A/N: I associate China with fireworks, and fireworks with noise. Russia likes noise (and China), so there you go.

They were standing outside, rows of empty bottles lined up in the snow, their pockets full of firecrackers. There was no wind, everything deathly quiet and dark. But they'd change that. No more quiet, no more darkness. Yao took a deep breath, pulling out a match and focusing a few more moments. There would be no need for such reverence, were this a normal firework. But it wasn't. This was a ritual, an exorcism. The silence needed to be driven away, the darkness, the cold and damp snow that swallowed every sound. He closed his eyes for a split-second, and in that second, a warm presence appeared at his back, two arms wrapped around his middle, a chin resting on top of his head. He struck the match, lit the fuse, tossed the firecracker some feet away. The fuse burned, the snow hadn't managed to put it out. A few, breathless seconds, and then...bang!

It exploded with a sound that seemed as loud as a thunderclap in the cold silence, a flash of light that stung in the eyes. Ivan laughed, the sound a juxtaposition of old and young.

An innocent murderer, Yao thought, a thousand-year-old child.

"Oh, yes. I think I like this. I like this very much."

Yao lit another one, then another, then a handful at once. The snow flew up in little clouds from the explosions, mingled with smoke. Blasts of sound broke the silence, their ears rung.

"I want to try it, too." Ivan plucked a firecracker from his fingers, a big one, and lit it. He threw it hard, so hard it was buried in the snow when it landed. Yao thought he could hear a hissing sound, the snow extinguishing the little flame. He turned around in the embrace. Ivan looked crestfallen. The snow seemed to envelop him, his face bled white with two feverish lavender eyes.

The crack behind him startled Yao so much, he nearly jumped out of his skin. He smelled sulfur.

A smile grew on Ivan's face, sincere and without the hidden malice that shone in his eyes at the times he smiled because he'd just had an idea. It was a smile of total satisfaction, something Yao had seen only a few times, and never when they were standing fully-clothed outside the castle, knee-deep in snow. "Now for some skyrockets, hmm?"

Ivan nodded, eyes shining, and they walked to the row of rockets together, each lighting one.

Side-by-side they stood while the rockets exploded high above them, painting the sky green and gold, ash raining down. The rows quickly diminished, as more and more colors painted the sky's black canvas and ash and bits of red paper littered the snow. They lit paper pyramids that spewed out fountains of red sparks, Catherine wheels that spun and hummed and flashed, an array of firecrackers to drive all of the silence out. By the time they were finished, their ears ached and their hands had been burned more than once.

The cold and quiet that had been draped over the scene, over the whole nation, over Ivan's life, soul, entire existence like a smothering blanket had been torn apart. They took a last glance at the disturbed snow cover, stained with the remains of the firework, little craters ripped everywhere. Shards of shattered glass sparkled in the uncertain illumination from where Ivan had had the wonderful idea to stuff a firecracker into an empty bottle and then light it. Dimly, Yao wondered if he loved the other despite or for his folly.

The ghost of light-explosions still shone behind their closed eyelids when they returned to one of the large rooms, Ivan sinking down on the bed immediately after he'd taken his boots off. Yao was bothered by the smell of black powder that still hung in their clothes and hair. With his last match, he lit a stick of incense that was placed in a bowl on the nightstand, before he joined Ivan on the bed.

"Want you to stay..." Ivan murmured, the last coherent sound that would be uttered by either of them for a long while. The next morning found them with Yao's head resting on Ivan's chest, his pitch-black, now unbound hair a stark contrast against the pale skin, like spilled ink.

Outside, bottles and red paper, burnt-out rockets and spent matches disturbed the snow, like a painting of red and black slashes and curves on a sheet of white paper.