Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Blast.

Warning: Blood. Guys kissing and making eyes at each other. And that's it.

China sat on the couch by the window, staring out at the snow that covered the constant winter landscape. His pale skin seemed ethereal in the light of the breaking dawn and his ebony hair tumbled down his back like a dark waterfall. His fingers absentmindedly toyed with a scrap of paper as he murmured the Tao Te Ching to himself. The forgotten pieces of a paper cutting lay curled on the windowsill. A quiet sigh caught his attention and he glanced at the man sprawled out on his lap. Russia lay on the couch, dressed uncharacteristically in a simple white button-up shirt and dark trousers. His scarf, however, was still wound around his neck. China mused for a moment whether Russia even took it off in the shower.

"Russia?"

"Yes?"

"The snow, it never seems to melt."

"Yes."

"It feels very lonely. You become isolated from everything."

"Is that so? The silence is peaceful to me. It covers everything in a pure whiteness. It is like the world ceases to exist."

"I don't like it. The world should be vibrant reds and yellows, full of firecrackers, drums, and trumpets."

Russia reached up and threaded his fingers through the strands of China's hair. "Such noise."

"Life is noise."

"Are you inferring that silence is death?" Russia laughed, "then give me the silence you reject. I will take that silence and pull it over me until I do not exist."

"Don't say that."

"It is my element. The snow, the cold whiteness, the death. I cannot help it."

Narrowing his eyes, China stood up, displacing Russia from his comfortable position. "China?" queried Russia. Silently, China straddled him. His deft fingers made short work of the buttons on the blonde man's shirt, revealing pale skin with every downward movement. With a final flourish, he threw open Russia's shirt and ran his hands over Russia's scarred torso. The ticking of the grandfather clock filled the hushed silence of the room.

Taking a pair of scissors from the table, he pressed the viciously sharp blade to the palm of his hand. Metal glinting in the light, he clenched the instrument in a tight fist, his frail body trembling with the effort. A trickle of red made its way down, licking the toned muscles of China's forearm. The years of discipline and training kept any sign of pain from the Asian man's face. The occasional flicker of annoyance around the corners of his eyes was the only emotion he displayed.

Extending his arm a little bit, he let the blood drip on Russia's exposed body. The brilliant crimson color dotted the pale white of the blonde man's chest.

Drip—A spot on his collarbone.

Drip—Several droplets near his nipple.

Drip drip—A trickle over his sternum.

Russia peered bemusedly at the color that decorated his body. "China, although I do admire your brush paintings and calligraphy, I'm not sure if your blood is a viable medium for this."

"Don't be pert," snapped China. "Since you so stubbornly insist on your white landscape with your silent snow, then I will force my colors on you until the noise, the life, and the living becomes a part of you."

A low deep rumble roiled up from within Russia's chest and exploded from his lips in a deep throaty laugh. "China. Oh my China. All the blood in your precious veins cannot change me. I have learned this: no matter how much red covers my body, it will wash off." Russia smiled, "Death, it becomes me."

Eyes flashing, China slapped Russia across his face. Burying his uncut hand in Russia's blonde hair, he jerked the other man up until their faces were only an inch apart. "Qin ai de*, your thinking is too shallow. It betrays your naiveté. The noise and the color in you can be found, if you only look for it." A muted thud sounded as China dropped the scissors to the carpet. Tenderly he caressed Russia's cheek, which was starting to redden and bruise. "See? The colors have already begun to appear."

Russia chuckled and pulled himself up until he was sitting rather than flat on his back, forcing the older nation to scoot until he was sitting on the blonde man's lap. Staring into older nation's dark eyes, he raised China's cut hand to his lips and pressed the wound to his mouth. The sharp smell of China's blood set his nerves on fire. The metallic taste coated his throat as his tongue probed the open flesh. A dark desire emerged from the depths of his gut and he felt himself hardening.

With a smile, Russia cradled the back of China's head and gently eased the older nation to the couch. Russia braced himself above the supine nation. He pushed his groin into China's, enjoying the friction and the heat. China made an incoherent noise in the back of his throat and thrust his hips up to meet Russia's. Panting lightly, China reached up and brushed his fingers across Russia's lips. They came away scarlet, the color of a whore's rouge. "Red looks good on you."

Russia caught China's hand and guided the red-tipped fingers to his lips. He took each digit into his mouth, sucking away the blood and threading his wet tongue between the fingers, making them shiny with spit. Biting hard enough that he knew it hurt, he released China's hand.

"Show me. Show me more of these colors."

*Qin ai de (親愛的) means dear. afaik, it's used by wives when addressing their husbands. By popular request, I switched it from chinese characters to pinyin. ^^