Hong Kong sets down his trunk in the old, familiar bedroom of his childhood just as he hears a sound behind him. China has entered; he snaps the door shut behind him.
"Hong Kong," he begins, apprehensively, when Hong Kong turns. "It's been… a while."
Though some of it, perhaps, is because his memories have distorted with time, Hong Kong is sure of it: China is different now; he isn't quite the same. His hair is longer, easily falling into his eyes until he reaches up and brushes it back, and his face looks older, with wrinkles that didn't used to be there. Wrinkles that shouldn'tbe there.
"Yes," Hong Kong agrees, and he bows clumsily. He's become far too accustomed to shaking hands instead. "Too long."
"Ah, your—um," China says, pointing vaguely, looking sheepish.
Hong Kong touches his forehead, self-consciously, but drops his hand.
"It don't mind it much," he says, because it's happened over a long period of time, these foreign mannerisms, these British sentiments, this rift between cultures, this lack of understanding.
"Right," China says, barely above a whisper. "Uh."
"Mn," Hong Kong replies, and turns back to his trunk, thinking, maybe he's forgotten.
"I'll—just make us something to eat, then," China says. "It's funny—it's been a while since you've had my cooking, hasn't it? I—well. I'll just go then."
Maybe I'm the one who's forgotten.
Hong Kong can hear the slow, deliberate way he turns around, and when he looks, he sees China's trembling hand resting on the door handle. Hong Kong swallows, thinking, maybe he's just as scared as I am, and when he crosses the floor, he hesitates only slightly before throwing his arms around him.
"Ah—Hong Kong?" China asks.
"I missed you," Hong Kong whispers, and bites down on his lip. It sounds so vastly inadequate. "I missed you, China."
Hong Kong wishes he could say what he wants to with at least a little dignity and stoicism, but he can't keep himself together.
"It's good to be home," he adds, and chokes.
"Hong Kong," China says, and when he squeezes him tightly and breathes in against his neck, Hong Kong can hear the relief in his sigh. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think you'd—Hong Kong, I missed you so much. But I thought you were happier with—"
"You idiot," Hong Kong laughs, then forces down a sob. "It's complicated, alright?"
"But—even after all this time—?"
"China, just." He buries his face into the front of China's shirt. "Please—please shut up."
He does—they both do—and as it turns out, silence sometimes says quite enough.