And so we're back for Day 2 of my little Christmas countdown! I'm glad everyone enjoyed yesterday's instalment! Today we're on RoChu – my first (and only) solely-RoChu fic, though I have mentioned the pairing in a few other fics of mine. Personally I think China – good old world-weary China – is the only person who can really manage Russia and is therefore a much better fit for him than Lithuania, Prussia or America. Just my opinion, though. China is kind of (to quote jesusofsuburbia2o2o) a bamf, though. XD

Thankyou to my reviewers: ImaduckQuaQua, hotaru1013, andthenshesaid, the-dark-realm, TheWonderBunny, CalaveraCandiedSkull, Keamykaykay, Lost Duck Inc. (who was also involved in the fanbook project)and the lovely TechnoRanma!

Four calling birds~!

RoChu – A Possible Future

Children didn't want gifts like this – like the one Ivan had given him in 1949.

Of course, Ivan was old but Yao himself was even older. Even nations like Francis or Arthur or Antonio had nothing on Yao, who carried over four thousand years of history in his fragile bones, in the faint lines of his pretty feminine face.

Of course, much had changed since then. He had crested once or twice on waves that would later come to be known as superpowerdom, falling far in between; he had seen nations begin as tiny seeds and grow quickly into brutal unruly weeds that spread out their vines and creepers and strangled everything in their path, his own vast wealth of culture sucked dry by Francis and Arthur and Antonio, to name but a few.

And then, of course, there was Kiku, who had matured and flourished beneath Yao's care and then elbowed him away, even attacking him more than once to prove that he was stronger. After the war and the wedge it drove between them, Kiku began to peel off his Asian skin almost altogether, trading kimonos and tea-ceremonies for every bittersweet morsel of Alfred's post-war influence, for every opportunity and door to the outside world it offered him.

And so Yao was left with nobody but an old war-time ally, Ivan Braginsky. Ivan, who in 1918 had decided that wealth was shallow and material meaningless. He had persuaded Yao, who had always taken pride in things of great beauty and craft, to also turn his back on the world of empires and superpowers, of kings in their counting houses.

Such gentle words they had been – such gentle persuasions. Ivan could be strangely fragile when he felt like it, careful with Yao in 1949 as he took his hand and led him away from the rest of the world.

"Even so," Yao breathed one night – that first night – in forty-nine, "I don't want to be part of the Soviet Union."

"That would be well," Ivan replied, smiling sweetly.

Oh, how different he was with Yao. How kind. How thoughtful. Even as he and Alfred threatened each other and everyone else as a by-product of their awful power, Ivan had been good to Yao. The first Christmas they were together, even though Yao hadn't celebrated Christmas back then, Ivan had given him a matryoshka doll, hand-made and hand-painted, with eight other smaller dolls inside. The smallest had been no bigger than a fingernail. The painting and craftsmanship had been rather clumsy (Ivan did have rather large hands, after all) but Yao had been very touched and had treasured it. Money did not buy happiness and Yao had truly believed in Communism after that Christmas – when Ivan's gift had cost nothing and meant everything.

It had always sat on the dresser in Yao's bedroom, having pride of place amongst gold dragon charms and jade beads and carved wooden combs; over the years and decades since, the dresser had gradually cleared, charms and beads and combs being replaced first with nothing as Yao struggled under Communism and then, as the Millennium left that last bloody century behind, with brightly-coloured yuan notes, arranged in neat piles according to size and value, and receipts and tiepins and cufflinks.

Yet still there the matryoshka doll sat – a reminder of what had brought he and Ivan together (and what kept them together long after their belief in Communism faded), a round little smiling-faced woman with rosy-cheeks and a bright shawl to keep out the cold, for she had been gifted at Christmas and it was cold in both Russia and China in December.

Children didn't want gifts like this. Yao knew that well. He'd had factories springing up all over his country since the mid-eighties, spewing out garishly-coloured plastic dreams for Santa to bring to spoilt brats in North America and Europe, in Australia and even as close to home as Japan (because Kiku was rather shrewd at cashing in on things too, it had to be said). There were new trends and fads every year and the pressure to keep up with the demand was tremendous. Of course, it was easier for Yao once he gave up Communism altogether – Ivan gently, ironically, mocking him that it had taken him long enough – and stopped trying to deny what he was, stopped trying to be Capitalist behind his own back.

It became him, after all. There was money to be made at Christmas and why should he not be the one to make it?

It was Christmas Eve and Wang Yao had a meeting. The year's Christmas shopping was done by now, of course, with parents all over the world waiting with bated breath for their sugar-charged, hyped-up little darlings to finally fall asleep so that they could silently and secretly stuff the stockings with sweets and arrange the presents around the tree – millions upon millions' worth of dollars, of pounds, of euros, of ore, of yen, of yuan. No, tonight's Christmas Eve meeting had nothing to do with this year. It was about next year – and perhaps they'd discuss the year after, too, if they got time. More factories, more production, more workers, more goods, more money.

Yao straightened his tie, tugged at the sleeves of his charcoal-grey suit jacket, checked that his long glossy hair was tied back as neatly as possible, picked up his briefcase and headed for the door, his fingertips brushing lightly over the roughly-cut head of the matryoshka doll as he passed the dresser.

Tomorrow he and Ivan would have tea together. He would graciously wish Ivan a Merry Christmas even though he was not a Christian. Perhaps he would even wear a silk shirt with a mandarin collar and frog-knot fastenings instead of a suit.

But tonight Wang Yao – once again the richest man in the world – had a meeting.

...Because it could happen. China actually overtook Japan last year as the world's second-largest economy, just behind the United States.

Okay, okay, Russia wasn't actually IN IT, exactly. Close enough. He was meant to be in it in person but I liked how this came out better, to be honest.

BTW, Lost Duck Inc., whom I already mentioned as being a part of the same (presumed dead) fanbook project these fics were originally written for, also posted her contribution. It's called If Gravity Pulled You Up and it's gorgeous. I put it on my Favourites list and I would recommend it if you want something a little bit melancholy to whet your Blue Christmas appetite (thanks, Elvis!). The pairing is USUK – which is, coincidentally, what we return to here tomorrow.

Speaking of USUK, if you haven't already, go and click that link on my profile. I swear to God it's not a RickRoll (though it might elicit a similar reaction).

RR xXx