Title: Lingering Memories
Part: World War II Era (1927-1945)
Pairing: Russia/China, implied Sweden/Finland, implied Germany/Italy, implied Russia/US
Rating: R
Summary: History isn't something full of flowers and love; History is violent, History is what we try to hide. War doesn't change the world – we change it; war doesn't take away what we treasure most – we do. Love isn't something that we search for, but something that finds us, and saves us.
Notes: This was a long fic exchange for a good friend a long time ago. Up til now I realized I never finished writing the Cold War section, and to be honest I don't know if I will.
During the course of this writing, I read something about the end of the world, and I decided that Russia/China would be perfect for that concept. So yes, this fic revolves around the idea that in the last century, there had been (at least) 10 times the world could have ended – some of them were forcibly molded to fit the theme, so I apologize in advance for a few plot holes, and ineffective bad writing used to cover it up. I took an extremely serious stance with this plot – my apologies for doing so with such a happy picture.
I've kept as true to history as possible but I had to re-invent some things so take any historical reference with a pinch of salt.
World War II Era (1937-1945)
"I recognized his black curly hair. His helmet was blown off. All that remained was his upper torso, nude, lying across the concertina wire with his guts strewn over the wire. He must have gotten a direct hit."
1. 21 August, 1937; Soviet-Sino non-aggression pact
It was the first time I saw him, and I thought I had been dreaming. Bright brown eyes caught my gaze, and the man smiled, and I felt my heart skip a beat. If this pact meant that I could see him more often, then so be it. It was just a fleeting glance, and he turned away, his small pony tail flying freely in the wind. I spent the next few hours staring at him, hoping that he would look in my direction again, but he never once did.
Those beautiful brown eyes were all I could remember when we finally left the room.
"I'm Wang Yao." I found myself staring at him, and he looked even more delectable just twelve inches away from me. "People's Republic of China." I glanced down at his outstretched hand, and back up to his smiling face, and then I wondered if I could have him smile at me for who I was, and not because I was in his mind, a client. He was still waiting, his smile never wavering.
"Ivan Braginski, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics," and I took his hand. He grasped mine briefly, fingers curling firmly around my palm, and all but a few seconds had passed before he pulled his hand away.
"I hope we will work well together," Yao said smoothly.
...
As I watched him walk away from me, it was then I knew that I wanted him.
The first time Yao willingly placed his hand over mine I had dropped the cup I was holding. He had blushed, ever so prettily, just a tinge of red on his cheeks, as he helped me pick up the shattered shards of porcelain.
"Sorry," he mumbled, and I decided that Chinese was one of the most beautiful languages I had ever heard.
My hands were shaking so violently that one of the broken piece I was holding stabbed me right through my palm. It didn't hurt, not yet, as I straightened my back, watching the dark red liquid flow slowly down my wrist, each drop a steady "drip, drip, drip" down my elbow onto the marble floor. My fingers automatically gripped the exposed edge of the glass, and I ripped it out of my flesh, my face never once betraying the pain I felt.
"What are you doing?" Yao's fingers closed painfully around my wrist. "Are you insane?"
People say I am, I tried to tell him, but Yao only ignored me.
"You are insane," and I watched him narrow his eyes in concentration as he pressed down hard to stop the bleeding. I wanted to kiss him then, and make him mine, as I have down with so many others in the past, but I didn't.
It struck me that Yao did not move away from me, as he so often did.
...
The day Germany and Japan became allies in the war, was the day I knew meant the end of the world as we knew it; Germany had his sights on Europe and the USSR, Japan had his sights on Asia. I was worried, we were all worried. Things weren't just going to get better even though the two biggest nations in the Asian region were now working together. It was a World War, and the after effects of World War I were still embedded deep in everyone's mind. Well, maybe not so much mine, but then again, who really knew?
Still, I couldn't help but feel excited. Maybe I wasn't so worried after all; maybe I was actually looking forward to this.
I heard the footsteps in the snow long before he came into my sights.
"Hi," Yao said quietly, as he settled on the bench next to me.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, but all Yao did was to shuffle closer to me.
Yao shrugged. "Do you want me to go back? What point is there? If Japan chooses to invade tomorrow, we won't be prepared. If Japan chooses to invade next year, we will still lose, because all we do is wait. It doesn't matter if I'm there or here, if the world chooses to end now, it won't care where I am." He pulled his coat closer around his body. "My god, how do you survive this fucking weather?"
"I hate it," I said, my eyes watching the snowflakes drift downwards. I cocked my head towards him, a small smile on my face as I watched him frown, shaking his head as the snow collected on his hair. Yao's cheeks were flushed pink, most likely from the below freezing temperatures. "You need to wear more when you are in my country."
"Yes, and everyone has the appropriate clothes for this light snow drift," Yao said, the sarcasm clear in his voice, and it brought a small smile to my face. He tucked his hands into his coat's sleeves, and pouted. "So damn cold."
I couldn't help it, and by the time my brain had registered my actions, I found my gloved hand cupping Yao's chin gently, turning his face towards me.
"Ivan?" Yao asked uncertainly. "What are you doing?" He blushed, his cheeks turning even redder than it had been from the cold, and tried to move away instinctively.
"You're so beautiful," I muttered. What was I doing? I didn't know. But I had already come this far. "Fuck this," and I kissed him.
I could feel my heart thumping, threatening to jump out of my chest, as I slipped my hand around his neck. Yao was probably in shock, judging from his lack of movements, I was too. His lips were chapped, and slightly dry, as I adjusted the position of my mouth on them. The snowfall around us was heavier, falling in clumps now, no longer the light drizzle of ice on skin. But when Yao opened his mouth slightly, I felt as though the two of us had disappeared into the white surroundings.
So much like a dream.
I could feel the wooden armrest of the bench bite into my back, as Yao pushed me down onto my back, crawling onto my body, never once breaking our kiss, his cold fingers drifting over my face, and he hugged me tightly, and I didn't want to let go.
Yao pressed his face against my neck, burying his nose into the scarf. "I'm scared."
We were all scared. Who wouldn't be? It could be doomsday now, tomorrow, next week, we would never know. We could only wait. I placed my hands upon his waist, holding him securely against my body. "I know." And yet, I couldn't help but feel a slight thrill, a thrill that I did not understand.
There wasn't anything more we could say. Yao's hands were icy cold, against my face, against my lips. I grabbed them, and unwinding my scarf, wrapped our bodies together, keeping his hands between mine. "The Russian winter is cold, I'm sorry," I mumbled, bumping my forehead against his.
Yao smiled gently at me, as he tugged on my scarf.
"Well, at least it isn't so cold anymore."
