While it was a bit disheartening when considering the attendance, or lack thereof, of those awaiting the arrival of a special person, the single participant in this welcome home party made up for it all in his bubbling excitement. Deep brown strands tied back into the signature ponytail bounced lightly as the person of small, childish frame to which they were connected bounced up and down in a happy and expectant manner, hardly able to hold his anticipation. Mahogany brown eyes the color of milk chocolate were wide in waiting if not a bit darkened along their edges due to their owners inability to shut them for a time more than a few moments the prior night. Honestly, how could China sleep? His adorable little Hong Kong was returning home after nearly a century of separation! His adorable little brother. Images of the small harbor nation running to him with outstretched arms and calling him māma were surprisingly vivid now.

But all was not to turn out as planned, or hoped as it should be said. The way China had envisioned his Hong Kong was simply a larger version of the one that lived in his memory, never taken into consideration the concept of the boy changing whilst he lived with England. As such, he was surprised when a particularly indifferent and expressionless Asian face now marred with thick brows was presented to him. Instead of the red tunic he had left in, Hong Kong was now clothed in an English suit. A black blazer – later to be shed to reveal a white dress shirt that was in part covered by a red vest – with matching black pants. Attempts at conversation were made only to be met with mild mumblings. Hugs were greeted with nothing but placid acceptance. Hong Kong had done a complete turnaround on him! This strange boy with side swept bangs of wooden coloring and golden honey brown eyes was unknown to China.

Prior it had been decided that Hong Kong would stay with China for a short while to again become accustomed to the life he had lived that century and a half ago. Readily China drilled the boy with questions about his life under British rule. Was he treated well? How was the food? What had he learned? Whenever possible Hong Kong would answer in turn no more than a single word, otherwise giving as little information as possible, all the while holding his uncaring demeanor. It was as if he was constantly bored with the older nations company. Eventually China would become so hurt and frustrated with the nonchalant behavior given that he would find some excuse to leave. In time he could not stand the separation – having already learned how hard this was after those one hundred years – and return to further drill the brunet teen.

As such it was quite the surprise when the next morning Hong Kong entered the kitchen not in any western garb, but rather something that gave an obvious show of his Chinese heritage. The tunic was of a deep red tone close to royal purple, lined in thin gold strips along its hems and tied with small toggles to its other side at his right shoulder. To match the yellow accents a sash of just such color was tied round his waist to allow the rest of the shirt appearance before it gave way to lightly billow black pants tightened prior white socks slipped into simple black slippers. He appeared so distinctly Asian China caught himself almost forgetting England's patronage. That is, until his eyes came to the boys face. Leveled off brows of a particularly overbearing nature above near emotionless eyes. Dress a chicken in a suit and it's still a chicken. And yet…

"Ehm… Chi… Chi-niki?"

China cringed. Hong Kong had mixed his name with what Korea often called him, Aniki. The annoying younger Asian usually only brought up exasperation for him, so anything that alluded to his existence made him feel particularly tired. With that said, he found himself smiling lightly at this given name by his little Hong Kong. In the hours of day past he hadn't even called him by any name, hadn't said much of anything in fact. This showed some headway, did it not?

"Yes-aru?"

"I wasn't… Mr. Iggy," this nickname procured a laugh on the Chinese man's part, causing the younger of the two to pause in confusion before continuing, "told me I should buy a gift to celebrate our reunion… So, erm, here…" It wasn't until now that China noted the adorable expression breaking into the uncaring façade. Thick brown eyebrows were furrowed and cheeks puffed out just a tad, coated in a faint pink hue.

A white object was held out to him, lightly warm to the touch after being kept within the folds of Hong Kong's shirt for a time. Giddy to receive a present, China took it for examination. It was a white coffee mug, red lettering decorating its surface. There was a series he was vaguely familiar with, the #1 series. #1 Teacher, #1 Daughter, and so on. The one that had just been gifted to him was titled #1 Mom. Blink, blink. M… Mom? Images of the then tiny boy calling him this so lovingly as any child would a parent flashed through his eyes at the speed of light. Even as he was being carried away by England, held in the Europeans arms with his front facing back, he sobbed out the term. China could feel the tears building up, though they were fended off by his chuckling when he caught the small addition. There, crudely written in red paint as if an afterthought, Hong Kong had added the Chinese word for brother.

China had loved his Hong Kong when the nation was but a small offshoot of himself still wholly dependent of him. When pried from his hands he had spent days in an unending depression. When finally reunited he was saddened to find that the now teenage boy had changed almost completely. But he had been wrong… Somewhere in that stony front his beloved brother could be found. And even then, he loved him in his differing nature. Never could Hong Kong find a China that did not hold a deep affection for him.

All was shown in the hug Hong Kong was suddenly pulled down into. He was forced to stoop just a tad as means of compensating for his hug-ees height deficiency. As he had turned quite tsundere over the years, his brows knitted together all the more and he could not resist a tiny insult. "Stupid Chi-niki… I've been wanting to give it to you, but you kept asking questions… And never left me alone long enough to get it out of my bag… Western suits are annoying like that. Can't hide anything too big in the folds…"

This elicited a nice bit of giggling on China's part. Yes, he most definitely liked this Hong Kong as well. Adorable in his embarrassment towards open signs of affection. But his love for him only stood to grow, and the tears formerly threatening to pour through were allowed free reign of his cheeks in the next action from the half-Chinese, half-English teenage brunet.

"Is Chi-niki King of the Moment?"

While remaining within the grasp of his brother Hong Kong searched his person before finally producing a worn wooden circle with red Chinese lettering for marshal. It was the equivalent to the King piece to the more widely known European Chess for the Chinese counterpart. When Hong Kong had stilled been under his roof it was a habit of theirs to play the game so often that a sort of inside joke or tradition was started. Whenever one would have a happy occurrence befall them or win a competition between the two one would say, 'king me,' and the other that had formerly received the piece would pass it on, making the other the King of the Moment. A week before being passed on to England Hong Kong had received it from China. And now, here he was, passing on the item. His years of rolling it in his palm as a means of solace were distinct in the faded pain and smoothed edges.

Warm tears were streaming from milk chocolate eyes. China buried his face into his Hong Kong's shoulder, tightening his hold. "King of the Moment I am-aru…"