A/N: So, this is the first chapter in the first fic of a songfic series I'm planning on writing centred on WW2. (This one bears little resemblance to 'Do You Hear The People Sing', but oh well.) When I started writing this, it was going to be a oneshot, but I've decided to split it into chapters because it was getting kind of long. This chapter belongs to Yao, who definitely needs some anger-management classes. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia, etc.

Do you hear the people sing?

Singing a song of angry men?

It is the music of a people

Who will not be slaves again!

The four blonds gathered around the bar look up as a slight, dark-haired man storms into the room. One of them laughs at the expression of fury on the newcomer's face and calls out, "Hey, Yao, you look like you could use a drink." Yao nods grimly, and the blond signals to the barman for another round. When he turns back to Yao his mouth falls open in shock. "Dude, what happened to your arm?" The limb in question in cradled in a sling.

Yao doesn't answer, but marches over to the bar and slides onto a stool at the end, as far away from the speaker as possible. The man sitting next to the one who has spoken turns to his neighbour and hisses, "You bloody wanker, can't you see he doesn't want to talk about it? You always were a tactless, interfering little git, Alfred." Yao can tell, though, that he's just as desperate as Alfred to know the answer to the question.

"Hey! That's not fair –" Alfred pauses, then adds, "Artie."

It has the desired effect. "Don't call me that!" the older man shrieks, and the two descend into squabbling, much to the amusement of the long-haired blond sitting between Arthur and Yao.

But Yao pays no attention to the brothers' bickering. Ignoring his companions, he drinks deeply from the beer that's been set in front of him, then – placing the nearly-empty glass down on the counter – scans the room anxiously. Why isn't he here yet? There should be six of us. He shifts on his stool; the movement causes a sharp jolt of pain to shoot through his broken arm, and he yelps involuntarily.

His long-haired neighbour turns to him in concern. "The pain is bad, mon ami?" When Yao doesn't answer he leans in close and whispers, "So, how did it happen?"

You nosy bastard, Bonnefoy. But to give no answer would look suspicious; he'll have to come up with something. Think, Yao, think. "I…I got into a fight. With Kiku," he mutters, feeling his cheeks grow hot as he avoids Francis' eyes. He can feel the other man looking at him, silently assessing the injury, the bruises on his face and neck. Say it, then. You might as well.

When he risks a glance at the other man, though, Francis just raises an eyebrow, then smiles. "I see."

"What'd you do that for, Francis?" Arthur asks in consternation. He leans over to apologise for Francis' prying; the ingratiating smile on his face sickens Yao. "Look, I'm really sorry –"

Oh no you're not. You're just as nosy as the rest of them. Yao cuts him off. "I don't need you to defend me, Opium. I can look after myself."

The second it's out of his mouth he realises what a stupid thing that was to say, and he curses inwardly. Sure enough, Arthur – looking wounded at the 'Opium' dig – shoots back, "Oh, can you really? Because that arm suggests otherwise. Honestly, Yao, if you can't even manage to beat your own little brother in a fair fight, I fail to see what possible use you could be to us as an ally."

Yao springs to his feet, slamming his glass down on the counter so hard that it shatters and sends the remains of his drink splashing onto Francis' coat. In the ensuing shocked silence, Arthur remarks drily, "Someone's going to have to pay for that,"; whether he means the beerglass or the coat, Yao doesn't know, and he's too angry to care. He opens his mouth to scream at them all, at the whole collection of idiots he's stupid enough to be allied with – but the sudden thought of the one who isn't there stops him short. He'd never lose it like this. He knows that anger isn't strength; he's so strong – the strongest of any of us – and yet he's usually so calm. Yao sighs, and sits down again, feeling foolish. The others stare at him, surprised that the expected outburst isn't forthcoming.

"Just look at us," he says quietly. "Anyone would think we were going to war against each other tomorrow, instead of as allies." He notices that Arthur has the grace to look ashamed. Good. Sitting down again, he asks, "Speaking of allies, does anyone know where Braginski's got to?" It feels odd to Yao to refer to him in that way, but he knows that to call him 'Ivan' would probably seem strange to the others. First names are for friends, after all, and as far as they know, Ivan, you and I have never been especially close.

There is an uncomfortable pause in which Arthur looks at Francis, Francis looks at Alfred, and Alfred looks back at his elder brother; no-one speaks for what seems like an eternity. Finally, there is a cough from the far corner, and a small voice says, "Y-you mean you don't know?"

Yao stares at Matthew Williams in horror. "What? What should I know? What's happened?" The panic is clearly audible in his voice; he tries to calm himself down before the others notice. He doesn't want their probing questions about why he's so concerned for Ivan, can't stand the thought of the teasing that would inevitably follow. "Please, somebody tell me what's going on." It's no use; his heart is racing, his voice shaking with fear. "Is he – is he OK?" Ivan – if anything's happened to you –

Arthur lets out a bitter laugh. "He won't be when I've finished with him, the bastard."

Relief and confusion and annoyance mingle in Yao's mind. "I don't understand. What's he done?"

This time it is Alfred who speaks. "Dude, you mean you seriously don't know? I thought you would have found out first." I've had other things on my mind these past few weeks, Yao thinks angrily. Alfred exchanges a desperate glance with his companions, then shrugs. "I guess someone has to say it. Braginski's joined up with your brother."

No. It can't be. "They're allies?" Yao says weakly. A joke. It's just a joke.

Alfred looks embarrassed. "Um, more than allies, actually, if you catch my drift," he admits.

The truth hits Yao with the force of a physical blow, and he has to grip the bar with his good hand to stop himself from collapsing. He doesn't even notice that a shard of broken glass has sliced into his palm; that pain is nothing to the pain filling his body at Alfred's words. Why? WHY? Of all the people you could have chosen – you, Kiku, you little bastard, going after the one person I care about…I bet you knew, didn't you? And you, Ivan, picking him of all people, the one who's hurt me worst of all, betrayed me more times than I can bear to remember…

Ivan, why? He almost cries it aloud, beyond caring now whether or not the others will work out his feelings for Ivan. He wants to scream that unanswerable question at the walls, wants to turn something – or someone – else into the broken ragdoll he has too often let himself become at the hands of the traitor who has stolen Ivan from his grasp. But what emerges, finally, is not a roar but a whimper. "Kiku, you b-bastard…"

Yao doesn't even realise he is crying until Francis lays a hand on his shoulder and suggests, not unkindly, that he go to wash his face. "Matthieu, maybe you should take him, make sure he's alright. And – oh mon dieu, Yao, your hand…"

He sees for the first time that the cut on his palm is bleeding heavily; he still can't feel it, though. Shakily, he straightens up and takes a step to follow Matthew – then he stops, and turns to face his remaining allies. "So, we're fighting without I- without Braginski?" Blood spatters the floor as he clenches his hand into a fist. "So be it. We're still going to fight, and we're still going to win. There is an evil out there that must be crushed." An evil none of you recognise.

As he follows Matthew out of the room, he vows, Ivan, I'm going to get you away from him, whatever it takes. And Kiku? His fist clenches tighter at the memory of all the wrong done to him by the man he calls brother, the one he has raised alone for so many years only to see him turn into…he can only call him a monster. The physical scars may fade, but he knows that the pain of each betrayal will stay as fresh as it was when first inflicted.

Little brother, I'm going to make you pay.

So what did you think? I know, I know, I'm messing with the history - Russia was never part of the Axis (in fact the Anti-Comintern Pact, which kind of extended the Rome-Berlin Axis to Japan, was an anti-Communist and therefore anti-Russian thing). But he DID sign the Nazi-Soviet Pact with Germany, which is my excuse for taking him out of the Allies until 1941 and for sticking some Rupan in there. So no flames on grounds of historical inaccuracy...please? *makes puppy eyes at reader*

Oh, and about Japan - I think in this universe he may be schizophrenic, just to warn you :) (So I can blame the bad stuff on Dark Japan and still have him as my favourite character...)

Sorry for the huge note! Please, if you've got this far, at least leave me a review, 'kay?