That day, Alfred had excitedly arrived at Kiku's door again and invited himself in.
"Hey Honda! I've talked with Yao and he didn't seem to be mad anymore, just a bit mentally drained, I guess. We can visit him together next time, he was okay with it when I asked."
Kiku was trimming his plants in his mini-garden when Alfred had jubilantly brought the news. He stiffened for a second, pursing his lips at a loss of words. The warm night breeze of Izu gently lifted his black hair as he wore a terribly perplexing complexion. It was a mix of hesitation, surprise, and insuppressible relief.
With a sudden jerk of his pruning shear, the peony petals fluttered to the ground next to Kiku's feet, like dripping blood. He was still wearing the old pair of wooden clog with indescribable pain and grief embedded into the knots and wood. They fit him snugly.
It had been centuries since his childhood promise.
On the very same day, Natalia had been indignantly marching around, looking for Ivan.
"Oi! Big Brother! Your old friend has been getting closer to your enemy, and also, the little island nation is really looking forward to rowing his merry way across the ocean to visit your old friend too!" she huffed, just about sick and tired of watching the drama going on.
The man fondling with his metal pipe froze, almost dropping it on his foot. The piercing Siberian wind ruffling his pale blond hair. He wore a terribly perplexing complexion. It was a mix of fury, shock, and insuppressible hurt.
The wind howled, the sunflowers' delicate stems bent as if in protest to the harsh cold. The flowers radiated an elegant and headstrong glow of yellow, shifting and bending in unison.
The aspirations of war awakened once again.
History always replays itself. Revolving as it ascends though time, never eternal, yet always there. Existing only for profits.
Years earlier, as Germania plunged his sword into Rome's chest, as Gilbert rode with the eternally happy little bird into the city of Vienna, as Arthur and Francis bickered about for hundreds of years… countless mortals had spilled their blood onto the nations' soil. Yao had seen it all, heard it all, the wounds ever so fresh in his mind. Most deeply carved in his mind were the ones who'd inflicted those scars. He'd remember them clearer than anyone.
The days soundlessly floated by, and now it was the scheduled date when Kiku Honda would visit Yao Wang.
Yao followed his boss to the international pickup at the airport. The mountain maples of Beijing were a deep hue of crimson, the leaves decorated the streets bringing emotions of reminisce of the chilly autumn. The sweet smell of caramel wafted into the vulnerable hearts of the busily passing individuals.
The door of the jet opened and Yao squinted his dark eyes from the early light and watched as people flowed out one by one, but none of them matched the one being that had embedded himself deeply in his heart, until he saw that one pair of eyes—it was no mistake, his heart throbbed faintly, the pair of quiet, beautiful eyes. The neatly cleaned up outfit, never so familiar.
One step.
Two steps.
Three steps closer.
Nii-san.
Yao slowly closed his eyes as he felt the wind scrape at the corners of his tear line all the way to his temples. He took a deep breath and as he reopened his eyes, Kiku had already approached before him, gaze steady. They locked eyes, black to black, ancient visions unfazed.
The autumn wind took the stray leaves with it and swept between the two.
"…Mr. Honda," he smiled politely at Kiku and held out his hand, "Welcome."
Kiku was looking straight at Yao's face, still as delicate and poised, but somehow Yao thought something was missing. It was a quality that had gone missing a long, long time ago.
Japan shook hands with China, fingers slipping expertly and professionally into the other's. He thought of the smile that he would receive when he was younger. When he still lived in the isolated bamboo thicket with faint fragrances of blossoms, the sound of flowing water against smooth stones.
The visage of the youthful version of him was delicate, poised, and….what else?
He remembered when he would finish his chores for the day and finally get to snuggle up to his older brother. The older nation would glance at him with amusement and comb his fingers through Kiku's hair.
Was it meant to be that we must leave behind the days of warm smiles and lighthearted conversations?
He has left behind the little Kiku and became Mr. Honda as a full grown nation.
He has lost the gentle admonishments and laughter and was now, in turn, greeted with stiff and strained welcomes as if he were a stranger.
Their bosses greeted each other, expressing utmost humility and started to make their way toward the conference building. Yao and Kiku exchanged glances, neither of them knowing what to do next. The atmosphere turned somewhat awkward. China pushed the hair away that had been blown in his eyes and cleared his throat.
"How about taking a walk?"
They strode through the back gardens filled with fragrant olive tress. Yao kept his head down and did not say a word. Their footsteps synced rhythmically, tapping lightly on the stone path. He stared at their dress shoes. It was so different than what they would use to wear. His heart felt hollow and empty. As they approached the third bamboo ring, Kiku stopped and he stared at Yao.
"What is it?" Yao turned around.
"…You're not wearing your own traditional clothes," he said out of the blue.
His sudden question had Yao speechless for a while when he finally answered, "Those were getting old and worn out, I didn't want them anymore."
Japan started to rub the sprinkles of olive blossoms against the ground with the bottom of his shoe.
In the evening, Yao took Kiku out for dinner. Dishes were laid neatly on the table along with the pot of old spirit. Yao was soon to regret ordering the alcohol, as he'd forgotten that Kiku had a considerably terrible alcohol tolerance. After just a few shots, he'd already started to talk nonsense. He'd even grab hold of Yao's sleeve, brazenly complaining.
"Mr. Yao," he slurred, "I'm telling you, I really despise that Braginsky bastard!"
Said man rubbed his temples in distress, mumbling to himself that Mr. Braginsky at least has a much better alcohol tolerance than the dazed man beside him now.
"Nii-san…" Kiku grabbing again onto a startled Yao, who jumped slightly at the sudden change of character. Japan then gave him a soft, drunken smile and leaned his head on him, then preceded to start humming a ridiculously traditional tune. Yao put his chopsticks down, not knowing whether to be angry or to laugh out loud. He reached to shift Kiku over into sitting position again, but as soon as he made contact, the Japanese man started to stubbornly struggle in protest again. He mumbled something in his own language that Yao couldn't quite make out and then started singing again.
"Sakura! Sakura!"
He then proceeded to collapse on Yao once again. The latter frowned.
Yao had then fully understood how difficult it was to deal with a drunken person. It was certainly something to see such a poised and placid man act so childish and silly. It was perhaps even more of a scene to Yao than having a drunken Ivan go around trying to bonk the living daylight out of everyone with his metal pipe. Yao was thankful to have reserved a private dining room, or they might have been the laughing stock of the whole restaurant by now.
The trouble-making culprit continued on babbling nonsense, then fell silent for a moment. Just when Yao thought he could have some peace, the little drunk started again.
"Nii-san, can you come visit me more often?" his voice was barely above a whisper.
Yao froze.
Kiku looked like he was on the brink of tears. Then, he finally fell asleep.
He dreamt of the beautiful Begonia flowers in bloom, the only part of the island that was covered in the comforting blossoms. He also dreamt of fear. His only older brother ceding massive amount of lands to foreigners. He dreamt that he was still only a little boy, nestling his head onto his nii-san's lap and resting on the cool wooden floor of his old home.
Yao stared blankly at Kiku, he felt his eyes moisten and warm up as tears pricked at the corners. He stared through the watery vision and kept his eyes on Kiku. Yao suddenly thought that the sleeping figure was still the pure little boy he'd used to play with. Still the little boy that would run around in the wooden clogs that were too big for his feet. Clank. Clank. He would hear the hurried and light footsteps every time little Kiku pranced around. Then when he tired himself out, he would call out in such a clear and untainted voice, "Nii-san..!" and come to rest beside him.
…Just today, Yao said to himself, just once, together with him, let us dream back to the times in Nagasaki…
He was so tired of hating.
He slowly reached his hand out and he combed through the same jet-black hair. A motion so familiar at the back of his mind. He gently combed again and again.
His voice was somewhat choked up.
"Only if…you behave yourself, I'll always come visit…"
Kiku shifted, his tense body seemed to be much more relaxed. Although his face was tilted, it could be seen that he wore a faint smile. A little sorrowful, but so reassured and quiet.
A drop of crystal rolled down from Yao's cheek, falling between Kiku's dark locks. Silently disappearing.
The childish delusion faded with the blur of tears. But even after the self-deception, his eyes still reflected so clearly—the Kiku that was no longer young anymore.
They may never go back.
He wasn't the nii-san anymore.
He wasn't the little Kiku anymore either.
People come and go. Dreams are neglected and forgotten.
He was Yao Wang.
That was all he had.
1975, spring.
Vietnam was fully recovered.
The girl wore a newly hand-sewn cotton dress. She hugged her luggage close as she sat on the edge of the hospital bed. The flowers outside the window were blossoming beautifully, the light pink petals looked like tinted puffs of clouds. They scattered gracefully all around the branches. Even all the horrors of war could not prevent the blossoms from blooming again in the spring.
"How are you feeling?" Yao, who came to visit, asked.
"Much better." Vietnam remained somewhat stoic.
Yao nodded and said nothing.
The girl reached into her bag and pulled out an exquisitely decorated notepad.
"The first page is ripped out for some reason, but…" she trailed off as she held it out to Yao.
Yao returned her gaze and smiled, "Thank you."
He accepted her gift.
In the days before Ivan's boss had passed away, he spent most of his time in bed brooding about his country's relationship with Yao. He had driven the two nations apart and had committed sins that resulted in the stiff and cold relationship between the two. New presidents will replace the former, new ideologies would be placed on the people of the country again and again, yet none can rid the pain that has been imprinted on their nation's heart. The leaders regretted, as soon as they realised that all the burden and consequences of this moment in history would continue to accumulate and pile up on Ivan.
"…Shouldn't have treated him like that…." warm drops of tears rolled down the wrinkled and aged face of the Soviet president. Ivan sat beside the old man at his bedside, gripping firmly onto his hand. His violet eyes shined with a subtle hint of sorrow. The old man's glazed eyes stared straight at the ceiling while images in his mind took him back to a time where he was filled with passion and youth, ambition and dreams, "I should not have treated him like that…."
The world was quite ludicrous. What he had been fighting for his whole life had ultimately left him with nothing but disappointment.
It was absurd.
As he closed his eyes, he felt everything he once had in this lifetime all slip away from his grasp. He could not take anything away with him from this world but his own life.
"…I was just another poverty-stricken boy when this all started….I knew the taste of poverty…yet, I had forced Yao, and even my own citizens into the same situation…" he murmured, "Ivan…I regret it…so much…"
He laughed silently. It was more like a sob, humor nowhere to be found. The sorrowful sound hung heavily in the air.
"I do not blame you. It was for the good of my future." Ivan said, "I understand."
The old man nodded, as if trying to reassure himself, he then opened his mouth again to speak in a surprisingly determined voice.
"You must go to Yao, do you understand? I have realized that you need him…more than anything."
The old boss's words echoed through Ivan's mind.
I must find him, I must find Yao.
Ivan squeezed his boss's hand and replied softly, "Do not worry, I will have him back. I will use force if I have to."
The president shook his head with a smile, "…Don't force him, haven't you understood his personality by now? Speak with him, and he will come back to you."
He extended a shaky and boney finger, wanting to touch Ivan one last time. But before he could reach Ivan's face, the arm went limp and fell back onto the bed with a thump.
The fire went out.
Ivan closed his eyes and silently stayed seated by the bed for a long time.
The old soul quietly drifted back to the snowy origin, melting into one with the soil of the proud nation. Never separating again.
Yao neatly folded his documents that were due at the end of the week and tucked a few pieces of paper into place in an envelope as he sighed at the news Mongolia brought him.
"His boss has recently passed away, and his temper only worsened. He wouldn't eat his meals properly, and would take his anger out on the Baltics, especially Toris who prepares his meals. Ivan's stubborn. He insists that he would not go see a doctor, even as he coughs blood up his lungs."
Yao had one of his men to deliver some homemade herbs to Leningrad so that Ivan would at least have some medicine to de-stress on.
From that day on, he would also receive packages from Leningrad from time to time. Sometimes it would be a pen, sometimes a Russian handkerchief. Ivan sure sent some strange gifts.
One random day, as Yao pushed opened his doors to feel the warm sunlight on his skin, he was greeted by Mongolia holding a nosegay of sunflowers. The flowers were so bright, they challenged the brightness of the sun.
Mongolia walked over to Yao to hand him the and smiled, "Ivan asked me to give these to you. He spent all afternoon picking these for you. They're the best blooms of the garden."
"…"
The brilliant sunflowers were a dazzling golden yellow. They were beautiful.
Yao cradled the flowers delicately in his arms, taking a deep breath of the faint but comforting smell. It felt so warm, as if his skin was melting along with it. It felt as warm as an embrace— an embrace on a cold, snowy day, basking him from all the piercing coldness. The petals shone as if they reflected each and every memory in his heart.
World War two.
The smile in the backlight.
The shooting rage in the middle of the night.
The Bolshevik's badge in the snow.
Yao couldn't forget the utter kindness and gentleness of Ivan.
I really can't forget.
He hugged the bouquet and couldn't help but smile.
"We're both idiots…"
The next day, Yao received an invitation from the Kremlin Palace.
"Comrade Yao,
It is the day of my president's funeral tomorrow. I wish for you to come with me and see him off the Kremlin Palace.
I will be waiting for you in Moscow."
Yao booked a flight and was leaving for Moscow that very night. He sat on the cushioned seat, warming his hands on a cup of tea and stared out into the sky out the cabin. The sea of swimming grey clouds were like the worries overflowing in his chest, weighing him down and trapping him in a grey haze.
He thought of Ivan's tall and lonely figure, back turned to him, walking farther and farther away. It was like a scene of a bitter dream. Yao thought that maybe he'd never even really understood Ivan's emotions and opinions. The path that Ivan had chosen was one without guidance. It was a winding and dangerous route. Ivan was also a lonely brave soul, using his blood and tears to pave his way through the dark. He raised his burning heart high in the sky, and used his own passion as a torch.
He was so courageous, so full of pride, so strong. He would rather people think that we was incapable of feeling pain than show them even the slightest weakness. He couldn't let anyone know that after a long day of being invincible, he would also wake in the middle of the night from the cold, and then secretly and quietly curl up into a ball and let his tears flow freely.
Ivan felt tired.
The brave man was already covered in wounds.
Perhaps they were all like that, Yao thought, never coming to realize their own mistakes. Always shooting harsh words toward each other, always aiming to shoot and never understanding.
"Ivan…we're such idiots, aren't we…?" he repeated again.
To Be Continued...
Pls ignore any grammar or spelling mistakes...I was too tired to edit .
(lazy)