A/N: Due to the inexplicably messy way I decided to write this, the prompts will depict events out of chronological order. Feel free to read them either in posting order or chronological order, or really, in any which order you like. Each chapter can stand on its own or fit together with the others as part of a larger story line.

Whichever way you decide to read this, I hope you enjoy it :)

Beijing, April 21st 1961

Russia's drawn out sigh was like listening to a withering beast's dying breath – it spoke of a pitiful tiredness China had never seen in him before. A large, solid built chest rising and falling softly like it was made from something other than cold steel, the hand loosening its grip on the vodka bottle as if it had never had to choke the life out of someone.

China circled around the bed, keeping to himself the curt comment on Russia's muddied boots, watching his eyelids flutter closed in their drowsiness. The sight was endearing, in a way China had not felt for a long time for Russia, but the circumstances couldn't allow for soft sentiments like this.

'You shouldn't be here,' China said, clenching his jaw in hopes of hardening his tone.

A tiny smile tugged at Russia's lips, eyes still shut. 'I know.' He drew the near-empty vodka bottle closer. 'But you let me in, so it's okay…'

'It's not,' China said, eyeing the open curtains. Would anyone really know or care, if they saw Russia's towering shadow in his room? 'You're drunk, aru. I didn't want to leave you alone out there like that. But as soon as you are well enough to walk, you're going back to Moscow.'

'Nyet. I will stay…' Russia fumbled with the cap of the bottle, unscrewing it with clumsy fingers.

China snatched the bottle away. 'You're going.'

Russia opened his eyes, brows furrowing like China was not making any sense. He propped himself up by the elbows, eyes flickering and growing deep in their depths – this was the face of a man (a child) who had grown used to getting what he wanted, when he wanted it. China had spoiled him long enough, and in those eyes he could see the influence – cruelties – of past leaders in them; and it only tore open a strange melancholy in his heart.

'Our nations could be at war soon,' China said, setting the bottle down. 'This is no place for you to be.'

'Our nations are allies.'

China raised a brow. 'Is that why we quarrel at every turn?'

Russia stayed quiet for a moment, his gaze darting elsewhere. 'You say it like it's about us.'

'Well – it is.'

'I mean us us,' Russia said, hesitating. 'As people. Without flags attached to our names.' He sat up on the bed, the drizzle of rain still matting his hair slightly, and the ghost of a sweet, tiny smile on his lips as he looked up to China. 'Yao is the one who loves me most.'

'Don't put words in my mouth.'

'But it's true, da?'

'I've never said anything like that.'

Russia shrugged, chuckling in amusement though his shoulders fell with a disappointment China momentarily hated him for. China sighed.

'I'll call you a taxi. You seem fine enough now, since you're making coherent jokes like that. I'm sure there will be a flight back to Moscow within the next few hours –'

'I'm not staying the night?'

'Why would you be staying the night?'

Russia blinked, parting his lips as if to conjure up some excuse. Everything about him in that moment was tender, as if that terrified little boy had never grown up to begin with, as if scars and pains had unravelled themselves away without a trace. With an expression like that, China could almost pretend they had not been talking through double-meanings and cloaked words for the past decade. He could almost pretend, that he had never gotten close enough for it to sting when their nations refused to fully get along.

'Perhaps… Yao will pity me enough,' Russia chuckled, his voice in sweet and honeyed tones. 'Who knows… I might not see you for another ten years.'

'Ten years are nothing,' China said – still, somehow, trying his hardest to be curt. He pursed his lips, not quite sure he bought his own lie. Ten years of war, of prosperity, of mundane days to go by – they were nothing. Ten years without Russia, he wasn't quite so sure.

He approached the foot of the bed, where Russia's muddied boots were hanging off the edge. He pulled a boot off, gently setting it to the floor before catching Russia's gaze.

'Your boots will dirty the bed.'

Russia's eyes brightened, his socked foot almost wagging like a dog's tail. 'Does this mean I'm staying?'

'It means…' China hesitated. He pulled the other boot off and sighed. 'Yes. Fine. It means you're staying. But for tonight only. You'll leave –'

'First thing in the morning,' Russia finished, his smile bearing a hint of mischief. 'We have done this many times before.'

'Aiyah…' China closed the curtains, feeling heat flare out on his face at the mention of those distant memories. 'I wouldn't set your expectations too high.'

Russia hummed in mock agreement, already stripping his scarf and jacket and strewing them lazily across the room. China stopped him when he began to clumsily undo his shirt buttons, Russia's pale face turning pink with a flustered laugh.

'Too forward?'

'A little,' China said, permitting himself this one touch as he placed his hand on Russia's forehead, brushing feather-soft hair away from his face. 'You should rest.'

'Only if Yao rests with me…'

China begrudgingly agreed, goading Russia into lying down on the bed and shutting his eyes. He curled up in the space beside Russia, watching his eyelids fall helplessly into sleep, the withering beast's breaths slowing and deepening as if it was taking one of its last few rests.

'Yao…' Russia murmured.

'Yes?'

'I'm sorry… I wasn't a good comrade.' Russia's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh, his eyes still shut as if he was afraid to look China in the eyes as he spoke. 'I did a lot of things that comrades shouldn't do. I did all the things you told me not to. Remember? The toes and the debts…? Something like that…'

China swallowed, wanting to reach out and hold his hand, and all the while hating himself for it. He watched Russia's brows pinch slightly as he spoke those words, murmuring his sugar-laced apologies. China believed him, he believed that Russia could never truly want to hurt… but mistakes like this simply couldn't be erased.

Russia placed his hand on China's shoulder, warmth seeping through the shirt fabric, into mended skin where scar tissue had left its mark. 'You'll forgive me… won't you?'

China's breath shook slightly, taking hold of Russia's hand and prying it off his shoulder. 'Of course,' he said, once again eating his own lies. 'One day… when enough time passes.'

The night had willed itself away, somehow, though the hours passed like days, listening to Russia's deepened breaths and China's own uncertain heartbeat. But it was only when the sun had begun to rise and peek through mottled curtains that China felt brave enough to draw that hand closer, and press his lips to it.