Dark China, meet fluffy China.

Warning: Violence, threats, gore, fight scene, weapons, inappropriate touching, reference to rape, references to NiChu.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."

―Lao Tzu

Together

Yao sat on the floor of the helicopter. The rhythmic vibrations of the whirring blades humming through his body did nothing to calm him. He was scrunched up between the legs of one of the soldiers. The man had begun to stroke his hair, filthy fingers combing through the strands. The touches had gradually become more aggressive, but there was nothing Yao could do about it. He felt the knife against his temple just as clearly as he felt the hot mound of the man's crotch pressing between his shoulder blades.

Yao just sat there and let the man touch him, tried not to feel it. Alfred had disappeared and he had been captured. His body ached and his injuries hadn't been treated, still trickling with blood. He was dehydrated and dizzy with the movements of the helicopter, and any time weight was put on his leg, the stab wounds in his thigh and pelvis burned too much to bear and welled with more blood. The bullet in his right arm felt like a burrowed insect, gnawing at his muscle with every jostle. He was so weak that the men hadn't seen it fit to bind him. Shame filled Yao at the thought.

Negligent, Yao kept thinking, because he was. He should have seen the trap. Thousands of years of experience and he'd managed to screw everything up when it mattered most. He deserved the pain and whatever came with it.

The helicopter tilted to one side, driving Yao against the soldier's growing hardness, sought to scramble away as best he could, but he was snatched up by the arm, crying out as the lodged bullet was disturbed. He soon found that the least of his worries as he was pulled too close to the soldier, smelling smoke and sweat. The man's sour breath puffed against his face as the fingers in his hair tightened, yanking his head back.

"You're a pretty thing," he said, shifting beneath Yao. The Chinaman struggled to hover over the soldier rather than satisfy him by sitting on his hidden erection. He had accepted his defeat, but he would never go so low as to allow himself to be assaulted without some objection. But as much as he tried, a gorilla-like hand cupped his ass and brought him in. "Like a girl. I'm sure the Overlord wouldn't notice if I had some fun with you."

The other soldiers laughed. Yao's arms dangled by his side, knife now tracing the contours of his bared throat. Lips brushed over it, teeth nipping threateningly at his pulse. Kiku, he thought. He would live for him, no matter what happened. He would endure, then he would find him. He turned his head and let his eyes wander over the ground below as a hand found its way down his pants.

They were flying over the Ellipse, though it took Yao some time to notice, there was so much thick smoke. There was nothing left of it, littered with scorched craters, burning fire, and bodies so black they almost blended into the destruction. The tank Ivan had been guiding was nothing more than a skeleton, and none of his force remained. The wasteland stretching before Yao continued to the horizon, plumes of gray polluting the sky and forming all that was and would be. Yao had never felt so utterly alone… nor so enraged. He balled his hands into fists.

The helicopter listed again and the man holding him was too busy biting at his neck to notice Yao's fingers groping at his side. When they found what he was looking for, he forgot his failure. He forgot everything except what could be.

He wouldn't fail again.

He pulled the knife from the soldier's belt and the man yanked his hand only halfway out of Yao's pants before the blade was shoved up beneath his ribs.

"No, he would not," Yao hissed in reply and continued to thrust the knife into him, deeper, deeper, twisting, all the while watching the light die in those cold eyes, watching blood bubble on the man's lips, felt it wash over his hand with each jerk of the blade.

There was a pop that split his ears and pain suddenly bloomed in his back. Yao screamed, legs giving out and stumbling as the helicopter jerked. Another pop sounded, and Yao had enough sense to turn around and drop to his knees. His heart nearly exploded when he felt a weight fall on him from behind. He wriggled out from beneath it and saw that it was the man he had stabbed, now bleeding from a bullet hole in his forehead. Yao kicked the body away before the soldier aiming his gun at him could adjust, gathering his legs under him and lunging even as his injuries set his muscles aflame.

He wrapped his arms around the soldier's legs and pulled as hard as he could. The man dropped his weapon and fell, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch himself. He grabbed onto the latch of the door, holding tight until metal slipped against metal, and suddenly there was a roar of wind and Yao was sliding, sliding—

"What the fuck?" the pilot yelled over the rushing air, but Yao barely heard it, swallowed by the blood pulsing through his ears. He still had hold of the soldier's legs, and the man was being sucked toward the door. Eyes wide, Yao withdrew his hands and flipped himself around, grabbing for anything he could to keep himself from flying away. He threw his arms out to the corpse that had rolled toward him, barely wrapping his fingers around the handle of the blade in the dead soldier's chest before the one behind him grabbed his ankles, pulling him halfway across the floor in one strong yank. Yao gave a cry and clawed, nails breaking and bloodied as he fought both the sucking air and the soldier's sinister grip, digging the blade that he had tugged loose of the corpse into the floor. He kicked his legs, attempting to plant his heel into the soldier's face, craning his neck to see that he was only a few feet from the door. The soldier's legs were being flung about in the wind, flimsy as if broken by the force of the whipping air. Frantic, Yao snatched the knife up from the floor and jammed the blade into one of the hands that held his ankle.

The man didn't shout or curse or beg. He didn't even blink. Yao watched in a surrealistic haze, more horrified that he felt nothing toward the man who was whipped from his sight than he was at the thought of falling victim himself. But how could he feel anything toward what was well and truly an animated corpse?

Yao clawed his way across the cabin, adrenaline providing him enough strength to propel him to the seats at the front. He seized the leg of one in a vice grip, the wind knocking his lower body two and fro while it stole the breath from his lungs. He peered up and was met with the blank face of the co-pilot and the barrel of his weapon. He saw the man's finger twitch on the trigger and he screwed his eyes shut.

At that moment the helicopter rolled to the side, the heat from the bullet scorching Yao's face even as the lead buried itself in the cushion of the pilot's seat. Yao's eyes snapped open to see the co-pilot blinking dumbly at him, as if trying to confirm whether he'd hit his target or not. Once enlightened, the co-pilot began to draw his arm back to cock his gun, but Yao was faster. In a rush of thought he hooked an elbow into the seat and flung out an arm, locking onto the co-pilot's wrist and using all his might to yank him from his seat. The man tumbled out quite easily, the gun going off over Yao's shoulder in the process. The next second Yao was kicking the man's limp form across the floor and to the open door, the handle of a knife jutting from his head.

Yao didn't get the chance to watch his body be dragged from the cockpit before yet another gunshot split the air. Dazed, Yao covered his throbbing ears, feeling something warm and thick drop onto his nose. At first he thought that he had been the one hit and wasn't feeling the impact for the shock. But he was wrong. With great delicacy, he pulled himself to the co-pilot's seat, the helicopter rocking dangerously, intent on ordering the pilot to land. But he soon found that his plan would be impossible to implement. The pilot was dead, head lolling with the erratic rhythm of the helicopter. His front teeth were missing, his lip was bloody, and gore painted the headrest from where the bullet had punched through the back of his head. His spent weapon dangled in his hand.

Yao didn't have the chance to be angry at the fact that the Overlord had decided to off one of his own men, who was unhurt and perfectly capable of functioning, merely for the purpose of vexing Yao. Instead, Yao had to put his mind toward more pressing matters—such as trying to guide the helicopter out of its current tailspin.

It was hard enough trying to recall just how to control a helicopter nonetheless keep a grip on the seat as well as his bearings, the buildings whirling by in front of him, head spinning as fast as the helicopter. Eventually, his hands found the control stick, but only eventually.

Yao saw the tower a split-second before impact.

First it was the blades, shattering against the stone with a metallic screech, one flying completely off. The wall punched through the glass, sending Yao flying off the chair and onto his back, crawling as fast as the quakes allowed him, outrunning the stone that rushed after him. All he heard was screaming metal, scraping rock. He was consumed with grabbing for purchase anywhere he could, struggling not to fly around the cabin or out of the still open door. At one point he was jammed behind a seat, upside down, arm twisted from his attempt to catch himself. His nose had been smashed sometime during his flailing, blood gushing down his throat, choking him. Something had torn at the stab wound on his thigh and one side of his head was pounding from a blow he couldn't remember receiving. And still the air rushed past, hissing, the blades whirring frantically, the cabin tilting ever further, down, down…

And then the advancing stone was gone, the horrible scraping with it. For a moment Yao thought that everything was over, that he could somehow fix the mess he had caused, but when he finally wrenched himself from his trap he saw that his hopes were far from rational.

The helicopter was listing, the blades fighting to keep the heavy cabin in the air as it sputtered away from the massacred Washington Monument and over what Yao could make out was water—a pool. Heart in his throat, Yao flung himself across the cabin, slipping in blood and on dust, shoes crunching broken glass and rubble before reaching the pilot's seat once more. But the only assurance he was given was the fact that there was no saving the helicopter. Yao stared through shards of shattered glass, his eyes stung with the force of the icy air cutting at his face, to see the ground growing closer and closer with each passing second. He had to make a decision then, one that would determine whether or not his resolve was still present or had disappeared long ago.

Yao's fingers were like iron around the headrest, but he had made his choice. There was no time for parachutes, barely any time to think. Although Yao's fear had beaten him into a state of paralysis, he managed to pry his fingers from the seat. The air did the rest.

He let himself fall, the wind carrying him out of the cabin, and then he was weightless. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't blink. Everything in him seemed to leave. He was hollow for a few moments, a few ironically peaceful moments, feeling nothing, floating. It was almost like the gray water wasn't rushing up to meet him, seeking to swallow him, ruin him.

Yao's senses had left him in his moment of panic, but if he hadn't let them go then they would have weighed him down, made him grip the seat tighter and wait for fire to engulf him rather than for water to buoy him. But the totality of his missing sense hit him hard—almost as hard as he hit the water. He couldn't identify the pool before, hadn't had the time to, but he realized as soon as concrete plowed through his bones that this was a reflecting pool and he was an idiot. It was barely over two feet deep.

Yao couldn't emit any sort of noise for a moment, the breath knocked out of him from the fall. The pain was still present, however, flaring through him until his lungs reignited. Then he let out a scream so loud and inhuman he wondered if his throat might burst along with his lower half. Everything hurt, he was aflame with agony, spending all his breath on that scream before settling into sobbing whimpers. The pain exhausted him, his muscles having been so tense for so long they finally gave out, letting the hurt wash over him as the icy water did. He could no longer keep his head up, heavy and pulsing with his ordeal, too much for him to bear. His eyes fluttered closed and the next thing he knew he was underwater, face submerged, content.

When he tried to take a breath and was met with water, worry didn't grip him. He had no desire to move. He continued to lay there, skin numb, body throbbing, water trickling into his lungs. And he was just fine with that.

Yao smiled as Kiku cast his line into the water, just the line—much more primitive than Yao's own brass reel. Today he was going to show Kiku how to fish properly. Today he would instill his superior traditions in—

Yao's eyes darted to Kiku's fingers as they twitched on the line, gaping when, with one swift tug, Kiku had brought his catch to the surface and proceeded to drag the creature into the shallows.

Yao frowned. Although he hadn't dreamed something like this was even possible (he was obviously the best fisherman in the world, it had been proven), he did have earlier catches that were in need of gutting. He grabbed a decent sized one that didn't smell too offensive and made his way to the reeds where Kiku was already standing, straddling his fish, knife in hand.

"Now," Yao instructed as he took up a position beside Kiku and produced his own knife, setting his catch down in the water, "you will want to grip the fish firmly and watch your hands so you don't get cut. Start by scraping the scales off from tail to head. And don't forget to clean the collar! That is a very tasty par—"

Yao's jaw was once again left hanging open as his eyes shifted to Kiku, who was standing straight up in the water, fish, completely bare of scales and fully gutted, in one hand and his knife in the other. Kiku only stared blankly at him before stepping out of the water and returning to the bank. He spread out a mat and began to filet his catch. Yao had to gut his fish alone.

By the time Yao was finished and had recovered somewhat from the blow to his pride, Kiku was laying his filets on the fire. He could already smell them cooking. The boy didn't even spare him a glance.

Yao sniffed. Impudence. I will rid him of it in time. He then set about filleting his fish at his own pace.

Night soon fell, and the two hunkered down in their sacks for sleep. Yao watched Kiku wriggle into his own, the boy's back to him. When all he could see was his hair, he too settled down.

Yao woke when the stars were still out, feeling something shift against his side. He peered down to see Kiku curled against him in his own sack, the chill having drawn him close. Yao didn't touch him, knew how oddly sensitive Kiku was about that. He just watched him, watched the wind ruffle his hair, watched how the moonlight reflected off his dark eyelashes. And then Kiku's mouth was moving in speech for the first time since Yao had found him sitting alone in those woods. Since their first meeting.

"Arigatō."

Yao frowned, not at all knowing what the word meant. He was still learning Kiku's language after all, whatever it was. Still, it meant something. Something much more profound than the silence he had been treated with.

He blinked, and the small, quiet boy he once new had grown to a larger but equally quiet man. Kiku's dark eyes were open, drinking in moonlight, and Yao thought he had never seen anything quite so captivating.

"I will always be right here beside you," Kiku echoed his earlier words, and this time Yao understood him perfectly. "Have you ever seen Kinkaku-ji? Maybe when all of this is over, we can go see it." Kiku broke into an uncharacteristic smile. It was radiant. "Together."

Together. The word echoed through Yao's head as he wrapped his arms around Kiku, drawing him in and burying his nose in his hair. He still smelled so sweet despite all that they had gone through.

"I've missed you," Yao said.

Kiku's hand found his own, weaving their fingers together. "I know, Yao-chan. I've missed you, too. And I love you."

"I love you, yīnghuā."

His mantra. His Kiku. His love.

Yao's eyes flew opened and immediately filled with the water, murky with ash. He opened his mouth, tried to breathe, but he only managed to bog down his lungs even further. I don't want to die, I don't want to die, were his frantic thoughts as he fought to get his arms under him, pushing against the slimy bottom. His chest hurt, aching with the weight and chill of the water, but he would not die, he refused. Because, sometime really long ago, Kiku had asked to visit the temple with Yao, and he wouldn't let Kiku go alone, stand on the veranda and wish Yao was there beside him, at last. He couldn't leave Kiku there to mourn, couldn't have him see the temple as a reminder of death instead of what it was meant to be.

I will stand beside him, Yao thought as his nose pushed above the water. I will hold his hand and it will be just us. I will tell him I love him again. Every day. Every day until he gets sick of it. He surfaced and tried to gulp down air only to be met with a catch in his throat. Eyes watering, Yao held himself up with shaky arms, coughing up the fluid from his lungs. For a few heart-stopping moments he thought he may suffocate and Kiku would find his body submerged in the water, forced to drag him out and see how broken he was. But then the last bit of water came pouring from his lips, spilling into the pool along with bile from his empty stomach. He remained still as he retched, grabbing air through his nose whenever he had the chance. It wasn't until he had nothing else left to bring up that he finally took a truly deep breath.

He gasped and filled his lungs to the point his ribs ached from the pressure, over and over again. He felt light-headed and the cold water had made him numb. Black spots burst in his vision, threatening to plunge him down into the pool again, but his nails dug into the filth along the bottom, dragging himself inch by aching inch to the edge.

When at last he gathered the strength to crawl out onto the shattered concrete and dusting of snow, sopping wet and shivering, he saw his chance to rest like he hadn't been able to in what felt like a million years. But his heart was still pounding like a startled bird in his heavy chest, expecting more danger at any moment. The rest of Yao's body, however, refused to provide any sort of reaction other than complete and utter prostration.

Yao turned himself over with the last bit of energy he had left. His ears, muffled by his ordeal, caught the sound of tumbling stone and turned his head to see the Washington Monument , having suffered from the helicopter's impact, crumble into a pile of rubble and a cloud of dust. The helicopter's flames danced at the corner of Yao's vision opposite, the wreckage simmering near the end of the pool. Yao's eyes returned to the sky, heavy and hooded. All he saw was gray; a solid mass of indiscernible cloud, blocking out all sunlight. Yao knew from the way his leg throbbed that it was broken. He knew by the splintery feeling in his hip that it was shattered. Yet in spite of everything—the broken bones and the pulsing stab wounds and chilling wind—he was content, having taken one step closer to Kiku and that golden temple on the glimmering lake. He could still feel the man's delicate fingers woven with his own, could already imagine his smile.

Together, Yao thought confidently. The few flecks of snow that drifted down to him were Kiku's kisses on his cheeks. We will go together.

"I love you, yīnghuā," he croaked with a smile of his own. His eyes felt hot and wet.

Yao lay there alone yet so very happy. His only companions were crows circling overhead. He smiled at them, too.

Translations:

Arigatō-Thank you

yīnghuā-cherry blossom (hoping this is the right word...)

A Word From the Writer: Ah, so hey. Been a while. A week. A very long and trying week. So I haven't had as much time to devote to this fic as I normally would because I am taking care of my cousins and studying for exams. My AP English was Thursday and naturally I didn't want to write shit when I got home. I was all write-ed out. One down, two more to go.

Okay, so what we have here is a drastic change in China. Last POV I wrote him all homicidal, but I felt the need to change him into a sort of reminiscing romantic. Which is too cute, I've gotta say (Japan would say kawaii). But then I kinda beat him up and whipped him around like a ragdoll to make up for all the sappy shit. So, really the endings of these leave a lot for speculation. You don't really know if they're gonna die or not, which is what I'm going for. But damn. I think I went overboard here. He should be in a coma by rights, but it wouldn't be nearly as fun.

Next is Japan!