"Vanity is a call for attention."

October tenth. Wang Yao's—China's—birthday. And here he was, in the back of a van, blindfolded.

Blindfolded, but completely aware of what was happening. There were hands on him, fixing straps and wires and timers—all of which were connected to a strip, a series of explosive tubes. To think, he was China, and fireworks were going to be used to end him.

He was unblinded and dressed in the most elaborate festival clothing the masked agents could find in his house, makeup and all—and shoved out of the van.

"Ai ya!" Yao stood up straight and turned his back on the van as it drove away.

Yao knew the ROW wanted to hurt only him—well, destroy him—but they wouldn't hurt any normal people if they didn't have to. So he anxiously made his way through the crowd of his people gathering in Beijing.

Suddenly someone grabbed his wrist. At first he thought it was a civilian wanting something for his child, but Yao realized he knew those gloved hands.

"You look amazing, Yao…" Ivan murmured from under his scarf.

Under the pale white porcelain makeup, the Chinese persona was blushing. But Yao didn't respond. He captured Ivan's eyes instead, realizing it was a subconscious method of communicating.

"…Yao?"

Yao, suddenly feeling terribly afraid, desperately darted his eyes down to his chest and back up pleadingly to Ivan.

Unable to understand, Ivan made a face of confused sorrow.

Yao hesitated for a moment. Then, with a slight intake of breath, Yao—jumping up to latch onto the Russian's shoulders—kissed Ivan, pressing as close as possible.

When he felt Ivan's arms around him he grabbed one of those arms and placed the hand carefully on his own chest. Ivan jumped, now understanding all too well with a mumbled "Fuck."

Tilting his head to deepen the kiss, in desperate need of comfort, Yao let out a sound of affirmation as the Russian hands began opening his many layers of cheongsams and kimonos.

Yao pulled back just enough to speak.

"Take it off and give it to me, aru."

"But—"

"No, do it, aru."

Ivan frantically unstrapped the explosives and handed them to Yao, who then bolted off toward a field. Ivan followed as quickly as he could before a deafening boom thundered out.

"YAO!" Ivan screamed, still running toward the flashing flames. He stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes fell on a limply moving shape. "Yao!" he gasped, dashing to it.

Yao looked up at Ivan.

Ivan knelt down to look at Yao. The Chinese man was burned, bloodied, and broken, the long clothing that had been torn and scorched hung raggedly from his thin frame.

But he was alive.

Yao was alive and that was all that mattered to Ivan. \