Work Text:
March, 2014; Shanghai, China
As Russia ventures a hand along the line where China’s waist nicks in, allowing his thumb to run across every groove, every fading wrinkle, that has yet to smooth itself over and return to nihility as nations’ blemishes do, he marvels at the silken bedsheets unfurled beneath his knees, deliberates upon their potential cost, their hand-embroidered patterns and the heavy, liquid drape of a Momme weight far beyond economical necessity. China lies supine, diagonally splayed throughout the expansive latitude a king-sized bed provides, and Russia’s legs bridge above his straight ones, feet on either side of his shoulders.
It is remarkable that China allows Russia to touch him at all, much less in such sportive districts, without tensing up in his slight and stifled manner; Russia has not been allowed this simple pleasure for years, and he wonders what has changed between then and now, what has passed in China’s mind and softened him, damaged him so, that he should return to Russia’s bed against his will.
Russia bites his lip, raises his head to the side.
The walls have been stripped bare of the red velvet wallpaper they once exhibited proudly, gleaming in the irradiant sunlight of Shanghai, and the large banners with the hammer and the sickle have been torn down as well — likely post-haste, following the crumbling relations betwixt Khrushchev and Mao. It is apposite that China would have had them withdrawn to some cupboard, especially considering all that had transpired, those few years afterwards, but that rationale does not staunch the flow of hot, bubbling rage from seeping forth, stop the betrayal from scoring through his heart.
It is Russia who had been the one to hold his hand, shift it to a high corner, tack the banners down with a pin or two — and China had stared up at him, then, eyes wide with unfettered admiration. Now, Russia observes only dull expectance; as if tonight not one of close-knit intimacy, but an innately requisite exchange of services.
That is to say, of course it is. Russia would be loath to have it any other way.
“Russia?” China’s hand rises to cup his left cheek. “What’s wrong?” He frowns. “Preoccupied with something?”
“…Nothing that concerns you,” Russia replies distractedly, after a short pause. China’s frown deepens into a scowl, and Russia curses himself internally for being erroneous in his response, because China never scowls unless some crucial, unspoken protocol has been breached — protocols Russia is never privy to the contents of — and he will thus be scowling throughout the rest of their time together, depriving Russia of any potential pleasure he might have experienced otherwise.
When China speaks again, his voice is hushed to a murmur, a barely suppressed hostility intertwined within his words. “It never does, does it?”
Russia does not dignify him with a riposte. He had had his fair share of arguments during the ‘60s, and is thoroughly done with them.
China shakes his head and removes himself from underneath Russia. “You’re unbelievable.”
He presses a chaste, almost angry kiss to Russia’s lips, recoils the instant they converge, and peels himself away from the mattress, opting instead to sit upright, gazing out of the tourmaline-framed window (or, rather, he would have been, had the curtains not been tightly drawn together). Russia should be glad that China is not storming out of the door as he has not hesitated to do so before, but that would have, at the very least, guaranteed him an explicit view of his exposed rear — something Russia would very much like to see more of, preferably as soon as the opportunity arises.
The residuum of China’s osculation tastes of rice wine — vaguely cloying (and too fruity for a beverage designed to intoxicate; Russia has tried foisting good old Russian vodka with its invigorating astringency down his throat before — occasionally, even a shot of Scottish whisky will be begrudgingly appraised — without much success in terms of coaxing him into appreciating it), not unlike the incense lighting the room in pure, smouldering sugar. China insists that he despises overly sweet desserts passionately, but it appears that he has no such reservations regarding the olfactory department, nor in the alcoholic.
“Would you like me to go?”
Russia blinks. “China—“ he begins, but China cuts him off.
“I should go. I have a meeting at 2.”
“That is five hours from now.” Russia sighs, running a hand along his silver, unconditioned (to China’s great horror, as had been stated in the past) hair. “To be honest… I’ve missed you.”
China flushes, fingers scrambling to clasp at each other, fiddle with some fictitious cuff or collar, and Russia’s hopes soar into the reaches of the upper atmosphere, because China did not scorn his missing, and because, well, he is a fool. “Stay?” he asks, shuffling closer.
“No,” China says sharply, as if he doesn’t quite believe his own words. “I can’t— we can’t, Russia.”
With that, he strides into the bathroom, locks the door, and leaves Russia to meditate on just how badly he had fucked up this time.