Warning: Contains mentions of blood, possibly offensive historical events and allusions to communism. Don't like, feel free to click the 'back' button.

Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.

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P.A.R.A.G.O.N

-F.a.l.l.e.n.-

Stars. Gold, red, green, orange. Twenty and three. And—

"We did everything wrong."

The world is changing. He is changing.

Silk. Imperial robes. Phoenix gowns. Pagodas and ancient scrolls. Fireworks and stone dragons that guard palace entrances, their carved bodies unmoving, unchanging, forever constant…

Yao only wishes he could say the same.

--

There is a dream; sometimes, sometimes not. Of red. Red of happiness and good luck. Red of blood and betrayal.

Red of victory.

--

There is a sword. That is all he sees at first. Then, a hand, an arm comes into view. Next, slowly, he sees the white, blood-stained uniform and—

"Kiku, why?" – a hoarse, gasping sound.

--

He smells flesh burning and the dusty spice of gunpowder; hears the echo of gunshots and screams of pain. Nanking sears a terrible, writhing, tear-filled agony through him, but worse yet is the knowledge that it is his little brother that did this.

Yao is old and he is wise and he sees and he knows…

But not this. Never this….

--

His vision swims red and black and his eyelashes are flecked with blood.

This person standing in the grimy, cracked mirror, with hollow eyes and an equally hollow, starved body…This is not him. Is not China, is not Wang Yao. Is not and could never be but it is him and—

Yao sinks to the ground, forcing back a choked, dry sob that wracks his frail body.

The long strip of red silk cloth lies a mere two feet away.

--

"Join me." Ivan's words are sweet poison.

Yao does not answer.

"Join me and we'll create a new world together."

Russia's voice is sticky molasses. China thinks back to a hot summer, years ago, and the fly he found drowned in the syrupy liquid.

There is a large hand on his shoulder, over his eyes and pressing, pressing, pressing until his vision bursts red stars and spots.

Ivan smells of vodka and cold winters and steel.

Yao hesitates, swallows a mouthful of fear he did not know was there.

For a while, all he hears is the deafening sound of snow falling and then—

"Yes."

Russia smiles against his throat.

-Fin.-