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She still remembered holding her lover's face, cupping the smooth skin and running her fingers over her jaw. Soviet had given her the slightest of smiles, before China ran her thumb over the speed bump of Soviet's cheekbone and slid it under the eye patch.
The whole world knew the story of this scar across her eyelid. That faded memory of the war in Europe was the Soviet Union's coming of age and the testament to her suffering, her resilience, her hard-fought seat at the table. The way she held still and didn't pull away—just let China trace it curiously with her fingertips—this was a tribute to trust and foolhardiness. Was there a difference between the two?
Soviet could not fully hide this particular scar, but she opted to wear the proud socialist emblem over it rather than something that would draw less attention. China pulled the eye patch back in place, Soviet pulled her onto the bed.
She remembered holding her lover's face, swiping the crystalline tears off Russia’s cheeks as fast as they came. Russia squirmed in China’s grip, squeezed her eyes shut and spit scathing words, and China didn't let go. She grazed her thumb over Russia's lips, thought about how she was such a pretty crier. And when China kissed her forehead, Russia opened her ice-blue eyes and they were desperate.
Once, China had held Russia’s face as she sat on the bed, and then slipped her right eye shut with a thumb. Russia’s eyes had widened, ice shattered. She had pushed China away and refused to speak to her for the rest of the night.
Now, China holds her lover's face. She's done up all pretty, lashes dark against her cheeks and lips deep red. Russia typically opts to wear her hair down, but now it's pinned up like Soviet’s.
“You look good.”
Russia frowns. “I look stupid.”
China smiles. “You have to get going now.”
Russia straightens up and pulls the uniform jacket tighter around her shoulders, clinging to it like a lifeline. China leads her to the square with a hand on her back.
-
She looks intimidating. On the uppermost balcony before the procession, the insignia pinned to her jacket refracts the sunlight. The coat is a slightly modified version of the regular uniform, with embellishments of fur and delicate gold detailing. It reaches down to her thighs and leaves a sliver of skin above her tall boots.
Designed more for the visual appeal than actual combat, but Russia isn't fighting today. Judging by the expression on her face, she probably wishes she was.
The victory day parade stretches across Red Square. Proud tanks are rolled out before the Kremlin and squadrons of soldiers assembled for pure display. The gathered crowd cheers wildly when Russia steps forward, their crown jewel, their resolute guardian and most beloved child.
“People of Moscow,” She begins. “It was our proud nation, our grandfathers and countrymen who vanquished the greatest threat of the 20th century.”
Against the wall with the rest of her esteemed guests and most trusted officials, China stands back on the platform behind her. Russia tells the tale of Soviet reshaping her nation in the new world through bloodshed, like a luminary on the road never taken before. Soviet's heir is expected to take pride in it and take credit for it, fill the shoes and take up the burden without complaint. To Russia's credit, she has never complained—although she doesn't quite have a choice.
Russia delivers her speech as dutifully as a heritage. She has always insisted that she is made for war, not diplomacy, not appearances.
Back silhouetted by the afternoon sun with her hair pinned up and a long coat over her shoulders—the image of Soviet that flashes in China’s mind is hazy as a distorted reflection in ice. Before the crowd cheers, and Russia steps away from the podium while turning back to her.
“You did well.” China nods, the illusion gone as quick as it came. Russia gives her a guarded expression and miserable eyes. Oh, well. It is Soviet’s day, after all—salt in the wound.
“I’m going inside.” Says Russia.
“You shouldn't miss the parade.” Russia presses close to her with a frown and China stops her with a hand on her collar.
“My speech is done.”
China sighs under her breath, trying not to be too pushy. “You should stay here to be decorous. There's no need for impatience.”
Russia leans over her, arm braced against the door at China’s back. Whatever Russia is about to pull would probably cause more of a disturbance than the alternative, and China has no choice but to reach behind herself and unlock the door.
The music from outside blares to a backdrop of rhythmic marching, faintly audible as Russia backs her against the wall. China tries to encourage her to move to a different hallway that isn't right next to the balcony entrance, but Russia presses insistently and leans down to sink her teeth into China's neck.
China groans softly with exasperation. Russia's a biter, and she's the one who has to deal with it.
"Don't draw blood." She warns.
"Why not?" Russia licks at the mark she left, a deep bruise already forming.
"Don't cause any diplomatic crisis today—" China's words are cut off by a gasp as Russia pulls at the button on her shirt. Instead of unbuttoning it like a normal person, she tears it right off the fabric with her fingers.
China sighs and grabs Russia's face in one hand.
"What?" Russia asks innocently, a lilt of mischief to her voice. She looks down at China with satisfied eyes as China's fingertips dig into her cheeks, both knowing exactly what she's doing. "I did nothing wrong, right?"
Before China can scold her, the door to the balcony swings open.
China's reaction is lightning-fast, grabbing Russia's hand and dragging her down the hallway around the corner. She pushes open a broom closet and shoves Russia inside before stepping in and closing the door swiftly. In the cramped space, Russia's back is crammed against China's front—she tries to turn but China stops her firmly so the noise doesn't give them away.
Footsteps approach the door and pace up and down the hallway, distant voices conversing with each other and drifting by. China wraps her arms around Russia's waist to make sure she doesn't squirm around.
The damp closet reeks faintly of vinegar and detergent. They both try to get comfortable around the crates of cleaning supplies and scattered equipment, Russia being forced to lean down so she doesn't hit her head against the high shelves.
On the back of her neck, there's a single neat scar visible beneath her pinned up hair and it gives China pause. A clean, deliberate cut—straight across.
For the average person, scars tell stories of the knee they scraped when the training wheels came off their bike for the first time, or the oven burn on their arm from cooking with their mother. The scars of countries speak of history, of sore spots still smarting to pasts long buried. Although they don't talk about those things, China can take a few good guesses at what Russia's are from.
She gently slips the jacket off Russia's shoulders to reveal the white marks crisscrossing down her back.
"Stop that." Russia chokes out, body tense.
“Quiet down.”
China presses a kiss to the nape of her neck. Licking down the shoulder blades and following the lines with her tongue like a map of tangled, winding roads leading to escape. Russia jerks and tries to kick her away, but there's nowhere to go.
"You look good." China repeats into Russia's ear, echoing her words from earlier. Russia whimpers in the back of her throat and China feels her go limp with defeat.
"They're gone." Russia mumbles through uneven breaths. "Let me go."
Instead, China rubs at her waist soothingly and removes the pin from Russia's hair. She pockets it while pulling Russia's coat back up for her to cover the scars, white curls spilling across her shoulders.
Russia glares back at her with betrayal.
"I'm going upstairs." She proclaims resentfully.
"Alright." China smiles with amusement, holding the top of her shirt closed due to the button Russia ripped off. "Let's go upstairs."
-
Later, China strokes at Russia's cheek, cupping her face as Russia leans over her. China tugs at her disheveled hair gently, wound around her fingers.
The dregs of the afternoon are still visible on Russia's face as she reaches down with a trembling hand, and her gaze thaws a little. Touching the jagged scars running across China’s ribs and stomach while China blinks up at her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Uh.” Russia mumbles, makeup slightly smudged across her cheek. She swallows hard and stares at the scars. “I wish I could… make it better.”
China smiles fondly. “You don’t need to make it better. I’m okay now.”
Russia’s eyes melt. China rubs her back and holds her close.