MEIN GOTT.

[1] This took me so much longer than I thought. Really, I expected to breeze through this. After a few months of working on it I finally got it done, but it's still really bad. I haven't had time to edit it, because I don't want to keep you guys waiting any longer than I have to.

[2] I took his from my history notebook. We are learning about China's history. AKA the China-Japan war. Sad things happened. A lot of people died. But at least I can write angsty fics now...

[3] There is not that much fluff in this chapter... Or the next. But there will be some in the fourth chapter.

[4] I really hope that I can get the next chapter up quicker, because I find it easier to write in Japan's POV. Even though it's also easier to write angst. But the next chapter will be angst.

[5] Headcanon: Im Yong Soo represents both North and South Korea.

Well, then, enjoy! Please leave a review if you enjoyed it, or even if you haven't, leave a comment!

[Èr. Zhōng-guó] 二・中国

Bitter — China

The window is dusty, China notes.

These days, he doesn't do much. He just kind of sits here in the corner of his living room, staring through a pane of glass. Sometimes he wonders if the barrier can block the horror. And sometimes he thinks that being able to see through the glass would give him a better knowledge of the world beyond. So he considers wiping it, but he doesn't.

In all honesty, he doesn't really do anything anymore.

Maybe he should clean the window. It's very dusty. Like the photo album he'd found cleaning out his attic the other day. He hadn't looked through it, though. It would have been too painful.

He's better now.

But he still hasn't dusted the window.

With a sigh at the mere idea of doing the chore, he heaves his body to a standing position and goes to find a towel.

His thoughts drift slowly to memories of past days.

He shakes himself. He has been living in the past. Not focusing on the present.

His soul was fading away from this life.

He knows that if he keeps living in the past, he'll become nothing more but a ghost. Then who will take care of the house? Who will wipe the windows when they get dusty?

Certainly not Korea.

Who doesn't live here anymore, by the way. He came to visit only sometimes, and China has been to the other's house only once. Just as he had expected, it was a mess. He'd felt an urge to clean after him like he used to, but he stopped himself — after all, he couldn't keep on dreaming into the past.

Times were changing. He had to keep up with them.

Taiwan barely visited, too. He heard that she stayed at Japan's place, but he didn't have the heart to find out.

Anyway, he never went to Japan's place.

He didn't even know what it looked like. He'd gotten pictures that Taiwan would sometimes send, of her and Japan in front of Mount Fuji, or something like that. China always deleted them. He didn't look at them. He didn't care.

He didn't care about anything like this anymore. It didn't matter.

Nothing really mattered, was his new philosophy. Sometimes, you can think that something is important. You can hold on to it. In the end, though, it'll be ripped away.

So he doesn't think about anything. He'll get caught up again, thinking that it'll be meaningful in his life. And then it'll get taken back, and he'll be torn apart.

That's why he says, nothing matters.

After all, nothing really does.

The window was clearer now. Sunlight beamed through the glass.

"Since I already started, I might as well clean the rest of the house, aru," he says to himself.

He then goes on to mop the floor.

He has only just started when there is a knock on the door. He looks up, and stops.

Nothing really matters.

"Go away," he tells the visitor.

There is a loud sob. "Aniki, don't you love me anymore?"

Korea.

"No, I don't," China snapped. "Now go away."

"Hey, I know you do! Plus, everything originated in me." There was a pause. "Da-ze!" Korea added as an afterthought.

China opened the door. "One. I already said, I don't love you. Two. What are you doing here?"

"Aniki, you're scaring me."

China looked up. "What do you mean?"

"You're glaring at me like I killed someone! Da-ze!"

"Korea, if you're not going to tell me why you're here, I'll kick you out."

"Well... Japan was over with HK and he brought these boxes of chocolate, and I don't have room for them, so here you go!" Korea dumped the boxes haphazardly on the table.

"I don't want them..."

"Too bad!" Korea flounced out. China slammed the door.

The boxes were small, dark brown in color, with decorative patterns carved into their sides. There were barren tree branches, stems of flowers ready to take flight. He curled his fingers around the edges.

The lid slipped off easily, connected to the rest of the container by a tiny silver hinge. The inside of it was painted dark blue.

Inside the box there were chocolates, slender flat frames wrapped in slits of golden paper. The colors shone like being released for the first time.

He looked around, like a child about to eat a candy his mother specifically told him not to. When confirmed that Korea was not hiding behind that potted plant, his fingers greedily reached for the treat and tore apart the wrapper.

It was bitter, was his first thought. Very bitter. Yet... bitter in a way that made him not want to spit it out.

Bitter

adj. 1 having a sharp, pungent taste or smell; not sweet

2 painful or unpleasant to accept or contemplate

Bitter, yet the gush of flavor is too much to control. The memories flow back, each and every one of them, scenes slipping forward, flying past, drifting away. Finally, a view comes into focus.

《二・中国》One. Bitter.

Another terrible pain shook him. He leaned forward, coughing. Almost expecting someone to be there.

Of course, there wasn't. Facing the bare white walls, alone, for the first time. Fear sets in.

All the feelings mix, anger, terror, pain, hurt, betrayal, a pot of ingredients that he adds to one by one, flames flickering up and curling around the edges. A smoldering pile of charred remains, everything no longer recognizable.

《二・中国》Two. Bitter.

"J—Japan..."

"I'm sorry, China-san." The words were so fake.

"You can't!" he cried. "You can't! Please!"

"You don't understand—"

"You bastard! You bastard!" he screamed, tears streaming down his face.

"China-san!"

"Please, you—why—you—!"

"China!"

"You bastard!"

"I—"

"I hate you, aru! I hate you! I hate you so much, aru! You—I mean..." his voice began to crack. "Why would you do this? I hate you so much!"

Japan didn't move. He didn't even flinch. China's hands tightened into trembling fists. Japan was fueling the fire. "How dare you?" he yelled.

He broke.

"Japan... Please, just let me see them one more time..."

There was a cold stare. "Why would I?"

He trembled. The pain grew enormously, yet fell, like a flame that flares up then dies...

The tears had stopped. Everything had flowed out of him. There was nothing left. He stood up abruptly. He looked into the other's dark eyes.

"You know something, Japan," he began slowly. He paused. "You can take many things away from me. In the end, though, I will get them back..." He stopped.

He took a deep breath, looking up again. "You underestimate my power."

《二・中国》Three. Bitter.

Blood.

It was everywhere. Splotches of redness dotted the earthy dirt, crimson liquid seeping into the soil. It seemed as if the blood spewed from the ground itself.

He didn't want to do this, to be trapped, in this hell on earth, blindly blinking through tears, trekking through rain, sloshing through mud. Weapon gripped in one hand, not for offense, but only to defend himself.

Shoes sank into muddy ground. Hands clenching into fists, fighting, grabbing, seeking for anything. A mind not caring for anyone else, a mind on fire, a mind needing only its own tranquility and nothing else, a mind desperately trying to find the last bit of sanity, to retrieve the final bit of life, love, memories, anything, heart pounding, soul screaming, raging, ringing in his ears, sun setting, light vanishing, darkness advancing.

Flashing, clashes of color, clanging and crashing, feet shuffling, hands reaching, snatching, grabbing selfishly. Kicks and cries. Screams whooshing over like a cool breeze, bullets like walls of water. Trapped, eyes darting left and right, frenzied heart beating in his chest. Sprinting forward, being knocked back, anger rising and falling, chest clenching, fury taking over, desperate thoughts for revenge, visions of pain, his pain, the pain that had been inflicted on him, others' pain, and the idea of a sword, moving slowly forward, piercing skin...

Gashes appeared on once perfect milky flesh as war raged on, terror streaking through, like diving into a fiery rage of monsters, each one raising their claws, baring their fangs. A scream, inhumane, rips through the air, blades digging into flesh, eyes widening. Horror, pain, searing through, a mind unable to comprehend anything. Red, black, everything swirling. Rain pouring down like the sky had opened up, like he'd finally been able to unleash his tears, his fury. Death. Muffled cries, miles away, yells. Goodbyes, fired bullets. Everything being swallowed up by blackness.

《二・中国》Four. Bitter.

Chaos.

It was the only word to describe the scene. People running in all directions, a frenzied mass of hair and shoes, tripping over each other, running into one another, fighting. Cries rising into the air, screams going above it.

His feet stamped loudly on concrete, hands folded behind him.

He didn't want to look into those cold, terrifying eyes.

《二・中国》Five. Sweet.

Japan called him that night.

He almost didn't want to answer. He stared at the phone for ages, ringing off the hook.

When it stopped, it started again after a while.

Then stopped.

When Japan called for the third time, he finally found enough strength in his arms to get up and answer it.

"Did you want something?"

Silence.

"No, Chuugoku-san. Sorry for bothering you."

Sorry. It seemed so nonchalant, so unimportant. Yet those words, those feelings... for once, he realized, it could be healed.

It could be fine. He can forgive, forget, move on.

"It's alright."

Because it was. Everything. It was always alright. Even as bullets pierced the air and blood gushes from the wounds, it would be alright.

It was those words, those apologies, that allowed him to live and love again.

[Èr. Zhōng-guó] 二・中国

He stood up abruptly, tears dotting his eyes.

"Aiyah, aru! I've spent too much time reminiscing." Quickly, he wiped them away with his sleeve.

Because for once, it did matter. For once, he realized, something was flowing out of him again. Years of sobbing had left him empty, but now it was coming back.

For once, he was no longer an empty shell.

For once, it mattered.

For once, it was no longer just terror.

For once, the bitter chocolate has finally left him its sweet aftertaste.

I'm sorry for the terrible quality. I tried, I really did. I'll go back and edit it later if I have time.

Thanks for reading! ALL reviews are appreciated, because I am in dire need of some constructive criticism.

Thank you :)

EDIT: Went back and changed some stuff. There was a lot of really bad word choice in this. Sorry; when I first wrote it, I was kind of careless.

—Mikako-chan