Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

England, September 2nd, 1939

Arthur Kirkland sits at the stained wooden table, the curtains drawn wide open despite it being a cloudy, miserable night outside. Wax drips onto his floor from melting candles, hardening into strange shapes that he, if he was not so busy, would interpret. There is a half-drunken beer placed next to him, precariously close to the edge of the table.

His quill scratches on the paper, his forehead wrinkled in frustration as he does his work, a large stack forced upon him that very evening by his boss. Realistically, Arthur should be used to doing so much work—but it never fails to ruin his mood until it is all finally finished.

Francis Bonnefoy, his rival whom he hates with a burning passion sits on his leather sofa, long blond hair draped over his shoulders like a silk scarf, freshly dried. Arthur can smell his perfume—which the man insists on wearing, even before bed—from where he sits, and he despises it. 

The Frenchman holds a book in Russian, far too thick for Arthur’s liking, his eyes moving from left to right, his eyebrows raised attentively and mouth slightly open. It is a book Arthur could only dream of reading one day, especially because of the language it is written in. He did not even recall buying the book—why would he buy a book he could not read?—but he is glad it is being used.

Arthur decides Francis is not worth any other speck of his attention and turns his gaze, full of distaste, back to his work. His gaze grows in distaste. He scoffs as he replies to another dimwitted letter from a journalist asking whether he truly cries whenever it rains in the country.

The answer is yes, but he says it depends on how heavily it is raining. Only people of his kind—Hetalians, he has heard from Kiku Honda—know of this little secret they share. Arthur keeps it tucked into his chest, because he doesn’t want to be seen crying. Arthur Kirkland cries a lot.

Many people tell him not to be ashamed of it; namely Francis and China, who also cry a lot, but Arthur ignores them. In his country, men are strong, they should be strong, and weeping will throw any woman off. It does not help that he is scrawny and short, when Francis is tall with a muscular build. Francis does not use his masculinity, and that pisses him off—he grows out his hair and wears makeup that prostitutes have recommended him.

Arthur Kirkland is incredibly jealous of Francis Bonnefoy. So much so that he feels hot with envy each time he spares a glance at the man. His stubble is so manly and yet his hair is so beautiful and such a lovely, shiny shade of golden that it looks feminine. His looks are well balanced, and Arthur cannot fathom how Francis manages to always seem perfect every single day. 

Even when he has first woken up, or when he has come out of the shower at long last, smelling of his rose bar soap and luxurious shampoo, the man looks like an angel. Even Greece and North Italy, whenever they used to meet, would comment on Francis’ dashing looks, saying loudly that he was ‘blessed by Aphrodite,’ or ‘smiled upon by Lady Venus.’

Arthur doesn’t believe in any of those gods, and is constantly changing religions and beliefs—is he a witch, an Anglo-Saxon pagan, for he does spells and has altars for the old gods; or is he a Christian, attending church and switching between being Catholic and Protestant? Despite this, the Greek and Italian are not wrong, although Arthur understands North Italy’s comments more than Greece’s. Once, Jupiter and Juno and other gods of theirs were worshipped in temples built in his country.

He too was seen as a son of Rome. It is weird to think about, for he has no parents, and if he was Ancient Rome’s child, then he is technically North and South Italy’s brother. Arthur thinks that the Holy Roman Empire just has too many kids. It is surely a pain for the man—he couldn’t imagine looking after one child, nevertheless fifty.

A clearing of a throat breaks Arthur out of his contemplation, and he realises he’s dripped ink all over the parchment. He finds he does not care—it was a worthless paper anyway that wasn’t all that important to answer. Francis clears his throat again, trying to garner Arthur’s precious attention. He snaps his head over, mouth set in a thin line. 

“Oh, what is it, frog?”

Francis, the bastard he is, answers in smooth French, voice trickling like honey down Arthur’s spine. He feels his cheeks heat in absolute hatred towards this man. He hears a candle crackle in the distance.

He says, “Dear Arthur, don’t be so hostile. You looked like you were losing focus, is all—and we cannot be doing that in such a terrible time.” 

Arthur raises an eyebrow, evidently uninformed. What ‘terrible time’ is this man even speaking of? Is he being dramatic? Most likely so, but he can’t find an ounce of humour in Francis’ worried expression, only anxiety. Even his inhuman turquoise eyes do not twinkle in amusement as they usually do. 

“What on Earth are you talking about, France?” he exclaims, taking a swig of his beer, setting it back down on the table with a splash, the drink splattering all over his right hand. 

Francis waves his hands around, shaking his head. Arthur notices his hair yet again, shining in the warm light, bouncy and light. It is objectively gorgeous.

“Have you not heard, Angleterre?” the Frenchman replies with little mirth. His eyes look hollow, tired now that Arthur looks deeper, paying no mind to the disliked nickname in concern.

He has not seen Francis this weary since the Battle of Verdun, during the Great War. What could have possibly put him so off? Arthur wonders if whatever has happened is the reason the man is so bearably quiet. 

“Evidently not,” Arthur remarks with a sarcastic bite in his voice, “that is why I am asking, Francis.”

Francis sighs, beckoning Arthur over to the chair beside him—an old rocking chair that used to have a multitude of blankets piled on top of it. He doesn't know why he should move from his work, or why this information is so stressful on the man.

He only hopes that it is not another marriage legislation. Arthur still is not over that incident. Francis looked very gloomy during that time too.

“The information is most likely in that large pile of papers,” he says while pointing to Arthur’s absurd amount of work. “But it is Germany—despite our governments giving that Nazi everything he asked for without war, it has not been sufficient.”

Arthur pauses, fingers coming to his mouth as he connects the dots—he is not idiotic, and knows of this story too much. “Ludwig has invaded Poland, yes?”

“Yes,” Francis speaks in English and looks away at the door, eyes lazy and lips pale. “We did give them a warning, did we not?”

“So we did.”

The Englishman watches as Francis pulls out a cigarette from the little burnt box in his pajama pocket—why he carries cigarettes in his nightwear, Arthur doesn’t know—lighting it with a nearby candle engraved with runes and covered in rosemary.

White smoke curls upwards in a long, moving ribbon into the air. He is not bothered by the smell, or the fact that Francis is smoking inside, for multiple pieces of wooden furniture already have the smell of tobacco eternally soaked into them. Arthur is many things, but he tries not to be a hypocrite.

He has had enough of the silence, standing up abruptly, knocking over some of the alcoholic beverage on the table, splashing on his clothes. He does not value the piece of rotting furniture so much as to be bothered to clean it up, making his way to the space next to Francis instead of the rocking chair. 

“Do you think that Germany—I mean Beilschmidt, that is—is in support of this?” Arthur asks, lighting a bundle of lavender and cinnamon ablaze, placing it next to his engraved protection candle. He breathes in the smoke, allowing it to cleanse the room from any negative energies that he had been brought up believing in. 

He feels Francis’ eyes upon him, watching every single motion he makes. His face feels like it is on fire, his eyebrows furrowing in displeasure. He reaches for his salt, half-convinced that if he threw it at himself, these strange sinking feelings in his gut would be banished.

Francis takes in a breath. “He has always been wanting to expand his territory, whether he admits it or not.”

“Don't be so harsh on the boy,” Arthur reprimands, leaning into Francis, taking his hand to guide the cigarette to his own mouth. He sighs in pleasure after taking a drag, letting go of the other man's hand. 

Arthur decides he doesn't like the way Francis stares at him after smoking, eyes wide and thick eyelashes fluttering. God, how is it that even his eyelashes are pretty? It isn’t fair. 

The stupid, horrendously attractive man hums, resting his hand on Arthur’s cheek with care. Arthur feels his usually cold ears warm—it is a terrible thing, so he really, really loathes it. 

“Francis,” he warns, voice forcefully steady. He ignores how his eyes blur slightly, clenching his teeth.

Francis smiles, taking another puff of his cigarette, turning his head to breathe out. 

“Arthur,” he says in that disgusting French accent. 

It is oddly familiar. Francis used to say his name, his human name until he began his relationship with Portugal. Then it became England once again. Occasionally Dr. Kirkland. Despite himself, he likes it—of course he does. 

Everybody likes it when they are called their preferred name, after all. 

Even if he did care, Arthur would understand. Human names for beings like them are intimate. Private. Both Francis and him are involved with other people—João is his, and Arthur does not know what on Earth Francis is doing with Spain.

Arthur doesn’t want to admit that he reminisces the days when Francis used to call him by his name in his overly-dramatic French accent fondly.

Arthur’s voice cracks. “I need another cigarette.”

Francis grins, bearing his pearly white teeth. His hands find their way into his pocket again, grabbing another fag and passing it to him, not before lighting it on the same enchanted candle. It flickers as the cigarette is lit, a tear of liquified wax dripping down onto the shelf it is placed upon.

He watches it dry as he smokes, admiring how over time the once-perfect candle transformed into something like a dirty, herb-covered waterfall. It reminds him of himself—born from the roots of the world, gifted sentience by Mother Terra or God. 

He is no longer pure, no longer naked and free, no longer covered in mud and crouching down next to his brothers, cooking meat over a fire. 

Arthur Kirkland is no longer Captain Kirkland as he was in the 1700s, and he is also no longer Lady Lisboa-Carriedo as he was known in the 1800s, married to João, presenting as a woman.

It is not uncommon for their kind to present as different genders at different times, for societal views and norms affect how they present themselves in public. Though despite their body changing, any lasting impacts are kept nearly eternally.

This is how Francis is blind in one eye, and João’s left leg is thoroughly burned to the point of near disability. Coincidentally, all of their major injuries are from when they all got too bored and ran off during the Golden Age of Piracy.

It is admittedly one of his more embarrassing decades of his long, tiring life, but he does not regret his scarred back one bit.

Francis was his best friend, the most brilliant person on board that ship. A strategist. Navigator. She and Spain singlehandedly kept the men on board lively, singing with glee almost every night.

Francis is also the one who breaks him out of his thoughts, blowing a wave of smoke into his face. “Ah-ah! Arthur, you have that look in your eyes,” he teases, “are you perhaps reminiscing?”

Arthur stays silent for a moment, feeling his eye twitch. The right response is on the tip of his tongue, but he cannot reach it. 

“Do you remember 1704, Francis?” Arthur asks instead, still peering at the steadily melting candle. A sprinkle of rosemary catches fire and turns black, then into nothing. 

Francis scoffs. “Is the sky blue? Of course I remember 1704—possibly the most fun I’ve had in my life, Arthur!”

Arthur’s lips twitch in amusement, and he crosses his legs, sinking further into the leather couch comfortably. He supposes it was a stupid question, but worth asking anyway. 

“I’m glad,” he says sardonically. “It was the last few years we had before everything turned to shit.”

The Frenchman snorts, a nostalgic glimmer in his tired eyes. “Oui, that is right. But I thought you rather enjoyed the 1800s?”

Arthur flushes. He’s not ashamed of those years, but he doesn't necessarily like them being brought up. It causes him major gender issues—sometimes, he misses being a woman. His long blonde hair and curves on his hips.

But right now, for example, he feels no such wants. He is happy as a man and rather likes his somewhat muscular, bony body.

He clears his throat before answering, trying to avoid another embarrassing vocal break. “I— yes, the married life was quite enjoyable…”

Francis laughs, inching closer to him. His breath smells like tobacco, and Arthur is all too aware of it. He is aware only because of how close Francis is to him. 

“Gender has never dulled your beauty, Arthur,” he muses at his blushing cheeks. “Don't be ashamed of femininity, Angleterre. You mustn't forget that I was a woman in 1704; you experienced it yourself!”

Oh, of course he has not forgotten. Not Francis’ red dress, how he’d delicately hold his sword, or even his darkened hair colour. Arthur has not forgotten Frances Bonnefoy one bit. 

On second thought, he finds the name rather funny. No wonder Spain was always making fun and laughing whenever somebody called Frances’ name.

Gone is the sad, tired tone that the Frenchman had when informing him about the incoming war. It is replaced with warm, glistening eyes and excited recollections, and Arthur loves it. It has been a long time since somebody sat down and reviewed their memories with him. 

“Of course I do, Lady Frances. Honestly, I felt rather homesick when we were sailing—do you remember when Spain managed to flirt his way out of prison?” 

Francis nearly jumps in happiness, slamming his cigarette down on the table with an exuberant beam on his face. Arthur blames the smoke for making his face burn up.

“Oui! Mon dieu, how could I let that slip from my memory?! Yes, it was brilliant—and Gilbert managed to slip on board from his place… oh, my God!” Francis exclaims, standing up and nearly skipping around the room. Arthur watches, trying to push down a bubbly feeling that makes him want to choke himself.

The man continues, “We should run off again—maybe after we’ve sorted out this entire mess with Germany and Poland—‘cause I now find myself missing those days so, so much,” he admits. “Arthur, let us travel the world, rich and free!”

He raises his glass of wine, and Arthur clinks it with his beer.

“To travel a world, rich and free!” they say in unison, taking a swig of their drinks.

Arthur smiles.

Poland, September 8th, 1939

Ludwig Beilschmidt is so done. 

This is not an exaggeration. He is actually, completely, utterly done with everything in his long life. For the first time, he wishes that Gilbert would do his work because he swears that the dark circles under his eyes are growing by the day and they are eating at his face until there is nothing left.

Gilbert Beilschmidt, ‘zie awesome Prussia,’ is a flirtatious, annoying man who desperately needs to be humbled. If that is who Ludwig wishes the responsibilities were placed upon, then the situation is grave.

On the bleak note of graves, Ludwig thinks he might actually shoot himself! How lovely. 

It has been eight days since German troops invaded Poland—an absolutely idiotic idea, for Ludwig could already tell this was going to spiral into something completely worse—and despite swift victories, he wants to run away to Greece and go into eternal sleep.

God, he desperately needs sleep.

What his new boss (whom Ludwig is very unsure about for some unknown reason) does not understand—and he is sure many others of his kind experience this too—is that he is human.

Ludwig will quite literally pass out on the battlefield and die (once again) if he doesn't rest soon. 

A familiar voice pops into his head.

Hey, at least the English and French aren’t coming to help Poland! It says.

It is accented and overly optimistic, and he knows it is Austria-Hungary. It ticks him off, but he can't tell if he's pissed off at the voice or at everything because he is so exhausted.

Another voice shouts, and he nearly flinches. 

They are absolutely trash allies, this other one says.

It is also accented, and on further reflection, Ludwig realises it is none other than Lovino Vargas. 

Then he realises that maybe it's not normal to decode who the voices in his head belong to. Or even if it's normal to have voices in his head at all—either one is probably true, but it doesn't matter because Ludwig just needs some damn sleep.

For context: Ludwig ‘Germany’ Beilschmidt has not had an actual rest since that horrible, child-killing Treaty of Versailles. Hell, he hasn't eaten since then—giving up his small amount of food to the starving children on the streets, their fathers killed in the Great War.

He has died of starvation many, many times in the past few years, and currently, another death is crawling up his spine. The momentary blackness of death is the only time he has ‘rested,’ if you could call it that.

The best way to describe death is a sleep that doesn't grant you energy, and doesn't refresh you. It is black and freezing, unsatisfying and painful.

Sometimes he stands up and sees stars, other times he collapses. It has gotten worse now—his boss drafting him into the army, despite his warnings.

Ludwig knows that a bold move like this is guaranteed for a long-term war, and if he's being honest, he can’t be bothered. His muscle has been lost to lack of food and he’s so close to pulling out his hair because nobody seems to understand his pain anymore.

Ludwig Beilschmidt is a dead man walking, and he is being forced to participate in another idiotic war that he didn't want. His boss had, at first, raised morale for the country and even he had hope at first. And then he began to withhold food as a form of punishment if he didn't do his work to standard.

Honestly, it's completely and utterly illogical. How is he to work well if all that is on his mind is a loaf of buttered bread? Everyone forgets that he is still human.

Immortal, yes, but human and so very desperate for that single piece of bread. 

On second thought, he took the Great War’s rations for granted. He remembers how Hungary would always try to steal Austria’s food, hungry for more. 

Ha. Ha. Hungary was hungry for more.

Yep, he’s definitely gone insane. He shakes the thought off with a wry smile.

He remembers that he used to complain about the canned beans tasting awful when now they seem like a delicacy. It makes his stomach hurt, just thinking about the food he had in the Great War.

On the note of the Great War, Ludwig is somewhat happy to recognize some of the soldiers that sit in ditches around him.  sitting in ditches as soldiers from back then. It is certainly courageous and impressive—not many survived those years without major disability.

A middle-aged man sits, surrounded by a chatty bunch of young boys, all sharing a can of syrupy fruit. They look tired, but they continue to sit upright and talk, leaning on each other for support. 

Ludwig watches fondly at his citizens, mud squishing beneath his boots as he walks towards them. The boys wave at him and move closer together, leaving a space for him to sit. 

“Ah, Beilschmidt!” the man says warmly, shaking his hand. Ludwig cannot remember his name for the life of him. 

Ludwig smiles anyway. “Hello there, Sir,” he exclaims, ignoring how his stomach growls as he moves to sit down. Nobody comments on it.

A boy—no older than 17, surely—grins though, and offers a piece of slobbery peach he had just pinched from the can to him. It is covered in dirt from where the boy has put his unwashed hands. It is the finest thing on Earth.

Ludwig, forgoing his cool façade, embarrassingly snatches it and stuffs it into his mouth before there could even be a possibility of it falling onto the ground. The slippery, rubbery feeling in his mouth is divine and he cannot help but hum in satisfaction at the one piece. It’s sour and most definitely old, with the mud on it shifting on his tongue adding negatively to the texture and taste. 

And yet this single piece of canned peach is a heavenly blessing, and it invigorates him. He feels like his eyes have just cleared. His hands stop shaking, and now he wants more. So much more. He wants to devour the entire tin.

But alas, he can not. It is food, and it will do for the time being, no matter how much he craves. And dear God, it tasted so good. He won't forget this moment—it was so delicious he could nearly cry. 

The first bite of food in years is a stupid piece of peach and yet it’s so utterly delicious. Curse his hunger for making everything remotely edible taste like the finest thing in the world.

Laughter breaks him out of his thinking, and he watches as the man scolds the boys for opening another can, rushing through food that should be rationed. He supposes that the eat-small tendencies and habits were still active even a few years after the Great War.

A young man with vibrant red hair slaps the elder lightly. “Mr Schneider, give it a break!” he remarks, stuffing his mouth with the piece of pink fruit, “Beilschmidt looks so hungry—he can't work well if he’s going to faint upon standing, can he?”

Mr Schneider—yes, Elias Schneider, that was it—looks in his direction with an inquisitive expression. He hums in approval, grabbing the can and passing it to him with a smile. 

“That is true—do you not have your own food?”

Ludwig takes it and tries to keep his composure while eating. He shakes his head, swallowing a large gulp before explaining. 

“No. Der Führer has withheld food from me,” he says, digging into another slice. He sees a few boys shift uncomfortably and lower their gaze out of his peripheral vision. 

It is silent for a moment.

The red-head clears his throat. “...You have met Der Führer?”

“I think the bigger question is why Hitler is stopping him from eating,” a blond remarks flatly.

Ludwig has forgotten that only soldiers from the Great War know he is the literal personification of their country. These new kids in the army know nothing about it. 

What a pain. It was rather annoying during the last war—he was treated like royalty, not like a soldier. He could not properly do his job without somebody insisting that they could do it instead. 

He remembers that the Austro-Hungarian Empire experienced the same (Austria was rather happy to sit down and relax, talking with him often, while Hungary would sneak out and help the men wash their uniforms) and so did Lovino when he was still allied with him. Ludwig wonders if the Triple Entente experienced the same thing when they were in the trenches.

Ludwig wants to help. He can't stand just sitting around, watching as his men fail doing jobs he could easily do, usually resulting in permanent death. At least he comes back each and every time he dies. His people can not. 

…People never treated Gilbert like that, and Gilbert is—was—the whole Prussian Empire! Gilbert works away, talking about how in his prime, he’d go out walking and help people cook, and yet Ludwig is treated like porcelain even when he is clearly well built and used to manual jobs from living with Roderich back in the day.

On that last thought, Ludwig guesses that he does not look as well built as he used to. Starvation and lack of sleep will do that to a man. He wouldn’t be surprised if he looks like he’s a breeze away from shattering, or if he sways on his feet because his body is too heavy for his frail legs without realising it. Not surprised. But definitely flustered.

Schneider notes his silence and answers for him. “Beilschmidt is Germany,” he says bluntly.

It is such a simple way of putting it. Beilschmidt is Germany. 

It is simple, and with that, it is incomplete. The short, three-worded explanation is missing something. Perhaps that something is how Beilschmidt is not actually Beilschmidt, for he doesn't truly have a surname. It is his brother's mortal surname, so he took it, for he had nothing else.

Or maybe that something is the fact that Ludwig is not simply Germany, but he is—was?—Holy Rome (though he doesn't remember that well), the German Confederation, the German Empire, the Weimar Republic and now the Third Reich. 

The answer is too plain for his liking—which is rather strange, because Ludwig knows all too well how much he likes straightforward and effective communication. His gut churns.

The group stays quiet before a small, shy boy whispers, “Wh—what do you mean by that?”

Reddie—Ludwig decides to call the ginger-haired boy—scoffs. “The myths are real, Carl! There truly is an angel sent from God.”

“I wonder if every country has an angel,” a boy with dreamy gray eyes says.

Ludwig’s eyes widen in shock. An angel?! What blasphemous lies have the people been spreading around? He—and every other being of his kind—are human, just like them! 

He frowns. “Excuse me? None of us—not even Gilbert—are angels,” Ludwig murmurs. “Where on Earth did you hear that from?”

Reddie looks at him incredulously. 

“The church.”

Ludwig sighs, feeling the deep holes under his eyes expand impossibly further. He is so ready for this entire thing to be over.

Poland, September 15th, 1939

Germany steps over the body of the red-headed boy with a heavy heart. 

His eyes are glassy and blood runs into his open mouth like a river, a bullet shot straight into his cheekbone.

Ludwig bends down, adjusting his gun, and prays. 

He prays for his soul to rest in peace, gently shutting the boy’s once-sparkling green eyes and closing his red-stained lips. With a hand, he brushes dirt off Reddie’s cheek and leaves him there to rot.

It is a shame—and the heartbreak of seeing such a young man be shot and left on the mud without care has never lessened. Reddie, whom Ludwig learned was actually called Lucas, had a French mother and a German father and he had lived in the Austro-Hungarian Empire until it collapsed, moving to Germany later.

Lucas had two pet dogs and three younger sisters to come home to. He would never make it back.

This boy, filled with life and joy, would never wake up to sunlight again, and his memory would be forgotten. Lucas Weber, son of Adrian and Elodie Weber, will not be remembered. He will be a number. One of the many integers in the recorded number of German deaths, instead of a human being.

Today marked the brief defeat of his army against the Poles at the Bzura River, but he finds he does not care much. The sight of his fellow soldiers, each with their own individual lives, sprawled out on the banks of the river is the more upsetting subject on his mind.

Germany continues to walk. 

It is only when Ludwig lays down and stares at the can of peaches that Schneider had given him when he realises what exactly the man’s explanation was missing. 

It’s not mainly because of how broad the term Germany is, for Austria is currently part of Germany and he is most definitely not Roderich, but just like Lucas Weber’s body, it lacks life. It lacks everything that Ludwig has.

Ludwig’s heart beats violently in its mortal shell he calls a ribcage, and it pumps crimson blood around his body approximately one-hundred thousand times a day like anybody else. Germany has no heart, and is a mangled mush of dirt and land with buildings drilled on top of it. The things on the surface of Ludwig’s skin are not metal, concrete walls, and roads, but thin blonde strands of hair and little dots speckled like stars.

His borders aren’t jagged and surrounded by Poland, the Netherlands and Belgium, but they are smooth and supple. They are the edges of his body—his hip dips are wonderfully human and will never be drawn by politics. 

Ludwig can only hope that he seems as human as he feels. 

Russia, September 16th, 1939

The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics lowers himself into the bath, ignoring the way his knees creak. His long hair, uncut since 1918, falls over his shoulders gently. It is soft and silky. It does not need to be washed for another week or so, but he knows that this will be one of the last times he has the chance to weave his shampoo (which, he is informed, is the first which uses synthetic surfactants instead of soap) into his scalp. It is a small, capitalist marvel tucked into a bottle. He tries not to think about that too much.

The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics takes his hair very, very, seriously. It is all he has left. His hair, and the half-empty bottle of Drene shampoo that sinks slightly into the water he bathes in.

He uses his grown out fingernails, dainty and well-groomed to scrub the product into his head, letting out a groan as he scratches out a piece of gunk. He lets it sit and fester for a bit, not scrubbing the ends because he has heard from a woman in a brothel that it is a waste of soap and bad for the hair.

Apparently, it’s abrasive and can weaken the individual strands. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics does not want to ruin his luscious platinum locks in any way, shape or form. 

His body leans against the edge of the wooden tub, and he hears the door open. It echoes in the cold hallways outside and sounds oddly like his knees. Or maybe his knees sound oddly like the door. Either one works.

He does not pay any mind to hide his body—it is already partly blurred in the milky water—for he recognised the footsteps outside his door before they came in. It is Natalya. 

Natalya is, technically, part of him now. Natalya should not be alive. He is partly terrified of Natalya.

Yes, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics is terrified of his younger sister who technically works under him now as his servant. Natalya walks up to him, locking the door behind her and stripping off her clothes.

He grimaces, closing his eyes. Natalya is very insistent on bathing with him. He wishes she didn’t—not because he finds it uncomfortable seeing his sister’s body, but because he knows exactly why she still likes to bathe together.

Iryna does not wash him like she used to anymore. He thinks she might be afraid of him.

(Deep down, he cannot blame her.)

“Ivan,” she says, sinking into the bath herself. “I have not seen you in quite a while.”

He passes her the bottle of shampoo silently, the water trickling down his scarred arm and back into the quickly cooling water. 

She scoffs when she looks at the label. “Drene,” she pronounces in terrible English, voice incredibly accented, “Ivan, are you getting into that American bullshit? Surely it can’t be that nice compared to our bars of soap!”

He has to close his eyes with a tired sigh before answering. He is not in the mood to talk. 

“You should try it,” he offers, beckoning her over. Natalya has lovely hair too—slightly longer than his. It is wheat blonde but is often greasy, as she works outside so much.

She moves over to him, turning so her back faces his chest. Water splashes out of the container, hitting the floor with a splat. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics’ eye twitches at the particularly loud sound. 

But he can’t be angry. Today is the last day before he and the troops storm into Poland to help Germany, and to take part of the new country itself. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics will expand once again. The addition is not needed. It makes him feel even more hollow. 

He twists off the cap with his thumbs, gathering the orange liquid on his sister’s wet hair, beginning to lather it until it becomes bubbly. She lets out a long exhale and her body relaxes, humming as his nails—so perfect and clean compared to hers—wear off dead pieces of skin on her scalp.

It is weird. He remembers the Great War as if it were yesterday. Germany and him were enemies. Fighting against each other. The Russian Empire, France and Britain against the German Empire, Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire. 

And now, a whole revolution has happened. He has expanded. People have died because of his absolute prick of a boss. He hid in his cold, cigarette-smelling bedroom during the Great Purge of 1937, not wanting to attend the unfair court sessions. 

His old friends acquaintances are now his enemies. How the tables have turned.

On this thought, Natalya lets out a soft sigh of relief as he scratches a spot lower down on her scalp. She tips her head back and nudges him to keep going.

It is funny, he thinks, how something dead can give so much pleasure if shaped in the correct way.

Fingernails.

What a strange thought.

By the time they have finished washing themselves, the water is as cold as the Russian Autumn. 

???

He opens the can of peaches with two hands, looking inside. Gilbert's face, mangled and bloody, stares up at him. 

The feast will come soon, it says.

Despite himself, he can’t help looking forward to it. He is so very hungry.

Poland, September 17th, 1939

Ludwig wakes up in a cold sweat. He sprints out from under his thin blanket and catches his breath. His clothes are wet, just like his pillow. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, stepping over sleeping soldiers with shaky legs. The sun has not begun to rise, so he can’t blame them for sleeping. He doubts it is even three in the morning yet. 

As he stumbles over to a small pocket mirror that the army uses collectively, he notes how the number of men has declined marginally in the past week. He silently mourns all the people lost, his mouth set in a deep frown.

He looks at himself in the mirror, eyes straining for light. His forehead is completely soaked in sweat and pieces of greasy hair and dirt stick to it unpleasantly. His scleras are unnaturally red. Ludwig almost doesn’t recognise himself.

The feast will come soon.

The mirror drops to the ground with a sickening clatter. Somebody stirs, muttering unintelligible words in what sounds like Hungarian. A hand comes to his mouth, and he holds down a gag, running out of the abandoned house they had taken cover in.

The first thing he realises is how cold it is outside. Wind beats against his face, whipping it bare, until it is freezing to the touch and most definitely a shade of pink, just like those canned peaches.

He cannot tell if the ringing in his ears is because of the incessant noise of crickets chirping or his own racing thoughts.

Then he looks up.

The moon is in its Waxing Crescent phase, and it is so vibrant against the black, empty sky. It shines so brightly that he can’t see any stars out—it blinds him and makes his head throb, but his eyes are glued.

The Waxing Crescent—a symbol of intention and hope. How very ironic.

It is wonderful, really. He is looking up at the moon—the moon billions of other people have stared at, just like him—and he can’t fathom the chance of hundreds— hell, even thousands of men and women doing the exact same thing as him, right at the same moment. Despite their differences, despite war and politics, despite mistreatment and hate, they all look up at the end of the day to the same moon.

They sleep under the same moon, and are all made visionless by the same sun during the day. Why must people fight for things so trivial such as land when there is so much out there?

“Greatness.”

Ludwig wraps a hand around his gun and turns swiftly, pointing it toward the culprit of the hushed voice. 

His eyes land on a man—one so very familiar—with aurous hair as well as eyes so green they nearly glow. The blond, like him, is frail. He has sunken cheekbones and no amount of emerald green can disguise how obscenely dead his pupils are. 

Ludwig sucks in a breath, taken aback. Through the pitiful appearance and shallow voice, it is undoubtedly Poland. Nothing could change that—no matter who rules over the country, no matter the circumstance. This man is still the Poland that Ludwig once met while having tea with Gilbert.

The country’s wings are spread open, a rare sight for anyone, and they are ripped. They drip blood onto the ground, staining the lower half of the snowy white wings with crimson. He finds it beautiful. He finds it horrible.

Poland, in his stained robes, draped in crucifixes and veils, all in an innocent, ruined white bows his head. 

He says hoarsely, “You asked. I answered.”

Ludwig’s hands shake around the trigger. He keeps his finger on it, just in case.  

“I shall hang myself tonight. How fitting. It seems Lord Arthur Kirkland has just drawn the Hanged Man card,” Poland states.

Bland. Without personality, or intimacy. No tone—that is how one would describe his voice. 

Ludwig understands, at least a little. Poland hasn’t had the chance to grow as a person—he’s spent too much of his life under someone else’s rule. America, ever the optimist, managed to develop a personality despite his own colonial past. But Ludwig suspects that’s because he was allowed to. He was raised in an eccentric household, encouraged to express himself from a young age. 

Poland never had that. Poland had twenty-one years being independent, born from the crumbling pieces of the Kingdom of Poland. It takes longer than that to become someone whole. It took Ludwig around forty. 

It wouldn’t be impossible for the man not to even have a name yet. 

At this point of existence, it was hard to tell if the man could be counted as a human being. Especially with the way he staggers, the way his wings tremble with pain behind him. The way he clings onto a strand of rope like it is the most valuable gem of all, and not the weapon he is to end himself with. 

Ludwig gulps. His throat feels tight. “Do you have a name, Poland?”

“No,” comes the short answer.

“Then let me give you one.”

There is a long pause, where it is yet again silent bar the incredibly loud crickets in the bushes around them. The moon seems to shine brighter. Perhaps this is a path to a new beginning. Ludwig is sure this is the right decision.

Poland inclines his head—barely a movement, hardly a nod, but it is consent nevertheless. Ludwig lowers his gun and takes the other’s hand in his, avoiding eye contact.

The country’s hand is warm. It surprises him—for someone so cold and detached, his body is certainly lovely and cozy. It gives Poland potential to grow.

Ludwig hopes that despite everything, Poland can grow. To a whole human being, a person. Not just this empty husk of a being, unable to live without guidance.

“Feliks,” Ludwig decides. 

It means happiness. Fortune.

He decides not to tell him that just yet—for wishes cannot come true if uttered to another person. 

He watches as troops of men gather around the body hanging from the tree with shock, mutters, and even empathy. They gently take it down with utmost respect, and per Ludwig’s request, place it in a warm area inside a nearby house with flowery wallpaper and a blanket. 

He disinfects Feliks’ wounds when he is left alone, mumbling prayers and humming songs. Once the man is all patched up, Ludwig removes all the pearly crucifixes and dirty layers of clothes from the body, leaving him in a thin white gown with holes in the back in case he wishes to use his wings with ease.

Softness will not bring you any closer to greatness, Germany.

He knows. He has tried pushing the voice aside, but when his mind begins to wander (which is more often than not, nowadays) he is brought back to the picture of a peach, a big meal that he is desperately craving, and voices telling him that the road to greatness is so close. He can make it, but he has to give up being so kind.

It would be so easy to remove him, it says as Ludwig sews together the last of Feliks’ cuts. He pushes through, ignoring how his head throbs and how his thoughts bring him back to the image of food. Again. And again.

Each little stitch. Each little stitch he is hit with the same little words until they are no longer little.

They are a necessity.

This is the correct path, he agrees, tying off the string at the end.

So he grabs his gun. The voice stops pestering him—that’s a good sign, isn’t it?

Germany brings his finger to the trigger and—

Does not shoot. 

He is fine. And he will not lose himself to an idiotic can of peaches.

That’s mean, the can of peaches replies.

Ludwig bashes his head against the wall.

Germany has grown used to the whispers in his ears by now. It’s not like they’re louder than the gunshots around him or the screams of men falling at his feet. He can block them out easily, therefore he does not care too much.

The Soviets have marched into Poland already, but Ludwig is surprised to have not caught a glimpse of the human representative of the nation yet. Braginsky is nowhere to be seen. 

That, in his opinion, is more eerie than the can of peaches he sees following him out of the corner of his eye. A missing person, especially of this influential caliber, is never a good sign. It is even worse if it is Braginsky. 

Braginsky is somewhat of a local legend, in a negative way. He is not known by his name, but through descriptions passed down from family to family—from names like skinwalker to demon, one thing never changes. It is his amethyst eyes and the crystal tears that fall over his cheeks. 

In every language there is across the world, he is always known by his eyes. 

And Ludwig, just at the thought of the man, feels a shiver up his spine. He is utterly, disgustingly frightened by Ivan Braginsky, and he does not try to deny it.

England, September 17th, 1939

A card flies out of his deck as he shuffles, landing face up on a burning candle. It begins to catch fire.

The Hanged Man.

By the time Arthur has blinked out of his shock, the card is nothing but mere ash in wax, oozing into his protective runes.

Poland, September 18th, 1939

Ludwig finds a chewed off fingernail on the altar of a church. It is filed nicely at the top, but a piece of rotting human flesh is stuck on the underside of it. 

He leaves it there.

Poland, September 25th, 1939

“Y’know,” a soldier named Gregor says while chewing loudly on a piece of stale bread, “I feel kinda bad.”

Germany straightens, raising an eyebrow. “Is that so? Why?”

“Dunno,” Gregor gulps, leaning back on another man. “We’re all human, yeah? I’m going deaf with all this bombing we’re doing, and it’s like… we’re not even the ones on the receiving end. I can’t imagine how many kids we’ve killed.”

The Polish soldier beside them, tied up and imprisoned, hums. It is oddly calm between everyone.

“Yeah. I guess so. But we’ve killed a bit too—even if we didn’t wanna,” the Polish soldier adds in poor German. 

Ludwig offers the man a bite of bread. He uses his mouth to take a chomp, chewing it down with speed. It is a wonder he didn’t choke.

“So you were drafted into the army?” Ludwig questions.

The Pole nods. “Correct. No choice, you see—I like my country, but I don’t see the point to… all this.”

He moves his head around in a circle, unable to use his tied up arms.

Germany’s mouth sets into a thin line. “No normal person asks for this, but it is our duty either way. Pray you stay safe under our other soldiers—not all of them are as kind as us.”

The man shrugs as best as he can. “I’ll die soon anyway. Give it less than a week, I say, and you and those Soviets will manage to garner a surrender from us. Well done, lads.”

The casualty of this conversation does not bode well with Ludwig.

Poland, September 28th, 1939

They have taken Warsaw. 

The once beautiful, quaint city smells of smoke and blood. The buildings have cracked and fallen, and Ludwig can hear a girl crying for her mother in Polish. It upsets him, and he wants nothing more to run to her and help. 

But you can’t—right, Germany? Peach croons, mocking. 

Germany smiles cruelly and aims his gun at the can of peaches. It was about time he shot it—it’s strange why the can has so suddenly appeared, straight in his line of sight. Usually, it is only pestering him from his peripheral vision; never has Peach been so bold as to position itself right in front of him. It is practically waiting to get shot.

He hesitates slightly. Does he really want to shoot Peach? In the end, it hasn’t been too bad. It’s only been pestering him slightly, but he’s always been able to do his work and sleep fine since that horrible dream just over a week ago. 

Peach insists that the dream wasn’t its doing—it was his own mind.

Aw, is the little baby Germany growing soft for m—

Bang.

He pulls the trigger and all the noise stops—the crying, the laughing, the muttering. His fingers relax and he lets out a sigh of relief. It is nice on his ears, and watching the red peach syrup dribble out of Peach’s head is very satisfying. 

Though the syrup is pretty thin. And peaches are pink, not red, so he can’t fathom why it looks like that. And Peach doesn’t have a head, so why is there a bullet wound in a head?

Germany blinks, and there is a dead girl laying in front of him. He realises that it is the child calling for her parents.

For some reason, he feels nothing but pleasure—it is silent now, and his head is finally free from the horrible buzzing. It is wondrous, as if the shot has cleared the fuzzy, cotton-like feeling in his brain.

Germany likes it, and plans to clear his mind more often.

“Sir,” a soldier says behind him, voice strangely silent. “Did you mean to kill her?”

Germany stays silent, relishing the quiet. Ludwig freezes and stiffly turns around, feeling completely sick. He has tried to forget it, to push the image of the poor child’s body out of his head, to blame it on someone else.

Because Ludwig didn’t kill her—he could never, why would he?—the can of peaches did. 

Logically, a can of peaches could not wrap its hands around a shotgun and fire it directly into a person’s head. It was not possible. But who else could have done it, if it was not Ludwig? 

Either way, it wasn’t him, so he didn’t need to worry. It was all fine. 

“No,” Ludwig answers simply, voice cracking. He blushes—how humiliating. He’s not a teenage boy, he’s a grown man; so why on Earth is his voice breaking so much?

The soldier blinks, a clear expression of doubt painted on his face.

 “Oh. Oh yeah, that’s okay too,” he exclaims with a tone that makes Ludwig feel like he’s gone mad. His face grows into an even darker shade of red.

“Wait—what’s that supposed to mean!?” he barks as the man begins to walk out. He does not answer, but he waves goodbye. Ludwig flushes harder at the rude, playful action.

Ooo, somebody’s insecure! Peach coos in his ear.

Ludwig scowls and slaps his forehead to shut the fruit up. What a pain.

His division of men settles in an abandoned church right on the outskirts of Warsaw for the night. 

Multiple men are huddled around each other for warmth inside, a few sleeping in lumps, limbs twisted like a pretzel and blankets dotted around. One man is snoring so loudly it keeps waking people up, and he is (to the others’ disappointment) not waking up to the plethora of yells and thrown pillows aimed his way.

Ludwig watches it all from a distance, snacking on the tiny piece of cracker that somebody gave him sparingly after he began to sway in his step after standing up from a ditch. It’s so bitter and it nearly crumbles in his light grip from being so devoid of moisture, but he’s thankful for it either way. He’ll take anything he can get nowadays.

He peers at a man in interest as he screams in fear because of a spider on the wall—a few soldiers laugh at him because his scream apparently sounds like a girl. An older gent throws his boot at it, and the small spider is crushed on the concrete.

Ludwig realises that he, despite his fearless exterior and many years of experience, is also scared of spiders. Spiders, and Ivan Braginsky.

Poland, October 5th, 1939

They have done it. Poland has been crushed under German boots and Soviet claws. He is proud.

But now, Germany has two new problems to dispose of—two problems by the name of Arthur Kirkland and Francis Bonnefoy.

Chapter Text

Poland, October 15th, 1939

Waking up from death is a strange feeling. 

It’s all too quiet—and one might think that you’d find bliss in the silence after so many days of non-stop noise, but all it does is cause a terrible ringing in his ears. Zero out of ten stars. It really isn’t nice, no matter how comfortable the bed he lies in. 

Feliks doesn’t feel too connected to his country right now. He knows this feeling all too well—he is occupied. He is occupied by none other than the creepy Ivan Braginsky and pitiful Ludwig Beilschmidt. 

But despite this, despite his lack of interest for his metaphorical body of land, he feels connected to himself. Because he is Feliks, Feliks Łukasiewicz—and cold, heartless Germany has given him a beautiful name meaning fortune. And Feliks can’t help but grin because although his country has been taken once again, he is fortunate. He has a chance to become human.

Yet this rush of emotion is quickly overshadowed by how crudely ugly the wallpaper is in this house. Knowing Germany, he thought it was quaint and delightfully floral. Feliks, on the other hand, knows it is bold and terrifyingly mossy. There is a difference. He is certain.

And then his human, amazing eyes latch onto so many different things—the wooden bedside table, littered in sweet wrappers; the clock on the wall, the cracked vase of flowers—and it's all just so pure. He has never felt such wonder before.

He slides out of bed and slips on the robes somebody—most likely Germany—has folded neatly on a desk, leaving all the heavy jewellery behind. No need for that anymore; he is free and can’t be weighed down by anything anymore. He does not bother to check in the mirror—his hair is most definitely frizzy and wild, but he thinks that whatever Soviet and German soldiers are sanctioned outside can deal with the sight of some messy blond hair. 

He rushes outside the house, slipping on his old pair of leather shoes that Gilbert had helped make, and laughs when he feels the cold air beat upon his skin. He shivers, and his smile widens impossibly when he experiences the involuntary tingling in his bones. It’s weird!

A few people, sulking or crying look at him as if he is mad. He probably is, but positively. He’s positively mad, so he runs up to them and flashes a wide grin. The young child peers at him curiously, before wrapping himself around his leg.

Feliks is stunned, and he freezes. The mother sobs and shakes her head, muttering incomprehensibly and tries to pull her son away.

“I am so sorry for my son,” she cries. The boy refuses to move, and Feliks just chuckles, patting the kid on the head. 

“That’s no problem,” he says. “Not everyone can resist my charm, you know?”

Feliks nearly gasps. How—how did he say that!? He has never said anything so terrible, so confident, so—God, so Prussia-like! Is this personality being passed down through unrelated generations? Is Gilbert contagious?—he really doesn’t know how any of this works, so does he take after his colonisers? But he’s nothing like Roderich—Roderich is horribly boring!—except for the fact he plays piano, and if this undeveloped theory is correct then… the horror!

He’s going to turn into somebody like Russia and Germany!

Damn!

New fear unlocked.

The mother’s face relaxes slightly and she giggles with him too, tears still streaming down her cheeks. “Well, you certainly are irresistible—don’t tell my husband, of course,” she teases. Feliks observes that she is so much more beautiful when she smiles—the creases around her mouth deepen charmingly, and her cheeks have little dimples that brighten her face.

“Your secret is safe with me, ma’am,” he remarks, patting the boy on his head, detangling his hair with his fingers gently. “What’s your name?” 

“Iryna Chernenko,” she replies softly. “I am Ukranian—you could probably tell by my terrible Polish.”

Her cheeks flush and before Feliks can assure her otherwise, her little boy cuts in, looking up with sparkling blue eyes. “And I’m Jan!”

He coos. “Is that so? What a cute name, Jan!”

Jan coos back and cackles loudly, taking a piece of stale, crushed bread from his pocket. He holds it out to Feliks so reverently it is as if the boy is offering a chest of gold to him. He takes it, schooling his expression into a beam, nodding in thanks. 

“Jan!” Iryna scolds, “sorry, Sir—don’t eat that. Only God knows how sick you’ll feel after digesting it—I’m sure his pockets and hands are not the cleanest, you see.”

He pops it into his mouth either way. It is not like it will do him harm, and he folds immediately under Jan’s cute little gaze. 

He shrugs. “Iryna, there is no doubt that we’ve figured out… what we are—how much harm it can do?”

Iryna—Ukraine, he corrects—smiles shyly. Her dark teal eyes, bottomless like the ocean, twinkle happily. 

“Good luck, Poland.”

“I don’t think I’ll need it, Ukraine.”

They both burst into laughter, a new friendship formed between the two countries. His first friendship. 

Feliks’ heart feels soft and fuzzy. 

China, October 15th, 1939

Yao Wang’s heart is torn and ripped apart. It still thrashes violently in his chest, and no matter how many times it has been plunged into by knives, it never seems to stop beating.

And in some twisted way, he respects the organ. Never once has it failed him, not once has it ever given up. It continues to pump blood, as if it is the only thing it can do—his heart feels and thinks sometimes, controlling his body when his brain cannot keep up. 

His brain often can’t keep up. His thoughts are like brittle glass—cracking into pieces before they can take any solid form. There has always been too much going on. Especially since the stupid monsters he calls European countries came and ruined everything he had. And now it isn’t Arthur, isn’t Francis, but it is his own precious, wonderful baby brother whom he adores. His prized little sibling has betrayed him and left him to rot with mangled feet and a ruined body for his own greatness.

Yao Wang could never hate his baby brother Kiku. But he will always despise the Japanese Empire.

Yao stumbles through the streets of Chungking—the new capital, since the Japanese Empire made Nanjing collapse upon itself—with eternally painful feet and a hunched back, ashamed of his body. He hears babies sobbing and the smell of iron and sweat permeates the air. He has gotten so used to it that the scent of cleanliness puts him off—it makes him feel nauseous and cold—and who knows how many months it has been since he was able to bathe with soap.

He tries to get back to the brothel in one piece, shutting his eyes painfully at a woman begging for food—he can’t do anything except bring her into the unfair industry of sex work. The only way that he can ‘help’ is further exploitation. It truly is a shame.

Posters propagating the Guomindang are hung up everywhere, the face of late Sun Yat-sen and current leader Chiang Kai-shek staring holes into his worn-down soul. They haunt him—for some reason, praising the face of a man who led a massacre of his own people does not sit well with Yao.

At some point in the short but tedious walk, Yao swallows what is left of his pride and limps to a kind-looking Communist soldier, tapping him on the shoulder. The man turns and smiles wearily at him, evidently exhausted. 

Yao feels a pang of guilt, but he shakes his head before it can fester any more. “Sir,” he starts softly, “sorry for bothering you—I have bound feet and I can’t seem to walk any further without collapsing.”

The soldier’s tired eyes soften slightly and his smile saddens. “I’ll take you to where you need, as long as it’s not far—do you not have a husband to help you settle into a house?”

Yao laughs bitterly. “I used to have a house with other women, but it was in Nanjing—now, I live near the brothel.” 

“I’m terribly sorry,” he says with sorrow, bending down so Yao could climb onto his back. “If it helps ease your pain, my wife died in Nanjing—I have migrated here too.”

Yao huffs as he struggles to wrap his legs around the man’s waist, biting his lip in concentration. The man chuckles and uses his arms to push him up, Yao quickly holding on to his shoulders. His feet immediately feel better, the weight of his body no longer pressed on two tiny, broken things that could barely be called an autopodium. 

“It truly is a pain nowadays,” Yao Wang laments, “everything seems to go to hell—mind my language.”

The soldier scoffs. “There are more things to worry about than language, Miss…?”

“Wang,” he introduces, not minding the man’s incorrect gender assumptions, “Wang Yao. And you?”

The man continues to walk, but Yao can sense him tense under his body. Of course this soldier knows about him. How the legendary Yao Wang is their wonderful country contained in a human body. The living fossil, an archive of memories from each dynasty. A renowned scholar, but also a walking corpse—barely on the ‘walking’ aspect—and a blasphemer, executed without end. 

To the soldier’s credit, he continues the conversation with little tension in his voice. “Zhang Lei-ming. Apologies if I am being rude, but I assumed you were a woman—only women have their feet bound.”

“That’s quite alright. Being a fluid being, I once presented as female during the Ming dynasty and had my feet bound. It has stayed since then,” he explains simply, ready to be hit with disgust or backlash.

Zhang does no such thing. “Damn,” he says instead, “I can’t imagine—you must be extremely knowledgeable.”

…Well. That’s certainly one way to put it.

After a few minutes of pleasant chatting and strolling—and a stop to a little restaurant run by two teenagers raising money for their father—they reach the brothel, Yao clambering off Zhang's back. 

“Are you sure you want to be dropped off here?” he says anxiously, helping him reach the ground easier, setting his body down on the ground. 

Yao nods. “Don’t you worry, young man. Thank you so much for your service.”

The man flushes slightly and looks away, smiling imperceptibly. “No problem. Have a great day, Lord Wang.”

Before Yao begins to walk to his shack, he gives Zhang Lei-ming a peck on the cheek. The man receives it with grace and grins appreciatively, jogging back down to his original post with a new pep in his step. Undoubtedly, he’ll go and gossip with his friends—and Yao does not mind. It is only normal for a man his age to do so, finding joy in such miserable times like these. 

When Yao Wang arrives in his house, the first thing he does is check his body in the mirror—not out of vanity, but out of pain. His stomach and hips have been in unbearable agony, like a sword has cut into his flesh, for so long it seems like it has been forever. 

He lifts his top up and gently unwraps the bandages binding his not-so-flat chest down and is greeted with the horrible sight of his protruding ribcage and hips, so pushed against his skin that an irrational part of his brain thinks that they might stab through. And of course, the most prominent thing of all—the deep, red cut that had not healed in decades, splitting his stomach diagonally. It goes from his collarbone to pelvis, and each side throbs and aches.

His body is tearing itself apart.

The mirror has a large crack in the top right corner, and he remembers when it happened. It was during the Qing dynasty—when he had first met Arthur Kirkland. He would look at himself in the mirror, body beautiful and so horribly female, skin not as scarred and stomach supple, just like his chest. 

Back before the Opium Wars, back before Japan, back before everything except his feet binding ceremony. He misses those days.

Arthur had walked in, unsuspecting, and Yao had shrieked so loud that the man shot a bullet into the mirror. He has gotten over how embarrassing it was, letting another person see his naked body, and now he views the memory with humour. It was only until Arthur had told him he had once been a woman two years prior that Yao stopped yelling, curled in a corner of his room.

He sighs, walking away from the mirror to throw himself on the hard, creaky bed that had come with the place. The bed frame clanks against the wall, but Yao can’t seem to bring himself to care.

Dear lord, he thinks, wiping his face with his hands, let this all be over soon.

He can’t be bothered to change his clothes. One night wouldn’t do any harm.

China, December 13th, 1937

Yao Wang has a hand gripped onto his mouth to muffle the sobs that are wracking through his body, shrinking further into the kitchen cabinet he hides in. The smell of rot is so strong that his eyes water involuntarily and he can hear the loud screams of his precious citizens outside. 

A man laughs crudely and Yao gags when a person stops crying out, the sound of a sword sinking into flesh and retreating slick against his ears. A body—oh God, save them all—is heard falling to the floor and a pile of vomit rises in his throat.

Hot, salty water pours out of his eyes and he tenses, curling his knees into his chest so much his ribs ache, trying anything—everything—to stay still. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on breathing quietly through his covered mouth. His lungs won’t fill. They suck in air but it’s not enough—never enough. He bites down on his hand to muffle the awful, shallow gasps before someone hears.

All he can see is the sliver of light from the slight gap between the cabinet drawers and he hopes, he prays that nobody can see him.

He feels his feet cramp—never before has it pained him so much. He is China, though—he is—was—fuck, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he has to stay quiet—he is China—or he’ll die.

(Please—Please, I swear, I swear on everything I’ll be good—I’ll be good and lawful, just please let me survive—)

His heart violently crashes against his chest so hard he’s worried that it might bruise his ribs and lungs. 

And it hurts.

His heart stings and clenches and it beats so loudly he can’t help but think someone can hear it. Yao can feel the quick, panicked palpitations in the pads of every finger of his. He really doesn’t want anyone to hear him, because if they do—

The cabinet door opens to the sight of a man covered in blood, grinning cruelly. Hands yank at his hair. He falls out the hiding space, pinned against the wall and quickly being stripped, a hand harsh on his neck as another man watches and—he tries his best to scream as he sees the stabbed, naked body of his little sister—his precious Meimei crumpled on the floor, mouth open in an empty shriek of terror, but there’s a hand pressing his vocal cords and God he can’t breathe.

He feels something go inside and—and—

And he screams for Japan to save him.

China, October 20th, 1939

How idiotic.

Yao Wang paces around the streets, the moon sparkling ahead of him. It looks down on him, and he wonders if Chang’e is peering down on the world with disbelief—disbelief for how much it has changed. She must be disappointed. 

It is a busy night out—men buying vegetables from local vendors and the sound of lighthearted chatter reverberating from every corner; empty streets have echoes of laughter ingrained into each worn-down stone and the celestial beings up in the cosmos cast down a periwinkle hue onto everything. 

Yao notices music from far away—perhaps coming from the lit up shack where he can make out two figures dancing around. The woman’s skirt twirls and twists like a blooming flower, falling so gracefully into her husband’s arms. A child joins them, her father raising her into his arms with a laugh, and Yao rips his eyes away, focussing on the pavement in front of him. 

Humanity’s ability to find joy will never cease to amaze him. Their country is in ruin—he is in ruin—and so are their belongings, their loved ones. And yet the moon shines above, lonely as ever, and grants them all a beacon of light when nothing else seems to glow. And they gaze up at it in wonder—as they always have, from even before he was born, each country having their own wondrous myths—for the next day, the next time the sun dances to bless their land, they must continue living. 

Yao Wang holds humanity very dear to his heart.

His shoes tap against the uneven flooring as he approaches a tiny store, tucked in between a grocery shop and garage. The air is thick with humidity, every breath sticky and slow. His hair sticks to his quickly sweating face, and his clothes stick to his tanned skin. The windows are fogged over, dripping like a groggy, unpleasant rain, and the fluorescent lights above hum like a bug, flickering like they’re gasping for life. Yao spots a cockroach dead inside the too-bright white lights, its body blocking a circle of light from passing through.

He swats at a fly which buzzes annoyingly near his face, stumbling inside and collapsing on a small stool in the corner. The walls are all covered in stripy yellow wallpaper which strains his old eyes, and the floor is hideously checkered what should be white and black—though nowadays, the white is more of a mud brown.

The restaurant owner rises up from behind the counter at the back of the shop, grinning when he spots Yao sitting there, legs spread and back bent to stroke a stray cat nuzzling against his shins. It purrs and Yao meows back without thinking, voice rough and cracky, heart melting in adoration. 

“The usual, Wang?” the owner shouts crudely, bearing his yellowing teeth.

Yao nods briskly. “The usual—add more meat this time—we have a cat to feed, thanks!”

The owner lets out a gruff cackle and slaps his thighs, getting to work. The sound of sizzling oil rebounds off the ugly walls—stained with the soup of past meals—and the man coughs into his arm as he flips the food inside the pan with practised ease. Unsanitary, yes, but Yao supposes that it adds to the experience. 

The seat creaks beneath him as he shifts, reaching over to grab a pair of chopsticks from another table squeezed precariously close to his. One of the lights goes out and the owner lets out a curse Yao wouldn’t dare repeat, and he can’t help but laugh. He wipes his sweaty forehead with his dirty, oily hands and invites the cat into his lap. It lets out a trill before jumping up, curling into a little ball. 

“Don’t worry, Boss—I’ll throw a stick at it and turn it on,” he shouts to the man, picking up a dirty chopstick from the hair-covered ground. He doesn’t mind the way it sticks there a bit, the food on it rotting and bonding it down—Yao thinks it might be his from a meal he ate a month prior. 

Boss—as Yao calls him, never learning his name but staying friends nonetheless—scoffs, a piece of spit hitting the stove with a sizzle. “Do as you please—the glass around it is shit anyway.”

Yao throws the chopstick with ease, hitting the light precisely in the middle with perfect aim. Years of archery helps, and he rolls his shoulder proudly as it flickers back to life, the cockroach—which surprisingly, is not dead—shuffles to another space inside it. Boss cheers, winking at him.

The light mood is infectious. The Japanese are like the plague, stationed at every street, and thousands of people have died, families still in mourning, and yet there are people outside drinking and dancing like nothing has happened. He can just hear the roar of laughter from a bar nearby and the screams of most likely drunk women toppling into men in exuberance. 

Even Yao—here he is, in a run-down noodle place with a dirty, probably infectious stray cat that he has named XiaoMao—really creative, he knows—laughing with a man he doesn’t know the name of but he sees more than three times a week, ready to have a good, salty, and delicious meal that probably breaks all health violations there is.

And he knows he deserves a small moment of solace—solace under the moon, the elegant, beautiful moon. He wonders if the moon sometimes laughs too at human kind’s absurdities, or if it—she—hears funny jokes and throws her head back in amusement. Yao may be down-to-Earth and—as he proclaims—brilliant and wise, but even he can’t help but daydream about the space around their planet.

Boss swears yet again—it is a wonder that parents allow their children to be around such a potty-mouth of a man—when a drop of oil pops out at him as he turns the stove off, the incredibly loud fans relaxing with a satisfying click. He brings out a steaming hot meal and turns his head to spit, setting Yao’s amazing-smelling meal down harshly. Soup splashes out of the bowl onto the table and his clothes, while XiaoMao meows hungrily and lifts her head up with curiosity. 

Boss dusts his hands of any imaginary dry dirt—all grime has properly stuck to his skin by now—and nods like he has just shown Yao the most divine thing of all. Which, to be fair, is pretty justified. 

This meal looks so good his mouth is already watering—the small bubbles of greasy oil in the bone broth and random pieces of spring onion and chopped red chilis—extra, as always, because Yao isn’t a coward—floating around. Noodles are tangled inside the bowl and wontons which are already falling apart drift lazily, packed with some questionable meat Yao is smart enough not to ask about.

Sure, the place is extremely disgusting—and yes, he has caught Boss sneezing into his food multiple times, but that’s exactly what Yao likes. It’s worn down—barely staying together—but it works. The food always tastes good, overloaded with salt and flavour, and that makes it all the better. It’s authentic. It’s real and despite everything, it clings on to life and clings on tight. 

That, and the fact it’s incredibly cheap. 

Yao shovels food into his mouth, slurping the soup without care—it’s not like he has anything else to lose, much of his dignity gone—humming in delight as he gulps it all down. He does not forget XiaoMao though, and throws a piece of beef carelessly onto the ground. The cat mewls and immediately jumps off, purring as it chews on the food with its sharp canines. 

“Boss,” Yao says, not bothering to cover his food-filled mouth, “this is really good. Seriously, in all my years of life, your food is the best.”

And he means it. He means most of his compliments, and Boss’ reaction makes saying something all the worthwhile. He claps his hands with a large grin that creases his face in a delightful way. It causes his eyes to sparkle appreciatively and Yao thinks that if everyone smiled so happily, the world would be a better place.

Boss thanks him loudly and informally, sitting on the counter, pulling out a cigarette.

All goes quiet—the comforting buzzing of the lights filling the room—for a quick pause.

Until the door opens and the slight cool air that had managed to accumulate in the room escapes once again. Yao turns lazily, expecting to see a local—maybe drunk, maybe delirious, maybe stumbling in for a midnight snack before the short peace of night is over. But what he sees isn’t slouched—not at all. The visitor stands tall and is certainly not wearing appropriate clothing for the wet hot weather. 

It is Ivan Braginsky who stands in the doorway, and it is Ivan Braginsky who blankly stares at him.

Yao shivers, suddenly self-conscious of the sweat trickling into the crook between his eyes and nose and his muddy robes, practically drenched in a mix of soup and sweat. Ivan just smiles imperceptibly, closing the door behind him with practised ease.

“You’re far from home,” Yao remarks, mouth still warm from the broth. He absentmindedly plays with his chopsticks, trying to divert his gaze to anywhere but Ivan’s amethyst eyes. 

The Russian hums. “I suppose so.”

It is silent once again—not comfortable, but tense and full of unspoken feelings. 

Yao decides it is only fair to invite him to sit. He gestures to the metal stool across from him with a nod. “Go on—have a seat.”

Ivan pauses for a second, processing what Yao had just said—and, actually, it’s rather cute, the way he freezes and blinks his round doe eyes as if Yao has just ordered him to sprint across Siberia—before rushing to the seat with slightly pink cheeks. Yao nearly coos—but catches himself. Doing that to a man several inches taller than him and nearly double his size (in country terms and in human terms) that he barely knows is rather strange.

Boss clears his throat, trying to ease the tension between the two of them. “A drink?”

“Sure,” Yao replies. “You choose, Boss!”

Ivan nods too, stripping off his scarf and thick coat. “I’ll take whatever too.”

In seconds, Boss grabs two beers and passes them to Yao. He snaps open the can immediately, but Ivan observes his every move—Yao wonders if he realises how creepy it is to just… stare like that. Yao crosses his legs awkwardly, desperate for some sort of movement to distract his mind.

Surprisingly, it is Ivan who breaks the silence. “I can’t stay long.”

“I know—Poland, yes?”

“Mhm.”

They fall into a rhythm—glances exchanged, then quickly averted. Nervous sips fill the silence whenever the tension climbs too high. It is not easygoing. It is not nice—throughout Yao’s long life, he doesn’t think he’s ever sat so tensely.

Ivan sucks in a breath. “I’m terribly sorry, China. I hope—I hope you are well,” he says solemnly, violet eyes visibly softening. Yao’s own eyes widen in shock, smiling appreciatively. He tries to not let the brewing tears escape, holding them back with practised ease. Why must he get so emotional when someone—anyone expresses sympathy to him?

“No need,” is what Yao carefully replies with, unsuccessfully hiding the waver to his words. “It’s not your fault, Ivan.”

“If you need somewhere to rest—even if it’s not extremely safe—you are always welcome to my country, Wang Yao,” Ivan softly invites, reaching over to lightly touch Yao’s hand. As soon as he does, he pulls back as if he has just done something terribly wrong. “My sisters and I should try our best to make you feel at home.”

And Yao can’t help but let his heart melt fondly, because he desperately needs a place to live and a woman to talk to about his life—he doesn’t think he’ll ever feel safe enough to be so intimate to another man again. Yao chews down on a piece of spinach before allowing a small, hopeful grin to twitch at his lips.

“I might take you on that offer,” he whispers, looking away as an ashamed flush rises. “I… I don’t think I can continue paying my rent the way I currently am.”

Ivan does not press him for more information. He just inclines his head, eyes gleaming with understanding. “After we are done, then—then I’ll take you to my house.”

Russia, December 14th, 1939

Natalya, Yao decides, is a lovely young woman—once you get past the threats and untrusting glares. She has the most charming dark plum eyes and is delightfully witty in all the best ways—she reminds him of a freshly sharpened knife, cutting through nonsense with practised ease. 

Yao takes observing people—especially the smaller, less-appreciated features—very seriously, and had mentally stored away little habits or characteristics into a dainty file in his head when he first arrived. For example, the bone on her left wrist protrudes slightly more than his. She also has a very prominent nose bridge, which he finds beautiful.

Ivan’s sister is, without doubt, a gorgeous woman. Now, if only she didn’t have such a strange infatuation with him… but alas. Everybody has their flaws, including him. 

“Vanya,” Natalya complains, stuffing her mouth with a portion of well-done steak. “Do you really have to go back to Poland again? It’s only been three days!”

Ivan inclines his head, lowering his eyes with anxiety. “Sister, you know I can’t help it—”

“—Do you ever get a break, Ivan?” Yao interrupts calmly, trying to avoid the most repetitive argument of them all. It feels like every dinner, every meal, the same debate takes place and ends in Natalya getting so agitated she writhes in their bed until she passes out.

There is a beat of apprehension before Ivan slowly shakes his head, putting a piece of his own, blue-rare steak—so rare that it almost looks uncooked—into his mouth and chewing quietly. 

After he finishes his bite, he says, “Not often—but I’m trying to run from my Boss. He keeps… He keeps killing people for no reason,” he says with difficulty, eyes gleaming with worry. “I will never condone the mass slaughter of innocent people. I don’t—I really don’t like death.”

Both Natalya’s and his gaze softens. Natalya reaches over to hold her brother's hand with an almost dangerous glint in her eyes. “I know—ever since I joined this… Union,” she mutters in distaste, “my people have been eradicated. Just know you are not alone.”

“Never alone—you have both me and Natalya if you should ever need to talk,” Yao confirms, winking appreciatively at the Belarusian woman. 

That night, Natalya curls into him, mumbling in her sleep, but Yao does not find comfort in it as he usually does. His gut clenches and all he can think about is his country. China wants him to go back—he wants him to go back. He has been away from his precious, ruined land for far too long. It has been two weeks.

Ivan had managed to assign a car to him, so he could drive back to his home. His feet hurt either way, stepping on the gas pedals, but he doesn’t mention that around the Soviet—all he says are words of appreciation and gratitude to the man. He deserves it, after all. 

But this time, he has no ability to have a car. And he certainly can’t walk without someone to help—and by the strike of midnight, Ivan will have left for Poland. It is when he looks down on the girl cradling both him and her knife when an idea—not a brilliant one, but an idea nonetheless—lights in his mind.

Maybe Natalya can travel with him to China.

All he has to do now is find a way to wake her up without the possibility of being stabbed.

“So,” Natalya grumbles, eyes straining in the too-bright candlelight, “you want me to help you walk to China.”

“Which might entail carrying me, yes.”

“You’re so lucky I like you, you know that?”

Yao grins, patting her head as she struggles to sit up against the wooden bedframe. “Is that a yes?”

Natalya shoots him the middle finger and clambers out of their shared bed, hair so utterly messed up and frizzy that it’s almost unreal. 

China, December 20th, 1939

At first, Natalya wasn’t quite sure of her opinion on China. Wait—no, she lied. She knew very well what she thought of China—he was a frail, weak man who was too kind and polite but also had abnormally small feet and strangely wide hips. 

His hands would twitch when pouring bitter Chinese tea into tiny porcelain cups. Natalya thought he was just weak—that he did not have the muscle to be able to support a small pot to the point his hands shook. This, as she learned, was not the case. 

China is incredibly strong—but has been worn down so much that all he is left with is a shattered mental state. And yet he carries on smiling and being kind. Natalya thinks that everyone—including her—has a lot to learn from him. 

The two of them walk hand-in-hand through bustling, horribly quiet streets in Shanghai, and even she can feel the heavy weight in the air. The sun shines bright above, a lovely day, but everywhere is mournful. Bitter. 

Natalya doesn’t like it one bit. 

To be fair, Belarus is pretty much the same—but it’s more a cold, empty sadness compared to this thick one that rots at bricks and engraves itself into the space between every stone like mould. At least the Chinese still are their own nation. Barely.

Her country has been swallowed by the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. She hates the USSR. She hates the way people keep staring at her as if she’s a fragile doll even more—Natalya has half the mind to go and stab each and every one of them. 

China continues to stroll, head high and face serene, evidently ignoring all the strange looks cast their way. Natalya doesn’t understand how he does it. He keeps a steady, firm hand on hers and smiles sharply.

She knows that smile—it’s as threatening as her darling knife, more cunning than even her lovely Ivan. It means China has spotted danger ahead. He lets go of her hand—a clear invitation for her to discreetly draw her dagger. She scans the area with a calculating gaze, but there’s nothing. No one drawing a gun at them, no mythological creature baring their teeth.

Instead it is a soldier. One that looks Chinese, but has higher cheekbones than the usual Chinese man. 

Natalya realises in an unsettled flash that this is no Chinese soldier. This is one from Imperial Japan. Hatred flows into her gut and her hands clench around her weapon.

And yet China still stands tall, eyes glinting critically. She wonders if he even knows how terrifyingly calm he looks, hair draped like a waterfall over his shoulders, dressed in a brilliant red Changshan, the same shade as fresh blood. 

This soldier is from the Empire that caused all this misery in the streets. The Empire that massacred her found-brother’s land, the reason his womb is scarred and bleeding. The Empire that had been tormenting Wang Yao for years. 

Her stomach churns in disgust and just as she is about to lunge at the man, to stab him to oblivion, China puts a placating hand on her shoulder. The Japanese man sneers, having to look up—incredibly embarrassing for him—at China, shouting scornfully in Mandarin so badly accented it sounds off to her, with a smug look in his eyes. Like he has won.

Which he certainly hasn’t—God, Natalya wishes so bad that she could tear off this smug bastard's head—and when he finishes his one-sided rant, there is a beat of silence. She hopes that China doesn’t just take it like some weakling. She holds her breath and then—

Then he answers in perfect, refined Japanese.

“I am Wang Yao, do look at my golden eyes,” he chirps sweetly, putting a guiding hand on Natalya’s back, ready to walk away, “I do not think I need to have the legal papers when I am the country itself.”

“But—”

“If you have any problem with this, I do request you report me to Honda Kiku, my little brother,” China continues, and Natalya internally cheers loudly, holding in laughs—she feels nothing but a twinge of mocking pity for the man—and smiles, razor-sharp when he finishes the blow. “Because such an important matter must be taken to the authorities. Oh, and ask for his Japanese citizenship certificates while you’re at it. Thank you!”

And with that, they swiftly pace off, China’s body language reeking of amusement and pride. Natalya notices a new, small, and almost indistinguishable pep in his step. 

The soldier gapes pathetically from behind and before she knows it, she has a new found respect for China.

Natalya scoffs as China brushes off her rant on how bitchy that man was. She’s almost jealous of how well the nation deals with ignorant idiots, so calm and composed. She could never. Her patience is much too thin for that.

She chews a bunch of expiring biscuits in her mouth, crumbs dropping out. China doesn’t seem to care.

“You know,” she muffles out, kicking a pebble with her shoe absentmindedly, “if I had to deal with half the bullshit you do on a nearly daily basis, I’d have a bounty over my head.”

“It is a good job you don’t, then,” China easily replies, voice tingling with mirth. He lightly brushes the crumbs off her sleeve with a gentle grin.

“This place is a mess,” Natalya mutters, checking out her dress in China’s broken mirror. It is creased and greasy from days of travelling and her white tights are torn to oblivion, strands of string and fabric hanging out. She refuses to throw them away.

China, on the other hand, is sprawled across the decrepit green bed with rusted metal bars as a headrest. She guesses that the mattress was originally blue, and her nose wrinkles with disgust at the sight of it. 

“It was my home for two years,” he practically sighs, body relaxed and face pleased. Natalya notes the fondness in his voice with an unbelieving stare. The bed his body lays on, looking completely comfortable, creaks dangerously and she can swear a small screw pops from under it.

Holy shit, she thinks. This bed—

This bed is terrible.

She approaches it like one would a feral animal, lip bitten and back hunched. And she pokes it. Hard.

“Ow!” she yelps, taken aback. China jumps slightly, and so does the bed. Her finger quickly swells and she shakes her hand profusely. 

The mattress is as hard as stone. How the fuck does this man even lay on it without hurting his back?!

China seems to read her thoughts, shifting onto his side to face her. He smiles lazily, like a sly fox about to do something particularly bold. She hates that face. 

“The Japanese say that a hard mattress is good for your back,” he muses. Natalya scowls, hands on her hips, face red and disapproving. 

She hisses. “This isn't even a mattress, China—it’s more a… slab of concrete.”

“I’ve slept on worse.”

“How?!” she shrieks, deciding to sit on the floor. Atleast it wouldn't decide to break under her.

China quirks his eyebrows. “When you’re as old as me, young Natalya,” he teases smugly, “You have experienced all sorts of things.”

That doesn't answer my question, you proud fossil! she wants to yell, but she recognises that the older man just wants to get a rise out of her. The bastard finds it funny. 

“Tch,” she spits instead. China just laughs loudly. Horrible man.

China, December 25th, 1939

Originally, Yao and Natalya were only supposed to stay in China for a little longer than a week. This, quite evidently, changed when he mentioned the guaranteed snowfall in Harbin—the largest city in Manchuria. Natalya nearly begged him to let her spend a bit longer in his country, and who was he to refuse?

She was pleasantly delighted when she saw the many Russian food stalls around, serving hot Pirozhki in the freezing cold weather. 

Wang Yao finds Natalya very endearing—passionate about good food, and walking around in her usual purple dress and multiple layers of thermal clothing underneath with cute leather boots adorning her feet. Like this, it’s almost easy to forget she has a freshly-sharpened steel knife hidden in her clothes. But he doesn’t worry—it’s not like she can do any serious harm to him. To him, she’s all bark and no bite.

She’s fun to mess with, too. His younger siblings—the unnamed Korea and Kiku have both grown to the point where he can’t tease them anymore. He supposes it’s a bit immature of him, but he’s nothing but a mere older brother. He ignores the little thought that reminds him that he can’t annoy his brothers because of war and politics. Shame. 

As they walk through the streets, shoes crunching through soft snow, Yao notes the evident difference in the number of Japanese officers. Here, they’re practically storming the place—watching. Always watching. They have guns visibly swaying on their belts and they seem to never smile. Also a shame—Yao thinks everybody looks better when smiling. 

One officer locks eyes with him for far too long. He gnaws at his lip, hand subconsciously going down to his coat pocket, where a small glass dagger, coated in poison, is stored.

The city is blanketed in snow thick enough to hush the world, so purely white it hurts his eyes. Rooftops sag under the weight of winter, their roofs glittering with icicles that catch the pale light like diamonds. The streets are busy, and surprisingly, rather loud—unlike Shanghai. Yao is proud of his people for staying hopeful and lively even in times like this. Red paper lanterns dance gently in the breeze, their tassels stiff with frost.

Yao tucks his gloved hands into the sleeves of his fur coat as he watches Natalya from a few steps behind. Her breath puffs visibly in front of her, lips charred pink by the cold, and face half-buried in a vermillion scarf he had bought her a few days prior. She’s nibbling the edges of a steaming, well-seasoned lambchop, eyes narrowed in contentment.

He observes with amusement on how much she fits in here, despite her gravely different appearance. Light blonde hair and a sharp nose aren’t necessarily common features in China. He supposes that her violet eyes stand out quite a bit too—they add to her imposing appearance.

If only she was taller. 

She leads the way, reading the Russian signs with ease. Yao thinks that he should teach her Mandarin first, then Cantonese, because it really is strange that she only knows Belarusian, Russian, Ukrainian, Japanese, Lithuanian, Greek and English well. In fact, her English is rather terrible too—even he struggles to understand the language under the heavy accent and horrible grammar.

Yao sighs. Maybe that’s a lot of languages for a mortal, but for beings like them? It really isn’t a lot—and he won’t list the languages he knows because that’s a bit unfair, he’s older than most countries—but someone like Modern Greece, for example, knows English, Greek, Russian, Belarusian, Polish, Mandarin, Italian, Egyptian, most dialects of Arabic, Turkish, German, Portuguese, Swahili, French and Spanish with utmost fluency.

On that note, he is somewhat proud he remembers all that. And then he questions why exactly he remembers all that—he and Herakles aren’t close at all. He only knew his mother, Aikaterini, personally. 

My son will grow up to be a hero, known across the stars, she had once exclaimed as Romulus cradled her baby. And so I shall name him Asterios!

Too bad someone renamed him after the Greek hero a few centuries later. He recalls how horrified Aikaterini was when little Asterios had come home proclaiming his name was Herakles. She desperately wanted her son to be favoured by the gods, and being named after one of Zeus’ sons—hated by Hera—was a horrible thing.

Aikaterini is a lovely woman. It’s rather sad she rarely goes out anymore—most, if not all contact with her old friends being cut off as she slowly fades away, her only purpose being a mother. His life could always be worse, he thinks, a familiar appreciation for his life simmering into his heart.

A flick on the cheek snaps him from his fond thoughts. 

Natalya stands in front of him, her lambchop reduced to nothing but a well-gnawed bone. She squints disapprovingly at him, her lips set in a frown. 

“China, I’ve asked you four times. Do you want to go back to our inn or not? If you ignore me again, you’re getting the knife,” she huffs, her cheeks a rosy pink from the icy wind.

Yao blinks apologetically, a small smile growing on his face. “Do you?”

“It’s your choice.”

He lets out a laugh, this time, guiding her by the back and turning her around to the correct road. “I appreciate you trying to be kind, but I know that means you’re tired and want to get back as soon as possible.”

Natalya grumbles, elbowing him harshly. “You’re so lucky I like you.”

“Mhm. I know.” 

Poland, January 1st, 1940

“Say, Iryna,” Feliks hums. “Why do you think Canada declared war against the Soviet Union and Germany on the tenth of September rather than the third?”

“A display of independence, I’d suppose,” she hums. 

It is silent. 

Then:

“Well,” Feliks says rather blandly. “Happy new year.”

“Happy new year, Feliks.”

He smiles cheerfully despite it all. 

The new year is going to be an absolute shitshow. Brilliant.