A/N: So this is little oneshot I thought to post before my next multi-chap RoChu fic. It's been hanging around in my WIPs folder for about a year now, and though it started off as a crack-fic of sorts, it somehow spiralled into canonverse angst instead. Regardless, I hope you enjoy reading!

After nearly a century, the panda had come back.

It had been just after his midday nap, so when China stumbled into the kitchen to find something to eat, he didn't pay much attention to the giant, bear-like figure at his table. In his tired haze he convinced himself it was just Shinatty doing his usual rounds of food scavenging around the house. China managed to prepare a meal, take a seat, and take a bite or two before coming to the slow-encroaching reality that there was a panda in his kitchen, and that actually, it wasn't even a real panda to begin with. It was the uncannily realistic suit of one.

He gasped and jumped out of his seat. "Aiyah! What are you doing here?" He reached out to rip off the panda head, only for the panda to dodge away and make a muffled whine. China scoffed and crossed his arms. "Ah – you think you can fool me? I know it's you, Russia. And let me tell you, what you're doing is not friendly. Think of what my boss will say when I tell him!"

The panda hung its head down in shame, timidly pawing at the wood of the table. The suit itself hadn't aged all that much, surprisingly. Its claws were still dainty and sharp, the pads of its paws still soft, its fur so fluffy to the touch, like feathers, like silk, like the beautiful platinum blonde hair he used to run his fingers through –

China pulled his hand away from the suit, his fingers having somehow found their way onto the top of the panda's head. He growled in disapproval, with himself, with the panda – no, with Russia, the needy boy that used to make such a habit of following him around, only to get choosy when China made his own friendly advances. And now, here he was vying for China's attention once again. Or perhaps, scouting for information. He could never be sure.

"You won't be getting anything from me," China said. "Not even dinner. I'm not cooking for you."

The panda hunched over and rested its chin onto the table.

"In fact, forget about eating anything at my house."

Crickets sang in the distance. The wind chime tickled with the breeze. And then there was a low, whining growl of the panda's stomach. He looked to the panda. The panda looked at him.

"No."

The panda was still looking at him, waiting with its button-like eyes. Cute eyes that China adored on animals, fluffy angelic creatures, sweet little things that only knew of kindness and affection –

"No," he said, this time fighting to convince himself. "Never."

.

The panda was eating dinner at his table.

Though China could not read emotion in rip-off Hello Kitty masks, he could sense Shinatty's disapproval. Stabbing at his food, belching beneath the mask, scraping the bowls and all the while staying quiet as if the panda wasn't there. It was very rude, so rude – but who was China to say such a thing? He brought a strange panda – brought Russia – to their table.

"The weather is quite sunny for October, isn't it? It must be a nice change from Moscow," he said, giving a forced breathy smile. Shinatty lifted his mask slightly up to sip at his wine. The panda struggled to stuff food into his own mask, leaving rice to roll off his chest.

China pushed forward some napkins. "You'll make a mess. Take off the mask." The panda looked up at him, then to Shinatty. China waved his hand dismissively. "Shinatty knows what he's doing."

Shinatty grunted, though whether this was in agreement or some kind of snarky sentiment instead, he couldn't be sure. Night crickets buzzed. A breeze tickled the wind chime, filling up these new silences he was having difficulty coping with.

"Hey, Russia," he said. The panda did not look up. He cleared his throat. "Russia?"

Shinatty nudged the panda, prompting it to look up. Vacant, button eyes twinkled at China. Somewhere in there, though, was Russia's eyes – he was sure. Watching but never saying a word. It grated at him a little, but he ignored it.

"I still have some vodka from the last time you visited," China said. "It's been a while, but it's still good to drink. I can bring it for you if you want."

If the panda suit could blink, it would in this moment. Two black voids stared at China. Nothing.

"No?" China asked. The panda went back to its food. "It's that bottle I said you were never going to finish. Remember? Because you were so drunk? Remember, Russia?"

The panda dropped a chopstick. China wanted to pick it up and stab him – no, no that would be bad why did China think that, pandas are pure and sweet and so is Russia he knows it in some way somehow because of that bottle, that night –

"I'll get you another one," China said, keeping his voice level as he got out of his seat.

They sat through the rest of the dinner in silence. The panda never once took off his mask, and the rice bowl was as good as wasted. So was China's appetite.

He swept away the rice from beneath the table as Shinatty collected up the plates. China muttered about the mess, about how the insolent panda needed a bib. It had disappeared off somewhere. China could only assume it was for a well-needed bathroom break. Walking around all day in a suit had to be tiring, after all.

"You're sending him away tomorrow, right?" Shinatty asked. China stopped sweeping and looked up at him.

"Where am I going to send him to?"

Shinatty tilted his head in exasperation. China tutted.

"I know what you're saying." China returned to his sweeping. "But what am I supposed to do? Pack him up in a box and ship him off?" China collected up the rice into a dust pan and tipped it into the bin.

"Why not?"

"That would be rude!" China snapped, brushing his hands off. "I can't do that to my neighbour. I won't hear the end of it from my boss."

"For what? Sending away a freeloader?"

"We're talking about Russia here!"

"Are we?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, how do you know it's Russia in the suit?"

China hesitated. "… B-Because!" He straightened the broom against the wall. "Who else would be doing this?"

Shinatty scoffed and left the room.

That night, China had begrudgingly set up a spare room for the panda. He hadn't exactly planned on it, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that he was being a bad host. Panda suit or not, you couldn't just starve your guests and leave them to sleep out in the open – even if said guest was Russia himself. That would have been something Shinatty might have done, out of spite, out of fear. But China had neither of those things in his heart.

.

Kicking his sheets once more, China groaned and shifted to the cooler side of his bed. Though the nights were meant to be getting cooler, it was an uncharacteristically humid one here in Beijing. He squinted to read the clock on his nightstand. One in the morning – two hours, that is, of fidgeting and shifting in an attempt to fall asleep.

He kept thinking of the panda. Sleeping on its own somewhere in this large and near-empty house, perhaps uneasy, perhaps lonely. It was a silly thought, knowing the man inside the suit, but somehow it wasn't hard to imagine. Russia had been a boy once, tiny and defenceless and scared in the shadow of Mongol rule, haunted by nightmares and memories of his first bloodshed. At that time, China couldn't bring himself to tell him that this was far from the last he'd see of war and famine. He told him stories instead; he sang songs older than Russia himself; he spoke of home and warmth because it was only ever about keeping Russia from breaking, keeping China's own mentality from crumbling with the comfort of another.

But that was a long time ago. Russia had grown strong since then, and really China needed to stop thinking about him this way. He wasn't a child anymore, he was an ally – one to be wary of, a force to be reckoned with should the time come again. Which was why diplomacy was the key – not friendship, not hatred, neither comfort nor fear. That was the balance China sought to keep, one that would keep him close enough to ward off isolation, but far away enough so that he could not feel the sting of betrayal when it cut through him.

Even so, he couldn't deny it, that sweetness Russia had about him. His eyelids fell heavy to far-off memories, blizzards and winter boots, red and gold flags waving in unison, a half-empty vodka bottle slipping from tired fingers…

(Tell me a story, please…)

Ah, where had the time gone?

.

The morning was crystal clear and crisp, sunlight piercing through leaves and dancing on the porch with the breeze. The panda lay sprawled on its side, feet hanging over the steps. China smiled and took a seat next to it.

"I hope you had a good night's sleep."

The panda merely shifted slightly. China continued on.

"It was warm last night, but knowing you, you must have preferred it to the cold." China chuckled, though he knew there wasn't much humour to what he said. His laughter died off when the panda did nothing to acknowledge him. He cleared his throat, turning to look at the golden leaves spiralling down one by one.

"I wasn't a very good host yesterday. It was rude of me to yell at you. But –" China hesitated, finding that the words were trickling out like the leaves themselves. "Finding a panda in your kitchen isn't… it's just not common, for things like this to happen, even though you're Russia, and it's not the first time you've snuck up on me like that. And… despite that, sometimes I don't actually –" China huffed out, feeling his face grow warm. He was never this indirect, never this hesitant. Why couldn't he just say it?

He stole a glance at the panda, wondering if he'd sat up, if he had something to say, maybe. But the panda was still lying on the porch, black button eyes still as stone, giving the impression of apathy even though China was certain – was hoping – that this wasn't so.

"Listen –" China shot up in his seat. He swallowed, deciding that he was just going to have to spit it out no matter how odd and nervous it made him feel. "I just want you know that you're welcome to visit my house any time. You don't have to be shy about it, or make up and excuse or dress up as a panda. I want you to visit as Russia, as an ally, because that's what we are. So… you don't have to hide behind the mask anymore."

China waited. The panda stayed still. Nothing moved, except for the loose strands of hair tickling his face with the wind, the ringing of that annoying wind chime.

"Well? Don't you have anything to say?"

The panda was ignoring him. Russia was ignoring him. China grit his teeth, growling in his own tongue a particular slew of curses that hadn't been uttered for at least a few hundred years. He grabbed the panda by the shoulders and lifted it into sitting position. He tore the headpiece away.

"Stop hiding like a child and say something –"

The headpiece fell out of his hands with a soft thump, rolling down the porch steps and into the grass. He could not recognize the man's face staring back at him. After a few blinks, a frown settled on his brow. "Who are you?"

The man's eyes widened. "Uh, I, er –" He swallowed. "Your grateful guest?"

"Aiyah!" China stepped away. "Shinatty was right! You are a freeloader!"

"B-But you like pandas, don't you?" The man scrambled up, heavy paws hanging down at his sides, not quite as cute as China remembered them, suddenly not as endearing as they were before. "I'll hang around the house like this all day! I'll be a panda seven days of the week! I'll sleep all day like one, too! I-I'd be an excellent panda! How about that?"

China stepped up the porch steps, his anger washing away into disappointment. "Take it up with Shinatty," he said, turning away to head back inside. No, he didn't really care much for the freeloader. He shouldn't have really cared much if it was Russia, either. He shouldn't have cared at all, because both were nuisances, both were preying on him in some way. And yet, hurrying through the seemingly endless corridors of his house, not knowing where he was heading to begin with, he could recognize the crushed feeling in his chest as quiet self-pity, as hurt. How had he been so sure that Russia would be this eager to visit him, anyway?

He stopped in the corridor, spotting the phone further down. There had been… a reason, to expect Russia. Yes – yes, there had been. It had been almost a decade since they last visited each other. Perhaps even longer than that since they'd spent any substantial time together. And yet, somehow, their bosses were getting along, better than they have in over half a century. Where was the proof of this, where were the friendly gestures between the two personified nations? There had been none as of late. And that, was nothing short of disgrace.

China grabbed the phone, dialling up with furious fingers. This needed to be fixed. No ally of China got away with avoiding him like this.

.

His icy hand rapped on the door, teeth chattering as he quickly stuffed it back into his coat pocket. The flight had been long, the plane food had been terrible, and the couple seated next to him – so nosy! Ah, but he had finally made it to Russia's house, the home that stood lonely amongst the streets of Moscow, towering and foreboding with its aged archways and darkened windows. He knocked again, louder this time, hoping he had not by chance, arrived when Russia was not actually at home.

The clunk of a lock on the other side swept away the worry, the door creaking open to reveal a gaping darkness. Russia's head poked through. His eyes brightened.

"China! I did not know you were visiting…" he chuckled, opening the door fully to let him in. "Come in, come in! It's cold out."

China scurried into the warmth of the house, breathing out in relief as he yanked off his gloves. "Y-Yeah. Pretty cold for October weather."

Russia hummed, taking China's coat and putting it away. "You have yet to visit Moscow when it's snowing…"

China was led further into the house – into a room much too big, and onto a couch too soft and puffy to have ever been used. Their voices echoed like that of tourist guides in museums. There was barely anyone or anything here, and China had to wonder if it had always been this lonely. The last time he had visited this home was over half a century ago. And the house had been quiet then, too, yes, but in his memory it had an air of warmth to it. This house had once been the home of a family. In that table in the corner of the room, China could remember the Baltics playing cards there. By the fireplace, Belarus sat quietly with her Pravda newspaper. And in the kitchen down the hallway – the smell of homely cooking, knife chopping and water boiling over the sound of Ukraine's humming.

Now, it was nothing more than a tomb of those memories.

A servant laid the tea tray down onto the coffee table between China and Russia.

"So – What brings China to my house this year, hm?" Russia asked, a delicate, diplomatic smile on his lips. That too, was different. China paused for a moment, somehow expecting that smile to lead into something else, perhaps to break into a laugh or creepy comment, though there was none.

"I just thought it would be the friendly thing to do," he said. He picked up his tea, sipping at the scalding drink. "Comrades visit each other, don't they?"

Russia's brows raised, soft amusement in his eyes. "Is that what we are now?"

He almost choked on his tea, spluttering out his words. "What are you implying?"

At this Russia laughed – not the strange diplomatic amusement, not the restrained carefulness he seemed to have learned in recent decades of wars waged on mere words and threats. There was playfulness in it, one too cute to ignore, but too ominous to let your guard down for.

"China, the last time we were comrades – officially," Russia said as he leaned forward. "The world still listened to music on a vinyl record."

"R-Right –" China said, nodding, wanting to slam his head down onto the table. How did he slip up on such an important thing? Allies, enemies, subjects, comrades – everyone that mattered fit into these boxes and yet somehow China had misplaced Russia. "Of course. My mistake."

Russia's hand touched China's forearm. "But that doesn't mean we can't be comrades unofficially." A chuckle burst out from his lips, that unsettling one no one liked. "There is one very good way to make sure of this, and it's very simple. All you have to do is become one with –"

China pulled his arm away. "Don't start with that again. I'm just trying to make a nice gesture here and you start…" He fumbled for the right words. "Being you."

Russia hummed, sitting back in his seat. "I only ask in case you change your mind…"

China scoffed, looking away at the expensive vases and paintings on the wall. Crumbling, aged artefacts that had lived for only a tiny slice of his life. In the corner of his eye, he could see – feel – Russia watching him, perhaps in innocent curiosity, perhaps in predatory observation. He wasn't sure… He could never be sure, and it was this, he knew, that had always kept him at a distance.

"Are you staying for the night?" Russia asked.

He looked over to Russia, nonchalantly, calmly because he could not give away that there was a kind of uneasiness in the air. "I haven't had the chance to reserve a hotel room. But I only need to use the phone, you don't have to –"

"Then it's settled," Russia chirped. "You will stay the night in the guest room!"

"That's… polite of you…"

Russia chuckled. "It's so nice to have guests, da?"

China sipped at his tea and offered a small smile. He watched Russia's face brighten, something much more than the cheery smile and sweetly coated words. Something quieter, unnamed, and whatever it was, it lingered in China's memory, resonated with something that had been on his mind as of late, of weak, vulnerable Russia, of Russia without the weapon of fear and intimidation. China wanted to peel away those layers, to let fall away the careful masks they as nations built and moulded over time, over centuries of change and need and uncertainty.

His index finger touched against the hot porcelain of the cup, and he let it burn for a bit. He hoped the tiny ache would wake him up from these silly thoughts. The man across from him was, after all, anything but the child he used to be.

.

China thought he was dreaming. He could hear soft cries, muffled whimpers beside him, and it wasn't until he opened his eyes that he knew they were real. He groaned and sat up in bed, pressing his ear to the wall. A small kick, a mewling that stirred some need in China to go over there and do something about it. He left his bed, cold marble beneath his bare feet as he wandered hazily out into the hallway. He entered Russia's room and shut the door behind him quietly, a move well-practiced, from the ages past when he was asked to chase away imagined monsters, to sit by Hong Kong or Taiwan's side to ward off the ghosts they were terrified of.

He sat by Russia's curled up form, twisted up in the sheets, and sighed softly as he loosened the sheets around his throat. They all had their fair share of nightmares, as nations, anyone did when they lived through countless wars and famines. But Russia, he was broken in a special way, was perhaps too naïve when it happened, was perhaps too eager to heal and forget. Like a broken bone that had been set the wrong way, Russia had healed back warped, distorted. And like China, would pretend that he had merely gotten stronger.

He placed his hand atop Russia's hand, keeping his touch light as he smoothed his hair, a gesture reminiscent of their days as comrades. Russia could say what he wanted about being on equal ground – their partnership had always been at its most intimate when the balance was off, they had always found themselves closer when one was hurt. China couldn't lie; there had been something exhilarating about someone catching his fall, in being watched as he put himself back together after the war that nearly killed them both. And right now, there was something wonderful in catching Russia, in soothing away that nightmare from his brow.

Russia's lashes, fluttered against China's palm, his form stirring beneath the sheets. China briefly considered heading back to bed, even ducking away into the shadows to avoid humiliation. His mother-henning had become something of a running joke in meetings. He pulled his hand away, only for his wrist to be caught in a strong grip.

Russia's eyes opened, his half-lidded, lilac gaze illuminated by the faint splash of glow from the street lights outside. China embarrassed to admit that his heart felt like it was beating out of his chest.

"Ah, sorry for disturbing you –"

"No, it's okay…" Russia guided China's hand to his cheek, shutting his eyes. "It's been a while."

China swallowed, his fingers brushing against the fringe of silken hair he secretly adored – it was so incredibly soft, like kittens, like delicate feathers. It had been so long since he'd comforted Russia like this, to see him stripped of all his defences.

"Do you want me to stay?" China found himself asking, reducing his voice to a whisper. Inexplicable relief washed over him when Russia nodded. He curled up next to him, resting his face on the cold pillow next to Russia's head. Was it too close, too friendly for allies? Yes, undoubtedly. But it felt too good to ignore, too satisfying to run his palm over and across the tense muscles, to feel them melt and ease, to hear that gentle sigh in response. These hands of China's – they had been made to stitch up invisible wounds.

"Do you still have that bottle?" Russia asked.

He glanced up at Russia's face. "What bottle?"

Russia's eyes peeked at him with a glint of mischief. "You know the one."

He did. He knew very well. "I might have thrown it out."

A tiny smile etched onto Russia's lips. "I don't think you did. You're sentimental like that."

China scoffed – sentimental over what? The drunken mess Russia was that night? The night his country fell to pieces, the night the Cold War was officially over and the Iron Curtain had fallen for good? They had been on anything but friendly terms then, yet Russia had the nerve to knock on China's door and expect his wounds to be licked –

(and China did just that, coddled him and spoke softly to him; slept beside him so he wouldn't be alone; pretended to still be asleep when Russia had leaned over to press a soft, desperate kiss to his lips; sighed and almost grasped at him for more when it ended too soon; knew that this moment of vulnerability was the only honest, human moment they'd had in decades)

Russia's hand was now on him, making fond trails and chaste strokes, and without having seen the transition, China realized he was now the one whose wounds were being licked. He could see it in Russia's eyes – you dear thing, you sweet little fool, they said, though China wasn't sure what they found endearing, exactly.

"Our bosses have been getting along really well lately," Russia said.

"Yes, they have…" China said, his brows furrowing.

"Isn't that a good thing?"

"I just think that you…" China paused – again, this hesitance, this strangulation of his usual boldness. He sighed out. "I just think that you should know that… you're welcome to visit, if you want. We should… reflect that, how well our countries are getting along. We should be showing them that."

Russia's face glowed with a smile, a faint rose flush just beneath its surface. It was oddly pure, despite the bloodshed that face has seen. It was innocence preserved, in a way only Russia could accomplish. "Is that all China wants to show?"

The heat was climbing up China's throat and face now, burning. Maybe because it was starting to occur to him how easily his heart fluttered beneath Russia's touch, how their sharing of scars and fears over recent decades was perhaps something more than just comfort. He pressed his hand over Russia's eyes, blocking them from looking at him so teasingly.

"Aiyah… Go to sleep."

A low chuckle sounded out from Russia's throat, a taunt that might have worked to intimidate China had he not been lying there, soft like putty in China's hands. When he pulled his hand away he found those wintry eyes peacefully closed, at ease in a way that indicated trust. It was then that he felt foolish to have wished that it had been Russia in that panda suit. They no longer lived in times of colonial exploitation and crumbling imperial palaces, no longer needed political motives as excuses for every smile and reach for companionship.

These little moments of peace were theirs – a touch of humanity, where panda suits and vodka bottles were no longer needed.