A/N: This is my first fanfic ever...more or less. I don't own Hetalia (if I did, I'd be dancing with joy) and I owe great thanks to Cry-Wolf-And-Sing for helping me beta this piece. ^^;

Warnings: A mild amount of angst; but that's healthy, isn't it?

He could remember the boy standing in front of him, as a child, no more than knee-high (and his mouth twists as he sardonically throws off another one of those English phrasings of the word, what did England call them? Ah, idioms.)

Said nation was standing behind the boy, bushy eyebrows knitted in worry. He didn't say anything. England simply chewed on his lower lip and tried to avoid his gaze, staring at the air over his shoulder (guiltily, his mind whispers).

And the boy--man, really--looked between the two of them. He was no longer China, he was no longer England. But he was both of them. And that was what made it so hard for China, who silently wished things could have been easier, stayed easier (but of course, the world insists not to work that way).

"Tea?" he finds himself uttering (and suppresses a wince; the Englishmen like their tea tainted).

To his infinite surprise, the other nods once, shortly. "Yes, that would be...nice." And the sound of the foreign, cruel, harsh language against his own song-like words clashed horribly (and China finds himself wondering, again, how Hong Kong survived, when it was so obvious the Western world was a deathtrap, no matter how beautiful their enticements were).

----

He moves in his modernized (bastardized, Westernized) kitchen, putting on the kettle for water, reaching high into the cupboards for the tea leaves. The soft shush of his feet against polished wood was the only sound (apart from England's nervous breathing; no wonder, anyone would be nervous: China would grant him that).

"Everything's been prepared," England says quickly, too fast for China's ears to catch. "The treaty and everything has been arranged, and they're probably going through with the bloody ceremony with too much pomp and fuss and feathers and..."

"That's good." He concentrates on making the tea. There was a fine, delicious art to it (so imagine his surprise when Hong Kong gets up to help. China can't help but think about how lost Hong Kong looks in his flowing red sleeves and silk; but that is not the point).

Delicate fingers reach past his to pick up the steaming kettle, not even jerking back from the obvious heat. China allows himself to be pushed back from the kitchen and back to the table, where England is sitting (alone and uncomfortable). He joins the other man; for awhile, they simply stare at each other (and China refuses to acknowledge the silent pleas from those emerald eyes--he hadn't thought green would be able to look so soft).

There is a soft hiss of breath as Hong Kong splashes some hot water on his arm; both nations turn from their respective seats, ready to help, though it is not needed.

The minute he sets it down, England and China resume their staring contest. China wonders about the other. The man was nearly desperate (and afraid, and China knows he himself would never admit it, but in his eyes were the same expression).

China nods as Hong Kong pours out a proper cupful of steaming tea. The pale green liquid falls steaming into his cup; for a moment, he sees himself in it, and what he sees scares himself. Hard, tired, not the man he was two thousand years ago; not the man he was twenty years ago. He picks up the unadorned porcelain cup, twisting it idly in his fingers. England accepts a cup, but picks up the other container on the tray. A fluid stream of white liquid splashes into the cup of faintly green tea (and he grits his teeth because the Englishmen had to ruin everything they touched, had to make it better).

The other surprised him, again. "To Hong Kong," he says, thrusting the cup into the air as if they were in a raucous bar and toasting some Godforsaken principle, which remained that, only a principle and nothing material, not ever.

China mimicked his gesture, and when England drained his cup to the dregs, he decided that the aforementioned situation would be best lubricated with a couple of bottles of hard liquor. Preferably a lot of it.

"To Hong Kong," he murmured as well (it was always best to be polite, he chided) and drained his tea as well.

---

"Goodbye, England." Hong Kong hugged England (one of those Western customs he had picked up, and when had he grown taller than England?) and released, stepping back quickly.

"Goodbye, Hong Kong. Take care of him, China." England turned away and started to walk. His back suddenly looked smaller and older than he had ever seen him (but wasn't he the same?).

"I'm back," Hong Kong's normally stony expression melted a little.

"Welcome home," and they both smiled.

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