping back – he is much better now, though he fatigues easily – seemingly after realizing how close he really was to Yao's person – not that Yao minded, as he's always been the one to initiate physical contact with his siblings. "Will you be staying the night?"

Yao blinks. Kiku has never been one to ask that question, directly. Kiku has never before asked, only flippantly offered – just like ninety-four years ago, just like in 1853, he'd only said, "Stay as long as you wish; you need not hasten to leave once my house has been restored." – and so Yao can only give a dumbfounded nod.

"You may take my room tonight." Again, Yao blinks – he sleeps in Kiku's room, in Kiku's bed, with Kiku warm in his arms every visit he makes to Kiku's, and, even when Kiku visits, whether or not he talks himself out of Yao's room, Kiku is still in Yao's arms before he drifts off – and nods, slowly. Kiku glances at his watch – a gift from America, he'd said, when Yao had asked – and says, "It's not yet five, but if you are tired now..."

"Will I not see you in bed tonight?" Yao asks, genuinely concerned; he still remembers that night Kiku had returned home stumbling and weak from exhaustion. The words sound suggestive, he knows, but he's asked this question many times over their visits over the years, so he's not quite sure why his heart is pounding or his cheeks heating or his fingers nervously twitching.

Kiku's eyes widen, noticeably, and his face flushes. With a tight swallow, he says "I must leave early tomorrow morning," and nothing else. Yao waves his hand dismissively with an equally dismissive noise, but he is still worried over Kiku's abnormal words and behavior. He is suspicious.

That night they sleep as they always have, but Yao can feel Kiku is pretending to be asleep. At this moment, Yao feels the rising urge to tell him, I should have never let you go, it's the biggest mistake I ever made.

That night is one of many in year 35 as the Republic of China.

In Western terms, the year is 1947 AD.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

He doesn't meet Russia's eyes as he signs the document. The words at the top, Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship, Alliance and Mutual Assistance seem to enlarge, almost popping off the paper. Yao's chest heaves, his breath hitches, with the knowledge that there is no going back, now, this is permanent, forever – at least, until their bosses decide otherwise.

When Yao retracts his arm, his own signature looks foreign to him.

He very casually rubs his hands as he tunes out whoever is speaking, pretends he is somewhere warmer. He thinks of his visits to Kiku's home over the summer.

When they leave the building, Russia begins to talk, and Yao only nods politely, hums occasionally, and he thinks of his own conversations with Kiku, and how he wishes he could listen for Kiku, if Kiku would talk.

When Yao returns to the room he's temporarily staying in, he immediately lays down. He feels faint. He stares up at the ceiling though he can't see it with all the lights off.

His dreams are hazy and long, memories of the times where Yao never feared Kiku might betray him, where Yao would teach Kiku to read and write, where they still lived together and Kiku would slowly grow older.

That night is one of many in year 1 as the People's Republic of China.

In Western terms, the year is 1950 AD.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

He can feel Kiku watching him, and spares a quick glance and smile to him, more relieved than ever to see Kiku sitting on his right.

A man clears his throat.

"Both sides shared the view that..."

"Both sides reaffirmed that the principles of mutual respect... equality and mutual benefit and peaceful co-existence..."

"Both sides positively evaluate... Both sides express support..."

"Both sides stress the importance..."

"Both sides believe that both Japan and China, as nations influential in the Asian region and world, bear an important responsibility for preserving peace and promoting development. Both sides will strengthen coordination and cooperation..."

Yao's catches only snippets of what the man says. His head is swimming already, and that is only the first article.

"Both sides believe that..."

"Both sides reiterate that..."

"Both sides expressed their great interest... Both sides affirmed that they would positively meet the various challenges that they faced..."

"Both sides believe that stable relations..."

By the end of the second article, Yao has resorted to counting in his head to keep his breaths even, but he's distracted by a realization, one he'd rather have had at a more reasonable time.

"Both sides reviewed the bilateral relationship since the normalization of relations between Japan and China, and expressed satisfaction with the remarkable development in all areas... further strengthening and developing the... relations... Both sides reaffirmed that the Japan-China relationship is one of the most important... expressed their resolve to establish a partnership..."

"Both sides restated that..."

"Both sides are of the view that Japan and China share a history... it is the common desire of the peoples of the two countries to continue this... further develop mutually beneficial cooperation..."

"Both sides believe that... further developing relations... The Japanese side is keenly conscious of the responsibility for the serious distress and damage that Japan caused... and expressed deep remorse for this. The Chinese side hopes that the Japanese side will learn lessons from the history and adhere to the path of peace and development. Based on this, both sides will develop long-standing relations..."

"Both sides shared the view that expanding personnel exchanges..."

"Both sides confirmed an annual visit..."

"Both sides shared the view that..."

"Both sides positively evaluated the beneficial role..."

"The Japanese side continues to maintain its stand on the Taiwan issue... Japan will continue to maintain its exchanges of private and regional nature with Taiwan."

"Both sides affirmed that... they would work to maximize their common interests..."

"Both sides believe that through establishment of a partnership... relations will enter a new level of development. … Both sides firmly believe that..."

So distracted by his untimely epiphany, Yao only barely notices the scrutiny he receives from Kiku, as he instead signs his name on the treaty, much more excitedly and much less reluctantly than he had that he had with Russia years and years ago. When Yao hurriedly slides the document over, Kiku only quirks a brow and the corner of his lip, accepts the paper with soft, calm eyes and signs with a hand almost as quick as Yao's.

Kiku seems hardly surprised when Yao tells him they'll be sleeping together in his house, though the diplomats within hearing distance seem almost offended and exchange disbelieving looks and scandalous whispers. Yao assures the people that came with Kiku that they have slept with one another for years, but that apparently does nothing to assure them, and Kiku is left to explain, between stutters and nervous hand gesticulations that remind Yao of Italy that, through the years since they'd first met they've remained close and sleep together only as brothers, and Yao hears Kiku add, with a deadpan stare toward him, "Furthermore, Yao has no respect of personal space."

There is a pause, and then the diplomats all laugh, because they'd easily noticed that much when Yao had greeted Kiku with an enthusiastic hug and complaints of how much he'd missed visiting Kiku, but Yao, Yao doesn't laugh, because he is shaking.

He and Kiku have known one another for two millennium – far longer than either has known anyone else, and, yet, while Kiku will call even Germany "Ludwig" and Im Yong Soo "Otouto," those times Im Yong Soo calls Kiku "Hyung nim," he has always been "Yao-san". To hear his name without the title sends shivers up his spine, but not of fear, of–desire.

Only when he was in alliance with Russia and wishing every second of his life since then that he might be with Kiku, only once he'd seen Kiku today after the past few years, only after he'd heard "Japan" and "China" and "partnership" and "relationship" in the same sentence, only then, when he thought back to how he'd reacted when fifty-one years ago, back in 1947, he'd asked, "Will I not see you in bed tonight?", or when he thought back to ninety-six years ago when he'd felt a spike of pain at the thought of Kiku finding a lover in one of the Western nations, did he fully realize-

-he is in love with Kiku.

Kiku is closer to him, now, wearing that same look of concern he had fifty-one years ago, when Yao had fallen asleep during Kiku's call with America.

"Yao? Are you all right?"

Yao can't help shivering. He feels jolted awake, as if someone had shocked him. Never before had Yao noticed with such extensive detail the curve of Kiku's very pink lips around every "o", the slow, deliberate roll of his tongue for every "l", the unconscious emphasis of every "t" so it almost sounded like a "tut".

A hand lands atop his shoulder, and Xiang's oft-flat voice is seemingly laced with amusement when he whispers "It took you long enough, Gege," into Yao's ear. Of course, that does no good for Yao's nerves.

He hears Kiku's steps halt and feels Kiku's eyes on him when he whisper-yells to Xiang, who had been returned to him the summer of the prior year, to, keep quiet, that he should have been notified of having an infatuation, how irresponsible of a younger sibling Xiang is to have never given Yao a clue or hint of any sort and, most importantly, to keep. quiet.

"At least Kiku-Gege isn't so oblivious." Xiang says instead, casually and without a care for Kiku who surely hears him. When Yao hisses he never should have invited Xiang over to Japan with him, his youngest brother ever-so-helpfully reminds Yao that, as part of China, his presence is required, even if his signature is not.

"Yao," Kiku calls, again, and Yao's skin is prickled with goosebumps.

Yao doesn't like the look on Xiang's face when he leaves.

Later, when they lay in Yao's bed, Yao pays no attention to Kiku's farce, too distracted faking sleep himself, his mind racing as he tries to discover when, exactly, he'd fallen for Kiku, a bit panicked when he realizes he has no idea, that it could very well have been millennium and he had not known.

I can't let you go again, Yao decides, tightening his grip on Kiku, so close yet so far, I already have, and it's the biggest mistake I ever made

That heartsick night is only one of many in the year 49 as the People's Republic of China.

In Western terms, the year is 1998.

…

And, a moment later, he opens his eyes.

He tells himself that he has come this far, that he has stood in front of the door this long-

that he has waited this long

-that he may as well enter, see this through. And so, with a deep breath of fresh early-morning air, Yao removes his shoes, opens the door, takes a few barefoot steps in and closes it behind him.

Kiku is asleep, of course, as any sensible person would be at this time–or so he thinks until he reaches Kiku's room, finds Kiku leaning over the window. Kiku turns immediately when Yao walks in, leaving Yao somewhat relieved Kiku's instincts haven't yet dulled, and his face wears an expression of surprise similar to Yao's own.

"Yao...?"

"I need to talk to you, aru." Yao says decisively, taking a seat on Kiku's futon. Kiku pauses, blinks, then, somewhat bewildered, he nods, sits beside Yao, almost close enough for their arms to touch, just an inch, just an inch, from contact, so close yet so far, and the urge to grasp onto Kiku's small hand with long, slender fingers, to twine those fingers with his own, leaves Yao's heart pounding, like the rabbit in the full moon Kiku claims to be pounding rice cakes when of course it is of course mixing medical herbs. Yao's fingers are trembling, now, his forehead is sweating and his neck feels uncomfortably warm. Yao clears his throat once, twice, but the words are stuck. He doesn't know what to say.

He doesn't know what to say.

For some time – he's not sure whether it is seconds or minutes or even hours, he doesn't know – they sit there, in silence, Yao struggling with what he needs to tell Kiku, Kiku, who is watching him, and their silence reminds him of sixty-three years ago, in 1945, when Kiku would talk or even make clinks with the bottles of beer, make some kind of noise with everyone else, even Russia who Kiku had just on principle never gotten along with, while with Yao, Kiku was silent, eerily so, saying not a word more than necessary, making not a sound, and how much that stung, that Kiku would clamp up with Yao, like a nightingale that would happily sing a song to all but its devoted caretaker. Yao clears his throat a third time, swallows the lump in his throat.

Some time later – he's not exactly sure how much time – there is a sort of warm coolness – he doesn't bother to ponder the nonsense of that oxymoron – on his forehead, and, when he glances up, he sees the very hand he wanted to grasp, the very fingers he wanted to twine with his own. Kiku's expression is concerned, just as it was sixty-one years ago, in 1947, when Yao had fallen asleep and woke up to see Kiku nearly hovering over him. Dully, as if through a filter, Yao can make out Kiku asking, "Are you ill, Yao–?"

In the next moment, Yao has Kiku's thin, slender wrist in a firm hold, and the contact sends a mild shock through his arm, and his heart is beating, pounding, even harder than before. And, he decides, he should get this over with, or he may never again muster up the courage. "I never should have let you go, aru." Yao says, quick and to the point, meeting Kiku's confused and concerned eyes. "It was the biggest mistake I ever made."

When he breathes, he feels lighter, as if the past millennium and several centuries' worth of regrets has been shed. When he breathes, he feels like, for the first time since he'd met Kiku, he can actually fill his lungs with air.

Yao sees Kiku lips open to say something, and so grabs him, holds him, tight, in his arms, surprising him from saying anything–Yao has already come this far, he can't let Kiku interrupt, discourage, him now.

Perched comfortably atop Kiku's thighs with a leg outside either of Kiku's, arms wrapped firmly around Kiku's pale and slender neck, Yao rests his head against Kiku's, leans close, and, in his ear, whispers, shakily, but unashamedly, "Wo ai ni aru."

There is a beat. There is a pause. There is a long, endless silence that lasts centuries, but at the same time lasts only seconds. Once Yao thinks that, yes, he is fine, now, he can leave, he has said all he needs to, he reluctantly draws back, begins to unwrap his arms and shuffle off Kiku's lap-

-a hand set firm against the back of his head pushes him forward, and his lips collide against Kiku's in a searing, bruising kiss, and Yao doesn't think any longer, only acts. His arms reaffirm their hold and his knees press against either side of Kiku. His lips open and close rapidly against Kiku's, and at the first flick of Kiku's tongue against his Yao can't reign in neither the excited shiver nor the mewling whimper. All Yao can do is tilt his head and reciprocate Kiku's desperate, fervent kisses with his own.

The hand that isn't pressing Yao's face to Kiku's removes his scarlet ribbon, leaving his hair unbound, and, apparently, a better, more secure hold for Kiku's first hand. Yao feels his fingers comb through Kiku's short hair of their own accord, then, without missing a beat, they fumble to the end of his changshan, eager to pull the clothing off, when one of Kiku's hands lands atop one of his own, and Kiku draws back, panting, as Yao is.

"Yao," Kiku manages, "Yao, isn't this–aren't we–?"

"Kiku," Yao says, fingers twitching, chest heaving. "Kiku, I–for so long, for much longer than I could have ever known. Decades, Kiku, maybe a century. I–" Yao swallows, unable to hold in his tears. So much he has missed out on, so much he could have had, had he bothered to let Kiku know.

Kiku's hands, though callused, are soft as they trail his face, fingers gentle as they wipe his tears. Kiku's soft, pink lips kiss a path down as much exposed skin as there is above the collar of his changshan, and Yao barely makes out the muttered, "Sixty-one."

Sixty-one. Sixty-one years ago–1947. Kiku's abnormal words and behavior, his faked sleep.

Yao feels the strange urge to both cry harder and laugh at the same time. He manages a broken hiccup, runs his fingers once more through Kiku's hair as Kiku's fingers push up his changshan until Yao has to stretch his arms up so the material is pulls off. Then, Kiku's hands reach for the hem of Yao's accompanying pants, and so Yao lifts himself up on his knees, hands anchored on Kiku's shoulders. His eyes never stray from Kiku's just as Kiku's never stray from his, even as Yao lifts one knee, then the other, for the pants to slide smoothly off.

Slowly, deliberately, Yao pulls at Kiku's obi, unknots it, before he slides the kimono off Kiku's arms. Between slow kisses and even slower caresses, they remove the remainder of barriers between them.

Yao's fingers dance across Kiku's bare shoulders, even as he lowers himself to Kiku's bed, head pillowed, and when Kiku follows, bare body draped over his own, and initiates yet another long, soothing kiss, Yao is once more drawn in by the curve of his soft, pink lips, the slow, deliberate roll of his tongue against the roof of Yao's mouth.

Kiku's fingers reach to the back of Yao's head, comb through his hair and trails down to the nape of his neck, his back, his scar–

-Kiku pulls his hand away as if he is burned, a possibility Yao doesn't cross out; his scar sears.

Kiku is sitting up now, staring at his hand as if he forgot the pain that very hand had inflicted upon Yao, wrapped around the katana with a white-knuckled grip. Yao sits up, too, holding Kiku's hand in both of his own, well aware of what Kiku is thinking.

He knows Kiku far, far too well.

"Oh, Kiku, aru." Yao whispers, "I've forgiven you already, aru. Always. I'll always forgive you, no matter what, aru."

Kiku blinks, slowly. Then, he licks his lips, bows his head.

"Kiku," Yao prompts, using a hand to tilt Kiku's head back up, and he spares a quick smile. "What you do, what you've done–it doesn't change my love for you, aru."

Kiku, of course, looks abashed. Yao's only too-pleased to see his cheeks pinken.

And then, slowly, Kiku smiles.

And Yao, Yao loves Kiku's smile.

Kiku's arms are less unsure, now, but his hands remain beseeching, when he once more reaches for Yao's back, traces the scar, fingers just a hair's breadth away from contact. Kiku watches Yao, seems to be waiting for a sign of some sort, as if Yao would feel any sort of offense for this.

When Kiku's hand presses against his back, Yao shivers, and realizes the scar is sensitive even now, seventy-one years after the initial infliction, but not in a painful way. Yao moans at the touch, leans back into it. And, an insurmountable period of time later, Yao is lowered to the bed, the sheets cool against his flushed skin, Kiku once more over him. And, when Kiku's hands reach his thighs and trail down, Yao can't help arching his neck, arching his back and sighing, trembling as Kiku's hands travel back up, thumbing against the goosebumps that'd popped up.

When Yao clutches at the sheets beneath him, heart thrumming and cheeks set ablaze, with a lewd moan, head thrown back, he can feel Kiku watching him. And, even as he bucks his hips up with every pump, curls his toes and jerks with every tightened, reaffirmed grip, Yao finds he doesn't mind so much, being on display–for the moment. He's too occupied with the pleasure radiating through his body to care for humility, and so he finds he doesn't care enough for modesty to mute his strained groans and high yelps.

His grip on the sheets tighten, hands clenching, when Kiku removes his hand, settling it atop Yao's stomach, glistening already with a thin film of sweat. Yao's breath comes unsteady, and Kiku, Kiku's concern is in his eyes, the intensity with which they settle on Yao.

Before Kiku can open his mouth to say anything, Yao sets his hand atop Kiku's, thumbs over the knuckles, and so Kiku remains silent, any and all remaining thoughts of protest, or rushing, left unsaid.

He knows Yao far, far too well.

He pulls Kiku's hand up to his mouth, sucks at every finger individually–index, middle, ring, back again–and feels himself calm at the weight of Kiku's forehead resting against his own, breath huffing against his own fingers, against Yao's mouth. Yao glances up, thinks he feels his face soften at Kiku's closed eyes, lashes fluttering. He lets the last of Kiku's fingers go with a wet pop, cups his hands around Kiku's face, watches Kiku's eyes open, settle on his own unwavering gaze. A shiver of anticipation racks up his spine when Kiku's fingers are right where Yao wants them, and a broken breath breaks free at the first finger that pushes in.

Yao can hear himself let out little noises with every exhale as one finger becomes two, and two fingers three. His hips roll with the rhythm of Kiku's fingers, face pinched in pleasure, lips pursed to no avail for the sounds that still escape. He feels his cheeks burn, his hands pull at the sheets, his legs draw up against Kiku, pressed close to either of Kiku's side. He lifts the lower half of his body, then, trying to let Kiku know with his eyes, as his mouth wouldn't stop making noise, that he was ready for more.

When Kiku's unoccupied hand wraps one of Yao's legs around his waist, Yao without prompt wraps the other like so, and then Kiku's fingers leave him, leave him vacant and wanting, and Yao has been empty for far, far too long. And at that moment, at that very second, Yao's chest heaves, his breath hitches, with the knowledge that there is no going back, now, this is permanent, forever...

He feels Kiku push in.

It stings. It stings to his very core. He ignores the pain, though, and instead he takes Kiku – his smell–still sweet, still soft, and almost flowery–the feel of him–cool to his flushed skin and yet somehow still warm–the knowledge that he's here – in. He removes his hands from the sheets, drapes his arms over Kiku's back and digs his nails into the skin available from there, absently makes note of the pleased groan Kiku lets out. His head is swimming already, and they have only begun.

Yao can't resist pushing Kiku down, closer, with his legs, ever so eager for more contact. Kiku's grunts sound by Yao's ear, overlapping with Yao's whines and breathless gasps, as Yao uses his nails to vent out the pain that shoots up his spine, a retribution of sorts. The faint winces, flinches and pained groans die out with the pain, though, and eventually Yao can relax and move without recoil.

Yao peels his hands from Kiku's back, maneuvers them instead to Kiku's arms, just below the shoulder and he grabs, holds on tight. The roll of their hips even out into a sound, eager rhythm that easily and steadily quickens. Yao arches his neck, reaches for a kiss, lets out a pleased sigh when his wordless request is granted. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he reaches up runs his fingers once more through Kiku's hair, and then again, somehow unable to get enough of smooth, silky locks. He doesn't miss the increasing intensity of Kiku's kisses, but answers the rough wandering tongue and teasing light nips with his own.

With a sharp cry Yao throws his head back against the sweat-soaked pillow, a few stray strands from his still-unbound hair stuck to his face, chest rising and falling with every shallow breath. Kiku seems confused, until their gazes lock, and Yao knows his pleasure must show in his heavy, lidded eyes, else Kiku wouldn't have known to lift his legs higher, thrust back in deeper, at just the right angle to hit there–!

Even as he lets out another slow, drawn-out moan, Yao fumbles to his forearms, backs up until he is against the wall. His legs are spread, now, still held up by Kiku's bruising grip, and his hair pressed against the back of his neck, his forehead, cheeks and shoulders with sweat. When Kiku shifts closer Yao grasps onto his shoulders, and then whines when he is seated firmly atop Kiku, the cool wall against his back, a hard and damp chest against his own. Yao licks his lips hungrily at the new angle, rolls his hips experimentally and mewls, then, he yelps when Kiku presses him further against the wall, releases a pleasured scream when Kiku moves faster and deeper and faster and deeper and faster and deeper and rougher and–!

Yao's breath is chocked, eyes clenched shut arms wrapped around Kiku's neck again, legs crossed at the ankles at Kiku's back, high cries and long moans pulled from his throat between every pant, every gasp. When a hand reaches up to his head and fingers run through his sweaty hair – just as his fingers had with Kiku's – Yao cannot hope to smother a pleased hum, and then another when Kiku's hand holds firm against the back of his neck. He moves with Kiku, rolls and bucks with every thrust that slams against and in him. He loses sense of time, loses himself, in the heat of Kiku, in the heartbeat he can feel from the chest pressed against his own, the breaths that brush against his lips.

And, only when Yao peels open his eyes does he see that Kiku's lips are moving rapidly, mouthing over words without a voice, so Yao can't make out what Kiku is saying until he holds his breath for a painful, heart-pounding second or two, somehow manages to catch a few words, a name, another word, his name-

"Yao, Yao, aishiteru yo, Yao,"

-and, for a breathless, impossibly-long second, Yao thinks he's frozen in time – the admission breaks something in him, has him let out soft sobs because he is happy, so happy, in fact, that his breath is ripped from his lungs.

A second later he chokes out another sob, tightens his grip from both his arms and legs, screams out, "Kiku!" as he releases, and any weight that had remained in his chest is gone.

His breath hitches when Kiku calls out his name, and at the hot rush as Kiku finishes inside him. For seconds that altogether last minutes, hours, years, Yao keeps his hands gingerly on Kiku's chest, just as Kiku's hands cup the back of Yao's arms, their foreheads pressed against one another as they gather their breath, eyes trained on one another.

When their breathing evens out and their pulses calm, Yao's shoulders tremble, and he shakes his head, an open grin pulling at his lips, to which Kiku only quirks a brow and a corner of his lip, looks at him with the soft, calm eyes that Yao could have fallen in love with all on their own.

Yao uses the balls of his feet, now pressed down against the sheets, to push himself forward, catch Kiku's lips in another, longer, softer kiss. His hands run down the cool sweat on Kiku's chest, even as Kiku kisses back and Kiku's hands press them closer together.

And Yao is happy, so, so happy, that he could never ask for more.

That love-filled night is only one of many in the year 59 as the People's Republic of China.

In Western terms, the year is 2008.

…

"Mm, Zhù nǐ shēngrì kuàilè, aru. Happy birthday." Yao offers, just remembering the date, as his lips trace down Kiku's neck, and when Kiku's body trembles with a silent chuckle, those very lips pull into a wide, fond smile.

"Thank you," Kiku murmurs, and, five years after their first love-making, they caress and explore one another as if it is their first time together all over again.

The year is 2013, and never could Yao have imagined himself so happy, but he is, he is, and, with Kiku beside him, Yao knows he always will be, no matter the time that passes them by.

---

I hope you enjoyed your read!

Here are the footnotes, guys~! You know, assuming anyone reads them, anyway... Sorry they're so long n.n"

1.) "He is shaking." These scenes take place on 26 November 1998, when "President Jiang Zemin of the People's Republic of China made an official visit to Japan as a State Guest from 25 to 30 November 1998." The words that are italicized are from the text from the treaty. If you're interested in reading the whole treaty, the URL for the English text is mofa . go . jp / region / asia-paci / china / visit98 / joint . html (Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Japan);just remove the spaces between periods and slashes. As for Xiang, "On 1 July 1997 the transfer of sovereignty from United Kingdom to the PRC occurred, officially ending 156 years of British colonial rule." (Wikipedia) Also, for any of you who were wondering, a changshan is a traditional dress for males, just Google Image it if you want to know what it looks like (like I really need to tell you, you know you already did).

2.) "He feels faint." These scenes take place on 14 February 1950, (and I'm going to ignore that that's Valentine's Day and potential for RoChu and if I find out someone used that little tidbit in a RoChu fic I'm going to hurt myself) when "Mao travelled to the Soviet Union in order to sign the Treaty after its details had been concluded" (Wikipedia). What that treaty entails doesn't matter, at least for this story; go look it up for yourself if you're interested. What does matter, or at least makes this action more understandable, is a bit of background history:

"After the establishment of the People's Republic of China (PRC) in 1949, relations with Japan changed from hostility and an absence of contact to cordiality and extremely close cooperation in many fields. Japan was defeated and Japanese military power dismantled, but the PRC continued to view Japan as a potential threat because of the presence of United States Forces Japan in the region. One of the recurring PRC's concerns in Sino-Japanese relations has been the potential re-militarization of Japan. On the other hand, some Japanese fear that the economic and military power of the PRC has been increasing.

The Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship, Alliance and Mutual Assistance included the provision that each side would protect the other from an attack by "Japan or any state allied with it" and the PRC undoubtedly viewed with alarm Japan's role as the principal US military base during the Korean War. The Treaty of Mutual Cooperation and Security between the United States and Japan signed in 1951 also heightened the discouragement of diplomatic relations between the two countries." (Wikipedia)

Also, I want you guys to keep in mind that this takes place early on in the Cold War, and all that fear of nuclear war and such, so yeah.

3.) "He is suspicious." These scenes take place in 1947, two years post-WWII and during the occupation of Japan. I wanted to highlight Japan and America's growing in a friendly light during this period, for plot reasons. Also, if any of you were wondering, cào is a Chinese profanity - and, have any of you looked at Chinese profanities? There's a whole list on Wikipedia and, I gotta tell you, I never knew the Chinese had it in them, they're all like, really, really vulgar. The whole thing was very educational. Anyway, back onto topic, 1947 is also dated as the year the Cold War started, so, kind of keeps these scenes connected to the ones that take place in 1950, too.

4.)"He is in shock." These scenes take place on 2 September 1945, when the Japanese Instrument of Surrender was - signed or whatever, on the USS Missouri. I wanted to keep this fic moderately simple (ha), but it turns out that it was also signed by representatives from Netherlands, Canada and New Zealand. But, for the sake of this fic, please, bear with me. I was also a little afraid I'd overdone it a bit with China's sorta-breakdown, starting out but, when you read on I think it actually fits? I'm just a little wary of overdoing the whole breakdowns with this fic, I didn't want to make it unnecessarily dramatic, you know?

5.) "He is in pain." These scenes take place in 1937, which was the "official beginning of the Second Sino-Japanese War", which I assumed was what the Japan-China-back-stab scene from the manga was representing. In the very first of these scenes, the dialogue was all taken from the manga, specifically Volume EX Chapter 5 - The Story About the Early Days of China and Japan, the URL is at the top, you passed it a roller coaster of feels (assuming I did my job right) ago. As for the second part of 1937, I will get around to that in later footnotes 20 and 21.

6.) "He is offended." These scenes take place in 1902, when the Anglo-Japanese Alliance was signed. In the second part, I thought it realistic to add Yao feeling some reasonable animosity at Kiku for finding an ally with England, given the Opium Wars and the First Sino-Japanese War.

7.) "Though, he thinks, he shouldn't be surprised to see two heartless thieves get along, sharing that foul Earl Grey and burnt crackers as they laugh and sneer and boast on how they stole the last of his family from him." Yes, for those who noticed, I did not add Vietnam and France's occupation of her, even though I really, really wanted to, only because I hadn't thought about it until the end and it would have messed me up terribly. Bleh.

8.) "He feels betrayed." These scenes take place in 1895, after the First Sino-Japanese War and the signing of the Treaty of Shimonoseki. The treaty entailed that China "recognized the total independence of Korea and ceded... Taiwan... to Japan." (Wikipedia). When you read these scenes, you should keep in mind the scenes shortly following the end of the Opium War.

9.) "-you LET them be taken." I thought I would add in this bit of Yao's insecurity to go hand-in-hand with his fear of loneliness, which is kind of a headcanon of mine, given how many colonies he had and how mother hen-ly he comes across, at least to me. "After two Opium Wars in 1839 and 1856 against the British Empire and the Sino-French War, China had become weak and was unable to resist political intervention and territorial encroachment by western powers." (Wikipedia)

10.) "He is perturbed." These scenes take place in 1853, shortly after Commodore Matthew Perry's voyage to Japan, who was forced to open for trading.

11.) "... as Im Yong Soo and Meimei run around and about, wreck chaos over every aspect they can of Kiku's home" Taiwan was still living under China at this time. As for Korea, "In 1604, Tokugawa Ieyasu,needing to restore commercial relations with Korea in order to have access to the technology of the mainland again, met Korea's demands and released some 3,000 captive Koreans. As a result, in 1607, a Korean mission visited Edo, and diplomatic and trade relations were restored on a limited basis. ... Following these events the Korean Kingdom became increasingly isolationist. ... After invasions from Manchuria, Joseon [the Korean period from 1392-1897] experienced a nearly 200-year period of peace." (Wikipedia) I'm not 100% sure whether Korea was still in isolation, but he still had some relations, albeit limited. From what I'm insinuating, at this point in time, Korea would have already long-since moved out of China's home, thus "Meimei and Im Yong Soo, if he, too, decided to stay, must be asleep", so, yeah.

12.) "... the begrudging nod she receives from Im Yong Soo" Remember, this is 1853, so there's already been a few invasion attempts on Korea from Japan. The begrudging attitude is justified.

13.) "He cannot breathe." These scenes take place in 1842, after Hong Kong was handed over to England. I almost made it 1841, when Hong Kong was occupied by England, but "It was not until 29 August 1842 that the island was formally ceded in perpetuity to the United Kingdom" (Wikipedia). These scenes also show in more depth China's dependency on company. In the second part, when Yao realizes belatedly that, yep, Meimei's getting older, too, if you remember: "she's growing up she's getting older she's growing up and soon she'll leave me and I'll be alone just like when Kiku just like when Im Yong Soo officially will–" and also remember, in this, even though Im Yong Soo isn't technically independent yet, he's already moved out, so. Any readers who might actually be reading through all of this, you might be thinking, "Speaking of him, why wasn't Im Yong Soo also involved in the second part?" Well, readers, one, because of plot reasons, two, the irony that Japan would be the one to comfort Yao for losing a child only to later take Meimei, and three, because shut up that's why. n.n

14.) "He is conflicted." These scenes take place in 1598, right after the 1592-1598 Japanese invasions of Korea. Shortly after this, "... Japan, under the Tokugawa Shogunate adopted a policy of isolationism until forced open by Commodore Perry in the 1850s." (Wikipedia)

15.) "a night when he'd told Kiku, "The rabbit on the moon is mixing medical herbs, aru!" and Kiku had, as stubbornly as ever, countered with, "It's pounding rice cakes." The dialogue from this, too, is from the manga.

16.) "He is anxious." These scenes take place in 663. Why? Well, here's another mini-history lesson: "After 663 (with the fall of allied Baekje) Japan had no choice (in the face of hostility from Silla, which was temporarily deferred in the face of Tang imperialism - as Tang imperialism posed a threat both to Japan and unified Silla - but resumed in after 730 or so) but to directly trade with the Chinese dynasties. ... The ports of Ningbo and Hangzhou had the most direct trading links to Japan and had Japanese residents doing business. The Ming dynasty decreed that Ningbo was the only place where Japanese-Chinese relations could take place. Ningbo, therefore, was the destination of many Japanese embassies during this period." (Wikipedia) If you'll notice, I made a short reference to this: "after he rushes to Ningbo – the port, the only place where they can meet". If you're asking why Kiku isn't living with Yao at this point, I just figured it made sense, if Japan was forced to trade with China. Roll with it. Also, to be fair, I'm not entirely sure conical hats were invented by this point of time. Roll with that, too.

17.) "He is speechless." These scenes take place in 57. This was the hardest year to pick, because I was sure I'd have to pick somewhere back farther. Thus I consulted Wikipedia for the umpteenth time. "The earliest written records about people in Japan are from Chinese sources from this period. Wa, the Japanese pronunciation of an early Chinese name for Japan, was mentioned in 57 AD" If any of you guys can think of/know a year that would fit these scenes better, I'd like to know what would work better, and evidence to back it up, please?

18.) "Hello China, upon where the sun sets. I am Japan." Remember this from the anime? Yep, this was from the manga, too. Link's at the top.

19.) "... I want to become stronger. In time, the Western powers are probably going to come to Asia. I plan to fight at any cost when that time comes." Yes, you guys, this was also taken from the manga. Also, I thought it just fair to tell you guys that, yes, the cat doll is Hello Kitty. And, yes, even though "The character's first appearance on an item, a vinyl coin purse, was introduced in Japan in 1974" (yes, Wikipedia again), my new headcanon is that Kiku came up with Hello Kitty before Yuki Shimizu, in Hetalia verse. Just roll with it. We saw Kiku give Yao that doll in the anime anyway, it needed to be there, I'm telling you!

20.) "Um, I think you've had enough, China, ve." Ah, the big question: "Why did you add Italy and Romano in a China-Japan centric fic?" Because, dear readers, of the manga. If you actually pay attention, the bartender is Italy, and I somehow managed to use that to my advantage after several minutes staring at the page, lost. That's called improv, dears. I think.

21.) ""Ah, Kiku. What are you doing at this late of night, aru?"

"... forgive me."

"I have just made Zongzi, aru. Come in."" Yes, this dialogue, too, was from the manga. What is Zongzi? I don't know. What's really important is this page, in the manga, it gave me incomprehensible feels and makes me cry every time I see it. Seriously, guys, I think this page alone inspired me to write this whole thing.

For all of you (or so I'm assuming, if you're reading this) lovely dears, thank you very, very much for reading my fic to the end. You guys make my work worthwhile. And for any of you who actually bothered to read through all the footnotes, thank you, too - it took me forever. You're welcome.

Now, if you'll excuse me, going to experience more feels galore (aka re-read that manga chapter don't judge).

And, if you has any questions, comments, concerns, constructive criticism, etc., please review or send a message and I'll get back to you when I can!

Ja Ne =D!