A/N~
This chapter may be sensitive to some of you? Please be kind to me T^T~~~
Slender fingers traced along the line of Ivan's spine, then reached to curl around the base of the neck, and then Ivan was met with a soft, dizzying kiss. His violet eyes showed hints of amusement as he ended the long, warm kiss.
The east european nation had matured again compared to the last time they spend time together like this.
"Why are you so eager today?" he whispered into Yao's ear with a husky yet attractive voice.
"I'm in a good mood." The nation of China replied curtly while hooking his thin and pale legs around Ivan's waist. Ivan frowned, his asian lover was acting too strange, like a bird shackled with the weight of a stone, unable to fly, unable to see in the tragically dark midnight. Ivan became worried.
Yao didn't resist his gruff grasp.
Yao didn't hold in his moans.
"Are you going to be like the Kirkland bastard again? Serious and uninterested on the outside, but after getting screwed by Alfred you show what you really are—thirsty for it."
Yao tenderly gave a few pecks on Ivan's Adam's apple, causing the other nation to heat up a little in embarrassment.
"Arthur? He's sold me plenty of good stuff." he hadn't finished his sentence when he was cut off by his own gasp of surprise when Ivan suddenly jerked into him with a rough and abrupt motion.
"….Ivan…you little…at least let me finish my sentence…!" Yao complained weakly to him.
Ivan smiled and propped his hand at the side of Yao's waist, "But no one else can make you feel it the way like I do."
The asian man did not reply once again like he normally would.
Now Ivan was genuinely worried, he look at Yao deeply in the eyes and asked, "Yao, what did Arthur sell you?"
"Oh I don't know," Yao replied, "He said it was called 'opium', I've never heard of it before."
Then after a moment of silence he asked Ivan, "Have you ever heard of it, Ivan?"
"…No." Ivan said after a pause, his eyes darkening, "Never."
Yao was getting sicker and skinner day by day, coughing up blood, falling in and out of consciousness in bed. Ivan held his wrist, the skinny arm like a match-stick. He was afraid that if he just used a bit of strength, Yao's arm would snap in half and the bones will come jarring out of the skin. Ivan couldn't take seeing this anymore. He tried taking Yao to the doctor, but the doctors always said that Yao was fine, and that he only needed to rest.
At home, Yao always carried a tobacco pipe with a small pouch attached to it, the pale fingers wrapped around it—the malignant temptation. He spent the whole day sitting on the bamboo mat, gazing at the warm smoked lights. Swirling puffs danced around the jade screens.
He threw away the name of the Celestial Empire and got lost in the endless haziness, repeating day after day. Without a name. Crumbling, rotting.
One day, he sat leaning against the couch, smoking himself the opium inanimately, consumed in his dreams when someone pushed open the rosewood dragon gate and walked in. The high-top boots clanking on the wooden floor, sword rattling.
He thought it was Ivan and said, "You came."
The person frowned. The room was filled with such a soft, sweet scent that it turned bitter. He couldn't get used to the smell and coughed a few times, causing a lock of blond hair to fall in front of his eyes.
"How sickly you've become." the newcomer commented.
Yao was so dazed, he couldn't muster a reply.
China didn't, and couldn't stop him as Britain swept away all his belongings. That day when he barged into his room and took all the treasures that the whole world would stare in jealousy at.
"Arthur…you bastard! Get out! I don't want to see you, get out!"
And then France followed right after. With a flick of his fingers, an aroma of roses and wine, he destroyed.
The two of them, together they lit the place on fire. The gardens demolished, the buildings torn down.
Sometimes when Yao would be sober, all the emotions and disgust would start whelming in, settling in his mind. He hated the misery, his depravity, the shame. Yet, he still held onto the long, decorated pipe.
How ironic, it was the easiest thing to let go of. Just throw it away, snap it in half.
Why hold on? Why let himself indulge and fall into addiction?
He could throw away the name of the great empire with a flick of his arm so easily, but couldn't bring himself to let go of the drug. Comfort was more of a priority than dignity to him.
China collapsed.
Kiku Honda promenaded down the hall with his wooden clogs. The rain was particularly heavy this year on the lone island; the droplets pattered relentlessly on the tile eaves. All of the neatly arranged bows hanging on the walls have slight hints of rustiness creeping along the metal tips and handles. However, the main reason that the bows have rusted was because of the neglect of their owner towards them. Kiku stopped to run his hands along the rifle gun that rested against a pillar of his home, then, he glanced at his old collection of bows, face absent of any emotion. He headed towards the stairs at the exit, preparing to change into his new military boots. He stopped to look down at his feet resting on the clogs. Not too big, not too small, it fitted perfectly. His eyes suddenly turned very serene.
"Yao, I've come to get my coming of age gift."
He tightened the laces on his boots and tried taking a few steps, it felt strange and unfamiliar, but much more convenient and tidier.
The remaining warmth of the wooden clog gradually disappeared.
The once formidable land that no one dared to step foot on had now been trampled into a miserable mess. When Kiku Honda arrived on land, even his normally calm face had distorted into a look dismay that could not be masked. When Kiku and his men had won the Battle of the Yellow Sea, he had vaguely known that Yao wasn't has powerful anymore, but as Kiku actually saw him in person, he still had trouble coming to terms with reality. It was as if Kiku could only think of the time when the man would still stroll slowly among the bamboo thicket with his umbrella. Always bringing an elegant atmosphere, always shining gold with every step.
But now, Yao's gaze was unfocused—lost in a fantasy would, his build gaunt and his lips white with a sickly crack.
He was so great, so powerful…but where had that brilliant China disappeared to?
Kiku was overcharged with emotions, but the lament and schadenfreude took up the most of his feelings.
You promised to visit me, but you couldn't do it.
Karma.
This is the retribution for you forgetting me.
You deserve this punishment.
Kiku wrenched a handful of Yao's unkempt, long hair and pulled him close, not giving a single sign of mercy as he smashed his lips against the other's. Drawing blood from such force, he tasted the bitter liquid. There was a unexplainable satisfaction rising in Kiku's heart, but at the same time, a vague throb.
His suddenly remembered all those years he spent after his nii-san left for the last time. He would always sit on the stairs in front of the bamboo forest. He hugged his knees and silently waited, silently hoped. The sakura budded from pea-sized pods and blossomed into beautiful maiden-like flowers, the elegant maples reddened into scarlet tears. The snow swirled violently, the the summer heat came and went. Soon later, another spring would peak out from right around the corner. But that person still never came.
His wooden clogs would fit him more and more with each coming day.
He still never came.
Kiku never said a word about it, but never got over the throbbing in his heart. The burning anger carved itself into his bones.
"Nii-san…Why wouldn't you come and see me…why…?" He surveyed Yao Wang's sickly and thin body, and asked in a soft, hoarse voice full of unshed tears. "I've waited for you for so long, did you know? …..You still never came."
Yao didn't reply.
Kiku Honda suddenly felt a surge of uncontrollable hatred, his watery onyx eyes contained a deep sorrow, he swiftly grabbed the katana beside the bed and mercilessly, without any hesitation, sliced across Yao Wang's back.
The blood flied everywhere and splattered against the silk curtains and portraits.
It was as if the whole room was blossomed full of plum flowers. Bloody, bloody plum flowers.
"I underestimated you….Little Kiku…."
That was the last time he heard himself being called "Little Kiku".
Box by box, the chests of precious jade and gold and silver were carried away by the foreign men. What they couldn't take, they burnt and they destroyed. Jones, Beilschmidt, Vargas…One after another they intruded his home, and he couldn't do anything to stop them. He couldn't protect his home. He was powerless.
Kirkland, Bonnefoy, Edelstein….Honda.
Enough. He was left with nothing now, who else is coming for him?
He had enough.
A mirror had fallen when Alfred's men were carrying the treasures away, Yao lifted it and reflected his face. In that moment, he saw all the hundreds of years of blooming all fallen away. All the power deprived from the frail man. The reign of the dynasties thrown into mud, filthy and stained, no one can scrub away the tarnished now.
He clutched the mirror, and stared blankly into it for the whole afternoon. Until Ivan came.
"There's no use looking into the mirror, it's not clear anymore anyway. I'll bring a better mirror from my home next time." The Russian man rested his chin on the crook of Yao's neck and said softly.
"Enough, I don't want to see too clearly either." Yao Wang answered wearily.
Even his lungs hurt when he took a deep breath.
"I'm tired, Ivan."
He massaged the sore joints and tidied up his clothes as he stood up. The red marks along with the scars still caked with blood rested painfully on Yao's skin. Violet eyes trailed across the marks following every horrid experience.
"…..He touched you?"
"He?" a wry smile spread across the narrow face. Yao laughed coldly and his gaze suddenly turned as sharp as a knife, "…They."
The hatred would remain.
That night, Ivan was terrifying. Wrathful, violent, and completely irrational. He was already tirelessly energetic, so he was unstoppable. Who knew he could be so crazed even without consuming alcohol.
Yao thought he'd be torn apart, the violet eyes have never been so foreign to him, strings of red blood vessels crept from the corners of the eyes, and they stared at him with fury and woe.
Even you wouldn't let me go, right? Ivan?
Braginski destroyed what little faith Yao had.
Some things are perfectly clear even without the reflection of mirrors.
When he woke up the next morning, Ivan had already left. The room was a mess, there were marks of humiliation everywhere. Yao didn't hear from Ivan for a long time after that.
His leader escaped in a panic, he ran away from Yao with a flustered and absurd figure. Yao forced himself to sit up from the bed and gripped the only valuable that hadn't been stolen from him—the gold silk quilt. He sat there, silent for a long moment.
Then, with a whelm of rage, he flung the quilt into the fire place along with the few opium pieces left.
"Yao Wang, it's time you woke up!" he spoke into the person in the mirror. Then, he grabbed a pair of scissors and tuft by tuft, cut away the long hair. The strands of hair floated to the ground and piled up like feathers, carrying the remaining smell of opium and old history.
He wrapped a string around his black hair three times and tied it securely then changed into new simple and tidy clothes. Yao took a deep breath, and pushed the doors open in a resolved manner.
The rays of sunshine shot in and lit up every crook and rotten corners of the small room.
"Long time no see." Yao gazed up at the sky and a small smile formed on the still slightly ill-looking face.
Quitting drugs was a painful process. He hurt, his people hurt as well. He tried his best to encourage and spur them on—even if he, himself looked weak and was on the brink of collapsing—he always forced himself to be strong and endure it all, and show reassurance and a gentle smile to his people. He understands that anyone else can give up, but only he could not.
Despite that, when night falls, he would still secretly creep back to his room and hide underneath the old patched-up quilt and silently weep. He'd pretended for too long, he'd get tired too. But there wasn't anyone for him to cling onto, to embrace, to at least offer him some warmth.
"…..I mustn't always rely on those bastards, I only have myself." he said to himself and wiped roughly at his eyes with a bandaged hand.
That year, Yao heard that his formerly east-european lover and Kiku Honda were at the Yellow Sea, fighting at Manchuria. It was said that the european superpower wanted to seek justice for his east asian partner. Yao just laughed, not touched at all by the news. Because it could not be clearer to him that Braginski just wanted to seek benefit for himself.
In the end, the reckless bear just got upset over his defeat and lumbered home angrily.
Yao smiled mockingly and rested his hand on the wooden windowsill, it was rough and pricked at his hands. He gazed at the grey and foggy sky, his mood suddenly turning lighter.
The days continued on in disarray as usual, though Yao was still recovering from the various oppressing countries, he was starting to see some light in his path again.
The First World War erupted. The European lot were wrangling about. Britain and France were badly hurt, but Ludwig had an even bigger burden of paying all the debts, and now he couldn't even muster up any energy to sit up because of all the land that he'd lost.
That battle changed his far away east-european lover.
Yao heard that at Ivan's home, everything was utterly chaos. He went though major reforms and even changed a boss. The new boss sized up the situation and had Ivan pack up and leave the battle mid-way, not even warning the other allies. Arthur and Francis had almost passed out from rage at hearing about the Russian withdrawal.
'Comrade Braginski'.
Yao read to himself and smiled—what a nice honorific.
Be that as it may, Yao truly saw what changed Ivan—The Second World War. Yao had frantically grabbed a random rifle laying around that one of Kiku's soldiers had left behind. He crouched in the battle trenches, but only then realized that he had no idea how to use the rifle.
The sound of explosions reverberated faintly in the distances, the shrapnels and fragments of mortars spattered on the burnt soil, such an unfamiliar and strange battlefield. He rolled his sleeve up and wiped at the blood on his face, he pressed himself on the rough and rugged trench, gasping for breathes.
No one came to help him.
A cannon explosion sounded harshly near his ears, he flipped his body over in a panic and narrowly escaped the damage. But in his attempt to crawl toward, a small sharp stone cut into his calf and made a deep gash. He groaned in a low voice from the pain and pressed his hand on the injury to prevent more blood from flowing out. Right at the next moment, another deafening explosion boomed near him. He felt like his eardrums were about to burst; the scorching hot air wave gushed towards him, carrying bits and pieces of shell fragments. The asian nation didn't have enough time to dodge, so he instinctively flattened himself on the ground. He felt all the metal shards shooting into the ground around him, then, something heavy pressing on top of him.
After what seemed like a million years, the surroundings started to quiet down a bit. It hadn't been as painful as he thought it would be, so he lifted his head from the dirt, coughing. He twisted his head around, curious of what had been shielding him, but when he saw, he almost choked on his own spit. Why, it was that childish, seemingly harmless face smiling back at him. The irises still a familiar violet.
"Hello, Yao!"
He wanted to flip over and slap that damn smile off his face and yell 'What, do you that this is funny, just appearing like this?' The words whelmed in this throat but he just blinked and swallowed it back.
"R-Russia! Dammit, I could have escaped that even if you weren't here." was all that he could muster up.
The pale-haired man squinted his eyes and smiled in amusement.
"Do you even know how to use a gun?"
Yao couldn't argue.
Ivan was very skilled. One shot for one enemy, not a single bullet gone wasted. If he ran out of ammo, he would use the butt of the rifle for smashing against the enemies' heads. Or he would straight up use the bayonet at the end of the gun and stab into the throats of the enemies.
Yao followed behind him, watching with cold sweat.
Ivan wiped off a blotch of blood on his face and looked back at Yao, "You have to learn to be merciless, that is the key to survival here."
He then smiled again against the sun. Ivan had really changed compared to the last time Yao saw him. Yao kept his gaze locked on Ivan's back as the tall nation marched away with massive steps, his long scarf floating behind him, mixing with the smoke and sun rays. The path that Ivan has taken overlapped with the path that Yao himself once took a long, long time ago.
Ivan taught him how use guns.
The persistent nation practiced for days, often forgetting to eat or sleep. Even in the cold nights, Yao would be in the shooting range. The gun shots would sound again and again through the lonely night air, disturbing Ivan from his sleep.
"Yao, enough, if you keep on being so…perpetual, I won't teach you anymore!" Ivan hastily threw his thick jacket around his shoulders and went outside to yell at Yao. "Plus…it's in the middle of the night….I'm freezing too…" Ivan grumbled some more to himself.
Yao didn't reply.
Ivan sighed and bent over to the shorter man and said in a softer tone, "Even if you're anxious and worried, it won't be of use. Things like this take time to get a hang of."
Yao kept silent for a moment, then whispered softly, "I hate him, Ivan."
"I know." he enveloped Yao into a sturdy embrace, fingers combing into the soft, dark hair, "I know. But we must be patient."
He rested his chin against Yao's forehead and said, "I will make Kiku Honda pay one day."
Yao's heart jumped fretfully as he gripped at Ivan's shirt, nestling his face into the other's warm chest. He had waited so long for this—for this strong support to rely on.
"Ivan, last time you joined in with Francis and rummaged about at my home, I hated that. I was furious with you. This time, you mustn't disappoint me again. Or I don't forgive you."
Ivan grinned and replied sincerely, "Of course."
Under the moonlight, the Bolshevik's metal pinned onto Ivan's jacket seemed a bit thorny.
Yao had finally decided to listen to Ivan and eased up. When he finished washing up and was lying on the bed, his body was sore all over. Ivan watched with amusement as Yao tossed and turned about on the bed with an uncomfortable frown. He draped a paw on Yao and put up an air-headed face, "Where does it hurt? I'll massage it for you!"
"N-no where…." Yao scooted away warily. How can Ivan still be good as new after a whole day of tiring battle? And plus, the last time Yao saw him, they were still the same height. Now he had to look up to the Russian man.
Ivan didn't notice his worries and yanked on Yao's arm, earning a yelp of pain and surprise. He smiled, "Lying isn't a good habit, Yao."
"Fine…my leg hurts," Yao sighed and confessed, "And my feet hurt as well. Those two places hurt the most."
"Hm, leg pain is pretty normal, but feet…." Ivan flipped over to look at the shoes laying next to the bed, then asked, "Do those shoes fit you well?"
"Not really, they're a bit tight."
"Then why don't you change a pair?"
Yao grumpily replied to the other, "Who was it that cleared everything from my house, huh? You even have the nerve to ask…"
Ivan rubbed his nose innocently, "It wasn't only me…"
Both nations lapsed into silence for a moment.
Then Ivan opened his mouth to say, "….I was pretty provoked at that time, I was thinking if they were taking action, I couldn't just sit there and watch, I didn't want them to take everything. You know me, I'm very selfish."
"…You're the most selfish."
Ivan didn't protest, but he deliberately put more pressure to Yao's knee that he was massaging. A cry of pain sounded through the night.
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TO BE CONTINUED
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