Chapter 2
Yao
He had never been anything special; he'd realized that a long time ago.
He was a young man of Chinese heritage, by the name of Yao Wang (or Wang Yao, in the Chinese order). With dark eyes and dark hair-tied into a ponytail, as always-Yao looked like the perfect image of a Chinaman. The perfect image, maybe, but surely not perfect in any other aspects.
He'd used to pride himself as the perfect older brother. His parents were long gone; they'd died years before he'd moved out on his own. Yao, being the eldest of the family, had tried his best to raise his seven siblings right-but they were independent people, and wouldn't listen to anything he'd said. It took him a long time to accept that he wasn't a good enough brother, but he'd felt more than worthless when he had. They didn't need him, never had. That was just how it was.
Then he'd turned to painting. It got everything out in the open for him. Art couldn't lie, like he'd lied to himself all those years-like his siblings had lied to him, when they'd called him an awesome brother. He painted abstracts, scenery, animals, and people. He honed his skills for a long time, making it his goal to get into a real art showing-or maybe even an art gallery, or something. He wanted to prove he was special.
For years, Yao entered his art for consideration for galleries and showings and contests and everything he could think of. He'd gotten compliments, spots in small displays here and there, but whenever it really mattered, he was turned away. Eventually, he just stopped trying.
Why bother, when you'd never be anyone important? he thought. He never gave up painting-on the contrary, it was the only thing keeping him sane-but he no longer submitted any of his work. Instead, he worked as a cook in a small restaurant, just to keep living. He enjoyed cooking, but it had gotten dull after a few years of never-ending monotony. He still went to college, with an art major, but he held no high hopes of actually being someone.
He was Yao Wang, a cook in a backwater town where no one knew his name. He was a failure as a brother, and an embarrassment as an artist. But most of all, he was no one.
And no one was all he'd ever be.
Hi! The main writer's little sister, here! Just want to let you know that I have ZERO experience writing Yao-kun, so you'll just have to bear with me. We cool? Good.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Hetalia or its characters.