Rating: PG
Pairing: England/China
Word Count: 775
Notes: I'm a masochist! I apparently want to break my own heart. IDK. IDK WHAT THIS IS. ANGST. THIS IS CRAP. Also, I've never actually read Butterfly Lovers. I've read 7654365748 synopses of it, but not the actual thing. Ffff, one day I will learn Chinese and read it. ;w; Until then, I will keep reading Romeo and Juliet.
xxx
"Is that so?" England eyed the words on the page, foreign symbols doing nothing but blurring together in a mass of strikes and striations. He frowned and continued to listen to China's voice—tantalizing, almost seducing—as he related to the story to England.
"Yes, and they made a vow: 'till death do us part'." China casually leaned against England, his chest brushing England's arm as he reached to turn the page. "But Liang was too late. Zhu's parents had already arranged a marriage between her and a rich man."
China turned the page, eyes sparkling, gaze glued to the text. "Liang was so broken-hearted that he became ill and died."
"He died of a broken heart?"
"It's possible," China breathed, glancing at England for a second. Time stopped, and England had to force himself not to toss the book and pull China into his arms. Instead, he broke their gaze and looked at a picture of the bride.
"Let me guess, she kills herself."
"Aiya, so you have read this?"
A chuckle, "No, I have not, but don't those sorts of love affairs end that way?"
China sighed and flipped to the next page. "Zhu was going to marry Ma, but on the day of her wedding, she goes to pay her respects to Liang." China's eyes suddenly sadden, but the sorrow is there only for a second. "She is so desperate that she begs the grave to open."
England silently watched China, his hands—which should have been pressing China against his body—trembled.
"The grave opened, and Zhu threw herself into the grave, joining Liang. At the end, a pair of butterflies emerge from the grave." At the mention of the colourful insects, China smiles. "And they were never separated again."
The final page in the book is an image of a pair of butterflies. England scoffs, closing the book. "Sounds like Romeo and Juliet to me."
China raises a brow and eyes England, "Romeo and Juliet?"
"Shakespeare. Come on, Yao, don't tell me you've never heard of Romeo and Juliet." It was as if a dagger had pierced England's heart. "They were young lovers, but their families hated one another. Still, they tried everything to be together." England's face lit up, and China took the chance to grab his book from England's hands.
"They died?"
"Yes. They perished in the name of love."
It was China's turn to laugh, "How sentimental."
England frowned and crossed his arms, "Don't get me wrong, Yao. Shakespeare was trying to mock Romeo and Juliet. Imagine, children of their age professing their undying love for each other. It's preposterous."
China stared at England, and then stared at the book in his hands. The silence engulfed them.
"It makes sense now," China breathed. If England read tales that made a mockery of love, then he never had a chance. "It was all a farce."
The words froze England's blood. He turned his head and gazed at China, but China was already standing to leave. In a moment of desperation, England reached out and wrapped his fingers around China's upper arm, stopping him in his tracks. England stood just as China turned around, and he blurted:
"If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."
China's mouth hung open—his original intention was to yell at England for grabbing him so roughly—and a faint blush blossomed on his cheeks. "Excuse me?"
"Yao, the play was written to mock love, but everything Romeo and Juliet said to each other, every last vow and promise they made, that was nothing but the truth." He swallowed, eyes searching China's, "Those poetic confessions were all genuine, Yao."
The world suddenly seemed to shrink. China felt cold and small. His gaze travelled to the floor. The words repeated over and over in his head and threatened to crush his heart. Once upon a time, England had gently run his fingers through China's hair and whispered strange, yet beautiful words against his lips. But the knight in shining armour was nothing but a monster waiting to devour him. China would not—could not—fall for his lies again.
"Arthur," he whispered, eyes meeting England's, "Words are pretty, but actions mean everything. Romeo and Juliet were willing to die for each other. You were willing to kill." He pulled his arm away, turned, and forced himself to not look back.
Because if he did, he knew it'd be impossible to ignore the regret and anguish visibly shining in those perfect green eyes.
