My entry for the Rochu Squad's 2012 October contest.

Check it out! There are some awesome prizes to be won, and bragging rights to claim.

This story is inspired by the Sisters of Mercy Song, "Lucretia, My Reflection." It's an old, old Goth rock tune that no one these days knows about. -sobs- Yes, I know, Salty Peanuts and her weird taste in music... Well, it sure does inspire Fanfiction. It's one of those songs that I've liked for many years now, and recently when I listened to it again, I was like "Oh lordy lordy lordy, this is the perfect Rochu song!"

Since they had gotten on the train, China has found himself staring out the window at whatever could still be visible through tinted frost. The skies are grey and gloomy, occasionally crying out a snowflake or two. Tree after tree flies by as the train ticks along the tracks, and at first, he decides to count them to dispel his boredom. But when the numbers become too great, he gives up, not wanting to worsen his ever-present headache.

Giving his sore shoulders a few good pats, China averts his gaze to the person sitting in front of him, his boss. The Chairman's left eye is twitching more than usual, indicating his lack of sleep— a sure sign that the rest of this trip is going to be enjoyable.

Taking out a thermos from his bag, China pours some tea into an iron mug and slides it across the table to his boss. He pressed his lips firmly shut, careful to not say a word out of line. China waits patiently for his boss to grasp the handle with shaky wrists, and take a sip from the slightly rusting rim.

"Мосва," is printed on the mug in bold red letters. That's where they're headed.

China smiles to himself. Who drinks tea these days for anything other than its clinical effects? China brings plenty of leaves with him wherever he goes, a tradition that has haunted him for centuries. Although, it is not to pay homage to the spirit of the practice, but because tea is not nearly as deadly and addictive as something one puts through a water pipe.

Tea helps to calm nerves, or so say the ancients, and only a first firm handshake would allow fate to safely roll into their hands. He must not let his boss' mere neurosis bring shame to his country.

China's bones feel sore, having sat on the same hard bench for days. The air here is making him want to cough up a lung. There is no ventilation, so it's the same air they have been breathing all this time, as well as the passengers before them.

"We're going to arrive soon," the Chairman remarks wearily, wiping his greasy face. Those are the first words he has said to China ever since their journey began.

China says nothing. He takes out a cigarette, lights it, and blows the wisps of grey smoke onto the windowpane. With a tap of his finger, smouldering flakes of nicotine fall onto the peeling wooden table. Canting his head to the side, China sees that after all this time, the roaring fire in the hearth still has yet to expire. The cinders hiss and crackle threateningly at him.

Finally, the train halts to a stop. China stands up from where he has been sitting, and walks to the exit behind his boss. His black leather combat boots look sleek and handsome under the sunlight, but, his feet still feel heavy. He never wears shoes like these, nor this frighteningly sharp outfit, nor this kind of demeanor.

It feels like treason, almost.

The ground feels firm under China feet, as the loose black gravel is crushed to dust. They are greeted by a crowd of men in military uniforms, but not before a blast of subarctic wind almost sends him tumbling back to his country. China holds his arm out for the Chairman, and lets him down gently from the steep stairs.

There are no carpets laid out for them, nor is their arrival met with applause. The men playing host stand firm like the telephone poles beside them, and only their leader steps up to shake the Chairman's hand. It's the kind of welcome one wouldn't even give a friend, let alone a political partner surely they're trying to impress.

The engine of the train is still roaring, making China unable to hear exactly what the officials are whispering amongst themselves. They look at him and snicker. China cringes, as a fist becomes taut and ready inside his coat pocket. But he decides against it. The war is over.

China meets gazes with Russia, the only person he cared to see in the first place. Though his heart denies it, Russia is the only reason why China agreed to step out of the security of his home, and traveled for thousands of miles.

He still owes the man a proper thanks for his military alms during the war. Albeit the self-centered motives, Russia had saved his life once, and it irks China to be indebted to someone like him.

China marches up to him, trying to keep his stiff, sore back as straight as possible, and salutes. Russia promptly returns the gesture, without saying a word. But, China can see beneath those eyes, like frozen lakes, a glimmer, a quick dash of warmth.

And, was Russia... smiling? He mustn't be. Not here, under these grey skies, and not now, in this doomed decade.

China dismisses it all as his own nostalgia—

"Hey Yao! Vanya won his first battle today! I'm getting stronger, and someday when I rule the whole world, I'll ask you to marry me, okay?"

Russia holds out his free hand, and China takes it. His touch feels firm, the soft, damp gloves enveloping China's own chapped hand.

"Come with me, Yao, I have something to show you." Russia said.

There is a generous amount of gravel in his voice, after all those years of chanting revolutionary anthems and breathing black smoke. Perhaps, only China can still hear the faint vestige of childish innocence brimming underneath, waiting to peek out.

The steps Russia takes are broader, and more measured than China's. In spite of his better judgement, China decides to trust him, only because there is no one else around.

"Do you hear it, Yao?"

"What?"

"Oh, never mind." Russia said, and clicks the door shut. China's breath hitches.

Up above, machines growl, and engines hiss. People are talking in some cryptic language that China does not understand. He takes a breath, and lets the clean, stale air into his lungs. The ground beneath feels flat, solid, safe. For the first time in a while, China is not falling. They are already five feet under the chaos, and cannot go lower.

China can feel Russia stand right behind him, that if his knees buckled, he could very well fall into the other man's arms. Even though he cannot see a thing, China knows they are alone in this room. Years of military training has taught him not only bitter cynicism, but to cling onto each and every passing moment as a struggle for survival. He could be breathing one second, and then reduced to a dismembered corpse the next. The once glorious global scenery has spiraled into a dark, sludgy mess, and China is not about to become the next Rome.

That is when China finally remembers the dagger strewn with snake venom, which he always keeps in his belt.

China's scalp prickles, as Russia's cool fingers glide across the side of his face, peeling off the blindfold.

Prying his eyes open, China sees that they're in Russia's study. China has been here countless times before, for reasons he would rather not disclose. There are memories he wishes could be locked in a casket and sunk deep into the abyss of his subconscious, including the regrettable midwinter nights he had spent on the other side of the border. But now, change is in the wake, and so begins a new era to wash away the shames of the past.

The office is the same as China remembers it. The ceiling hangs high, with twisting columns carved into multitudes of shapes and figures, and painted a fluid gold. The large mahogany desk stands at the end of the hall, in front of the stain glass window. It's surface gleams even under the dim light of the room. However, its immaculate surface shows no evidence of their previous ministrations, not even a fingerprint or sweat stain. Thankfully so, because that last treaty had been signed, and there is no need to remember what is meant to be forgotten. The display shelves are still there, thick slabs of glass defending pieces of outdated weaponry, classical military uniforms, and other imperial remnants. They'll never be used again, and their esteem has been reduced to that of house decor.

But, nothing in the room can keep China's eyes off from the shocking sight before him. Standing in front is a female mannequin, the kind one sees in the shops of Paris. Donned upon it was a silk robe, red in colour, like blood.

Wordlessly, China extends a hand to caress the shimmering, ghost-like surface. Such a seamless work of art has no place in this era. Nowadays, clothes are just clothes.

"I hired the best tailors in my country to make it for you," Russia explains, proud of himself, "So, what do think, Yao, want to be beautiful one last time?"

China but laughs at the cruel joke, and turns to face Russia, his... friend? He throws a backhand across the larger man's face, as well as a few vain insults, while relishing in the sweet privilege of being perhaps the only person who can pinch the wolf's tail and not get bitten.

No witnesses are present during the ceremony, for no invitations were sent out in the first place. Vows are said under heaven's eye, and mandated under its brunt fist. They vow to purify the past of its poison, and preserve its glory. They vow for the dawning of a new epoch, where the people and the state may exist as one. It's an intimate promise they murmur amongst themselves while in an embrace, as Russia's breath tickles the nape of China's neck. China is the first one to break apart, uncomfortable with the sheer impropriety of the act, even within closed quarters.

Russia smiles teasingly. Taking China's twitching hand, he kisses it, and says, "My queen."

China rolls his eyes, and buries his face in his other hand as a gesture of disappointment. Though, in reality, he is blushing.

Russia holds his arm out, while beaming down at him, and China takes it. As China returns his smile, and admires the man's neatly combed hair, his lean, black overcoat, and general semblance of a certain ancient, forgotten majesty.

Though, China doesn't forget, and would never forget that Russia can pulverize him into ashes with the flick of a finger.

All the spirits that haunt these corridors hail and cheer as the tsar and empress march to their throne, praising their longevity. Orchestral music echoes from the walls, the powerful chords, elegant melody almost lifting China off his feet.

China admits his role in the skit with silence, but all the while, he watches Russia with rapt attention, trying extract the flaws in his partner's performance. How does it feel to have something under your supposed dominion? It feels nice, to say the least. China knows this better than anyone. The desire to rule and conquer is part of human nature, so no one is to blame. But, human nature is flawed, and China knows he has all the time in the world to wait for the porcelain to crack.

Taut leather gloves caress sunburnt skin, stinging the scars on China's chest. Laying on his back Russia's serpentine grin, China bites his lip stubbornly, and places a scrunched fist behind his back in case the other man were to step out of line. His robe lays aside, forgotten, like a discarded pile of gift wrap.

Russia's eyes roll down China's naked body, scrutinizing, analyzing every curve and bump like a puzzle waiting for an answer. He gazes down with envy at the mountains that won't bow to anyone, at the seas that refuse to be tamed. Not discouraged in the least, Russia climbs on top of him, and clamps his knees tightly, all the while never looking away from those glassy black orbs.

While his innards are boiling, China remains lifeless on the outside, his face as still as a frozen pond. After all, the last word always goes to the one whose lips remain shut.

Russia leans down to China's ear. While his breath is not hot enough to incinerate his entire being, it elicits a slight shiver. "You may lie to yourself, Yao, and reject me. But aren't you pained by the cries of your people?"

He places a hand upon China's beating chest, which refuses to beat any more quickly in response.

"My boss doesn't have to meet your conditions at all." Russia adds, "Your demands are selfish, and no good to us."

A chuckle slips out of Russia's mouth. "Right now, you should be begging me to be your saviour, begging me to fish you out of the cesspool you've sunken yourself in. Pride cometh before a fall, Yao, don't forget about proverbs."

He dips down and presses their lips together. There comes not a shriek, gasp, or any sign of struggle on China's part, and to Russia, that kind of response is best.

As China's hand snakes around the other man's neck, bringing their kiss deeper, the orange candlelight from the hanging chandelier is reflected by the gleaming blade sliding into position between his fingers.

Fin.

Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it. Please review to express your love or utter detest!

Notes:

February 14th, 1950- The Sino-Soviet Treaty of Friendship, Alliance and Mutual Assistance was signed.

Don't let the fluffy-sounding title fool you. This was believed to be when the tension between the Soviet Union and China really intensified. Communist leader Mao Zedong traveled out of China for the first time in his life to meet his counterpart Josef Stalin, and while giving the latter more occupation privileges in Manchuria, also he also prompted a $300-million loan to raise Chinese infrastructure. Mao was described to have been very urgent in getting the treaty signed, while Stalin was more reluctant, laid back and wanted to take his time. Though on the surface, the treaty was more to China's favour than that of the Soviet Union, there were suspicions that the Soviets were planning to use its terms as a first step to gain full sovereignty over China.

If you care to know, the lyrics to the song goes as such (Edited to get rid of repetition):

I hear the roar of a big machine
Two worlds and in between
Hot metal and methedrine
I hear empire down

I hear the roar of a big machine
Two worlds and in between
Love lost, fire at will
Dum-dum bullets and shoot to kill, I hear
Dive, bombers, and
Empire down

I hear the sons of the city and dispossessed
Get down, get undressed
Get pretty but you and me,
We got the kingdom, we got the key
We got the empire, now as then,
We don't doubt, we don't take direction,
Lucretia, my reflection, dance the ghost with me

We look hard
We look through
We look hard to see for real
Such things I hear, they don't make sense
I don't see much evidence
I don't feel.

A long train held up by page on page
A hard reign held up by rage
Once a railroad
Now it's done...
We got the empire, now as then,
We don't doubt, we don't take reflection,

Lucretia, my direction, dance the ghost with me...