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MOSCOW, SOVIET UNION, DECEMBER 31 1957
THE KREMLIN
Yao watched the heavy, Russian snow layer outside his room’s windows. He lay on the red silk couch in his guest bedroom in the Russian capital, bored out of his wits. Chinese delegates were back in Moscow again, for the 4th time already this year. He has spent as many nights here as back home in Beijing, and had grown accustomed to the extreme cold. He enjoyed spending time in Russia. Right now, it was one of their closest allies, their brothers in communism. That was even more true for the two countries’ personifications, him and Russia’s Ivan Braginsky. In public (and on all the Sino-Soviet propaganda posters), they were shown as best friends, always in immediate proximity together. In private, they were even closer. They had spent many nights together, in this very bedroom, and those were most of the best of his life. The comradery between their bosses, Joseph Stalin and Mao Ze Dong just meant they had been spending more time together than before.
Ever since Stalin’s death a few years back and Khrushchev's rise to power, however, everything had shifted.
As the Cold War raged on, Yao could see Ivan sink into obsession with his western adversary, Alfred F. Jones, and it frustrated him to no end. All the summits Ivan was attending with him, the endless posturing, the sudden push for “peaceful coexistence” from Krushchev- they all horrified Yao. Any conversation they would have would always eventually circle back to the American. Yao's biggest fear was that his partner-both diplomatically and emotionally- would become indecipherable from that Western scum, driven entirely by a desire to outspace Washington rather than build true socialist solidarity.
He guessed his own government had begun seeing the cracks in the Sino-Soviet Alliance, almost as if they had been cast aside. To try and mend these cracks, their delegates had planned a visit to the USSR during the New Year’s, which Yao had looked forward to. Hopefully, just for tonight, Ivan will turn into the man he was before all this geopolitical nonsense, and belong entirely to him. Not Krushchev, not Alfred- just him.
In fact, Yao had gone through the trouble of inviting Ivan to his suite that night, to celebrate the New Year together. He had worn his finest qipao, its red silk complimenting the shape of his body, the golden plum blossoms decorating it- representing strength during cold winters, which felt all too fitting- shining under the warm candlelight. He had also used his prettiest hair pin, holding his long, dark brown hair neatly out of his face.
He finally heard a knock at the door and, after quickly turning on a Chinese radio channel to listen to the musical festivities at home, he walked over to his door and opened it to the tall Russian man that stood before it. He gave Yao a small but sweet smile, leaning in to hug him. Instead of hugging him back, Yao pulled him into the room, shut the door, and pulled Ivan down to his height by the man's scarf, pressing his lips to his own. He breathed in the frost and sharp bite of vodka that always seemed to cling to Ivan.
When their mouths finally parted, that's when they officially spoke.
“Priviet, Yao. Thank you for the warm greeting” Ivan grinned, walking over to Yao’s desk to lay the papers he had been carrying and slipped out of his longcoat, folding it over Yao’s chair.
“Well, it’s been so long since we have been alone together without any immediate priorities, so I thought I should show you how excited I am to spend time with you.” Yao admitted with a sultry tone, watching the Russian carefully. He pretended not to notice Ivan's mouth strain at the term “immediate priority.”
Ivan turned and walked closer to Yao, placing his large hands gently on the other's waist as he admired the dress Yao wore.
“Do you… like my dress?” Yao asked, hoping for a positive answer.
“Da… I like the flowers.”
“Thank you. They represent strength in winter, and I felt that it was appropriate for your crazy Kremlin weather.” Yao stated, elicited a laugh out of Ivan.
“Very fitting” Ivan pressed a kiss to Yao's forehead, and gently pushed him over to the table where the radio was.
He moved his kisses over to Yao’s mouth, slipping his cold tongue against Yao's warm one. They both grew more desperate for each other's touch, and Yao had begun unbuttoning Ivan’s waistcoat as Ivan undid Yao’s hairpin.
In all the commotion however, they had disrupted the radio, accidentally switching it to an American news broadcast.
Yao huffed in annoyance and he reached over to switch the radio off, before Ivan aggressively grabbed his wrist to stop him. Yao snapped his head around to face Ivan, whose eyes were intensely staring at the radio.
“Ivan?...” Yao said in a hushed tone, concerned and caught off guard with the sudden change of atmosphere, which had gone from intimate and personal, to cold and disconnected.
Ivan turned to face Yao and muttered a sloppy apology before turning back to the radio, the broadcast becoming the object of his focus at the moment. He backed away from Yao and lowered himself into a chair near the radio, becoming enraptured by the broadcast.
Yao furrowed his eyebrows in frustration and angrily plopped himself onto his silk couch. “I was hoping we could go an evening without any talk of the Americans, but I guess not.” He huffed.
“Yao, I apologize, but you must understand that with tensions between us and the Американцы at an all time high, I cannot afford to let a single bit of their intelligence pass me by, even…” Ivan trailed off, but Yao could finish the thought himself.
Even for you.
“Are you serious?” Yao snapped. “We have an entire night together for the first time in 7 months, and you want to spend it doing what- listening to a 美国人 drone about the approval of a new union?! That has nothing to do with your stupid fighting!”
"It isn't just about a union, Yao," Ivan said, his tone dropping into that quiet, terrifying calm he used when discussing strategy. He didn't look up from the radio. "Every piece of policy, every speech—it tells us what Washington is planning next. You want us to sit in the dark while they build missile bases in Europe?"
"I want you to stop acting like the entire world revolves around Washington!" Yao stood up from the couch, his silk qipao rustling as he stepped directly into Ivan's line of sight. "You call us comrades, Ivan. You stand next to me in posters and preach about socialist solidarity. But the second Alfred so much as sneezes, you drop everything to analyze the germs, as if they hold his nuclear plans! Am I your ally, or amI just an audience to watch you try to prove you're better than him?”
Before Ivan could offer another rehearsed excuse, Yao reached down and slammed the radio dial to off. The crackle of the American broadcast died instantly, leaving the room dead silent except for the heavy wind outside the Kremlin windows.
Ivan froze. The soft, sweet demeanor from earlier vanished completely, his purple eyes darkening as he slowly looked up at the older nation. "Yao. Turn it back on."
"No," Yao said, standing his ground. He looked down at Ivan, a wave of profound disappointment washing over him. It wasn't just the obsession with Alfred that hurt—it was what it was doing to Ivan himself.
"Look at you," Yao continued, his voice dropping into a bitter, disgusted whisper. "You sit there, hanging on every single word out of Washington, reshaping your entire doctrine just to match his steps. Khrushchev preaches 'peaceful coexistence,' you steal their technology, you chase their nuclear arms... You think you're fighting him, Ivan, but you're becoming him."
Ivan’s jaw tightened, but Yao didn't stop.
"You are turning into the exact Western scum we promised to destroy," Yao sneered, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. "You are adopting their arrogance, their obsession with dominance, their empty dick-measuring contests. You bring the ghost of the West into our bed. I came here to be with my comrade, the man who was supposed to lead a revolution. But all I see sitting in front of me now is a cheap Soviet copy of Alfred F. Jones."
For a second, Ivan just stared at him, the silence in the Kremlin suite stretching thin enough to snap. Then, the dark tension in his expression melted away into that familiar, terrifyingly serene smile.
He stood up, towering over Yao, and reached out to gently take Yao's hand—completely ignoring how tense the older nation's fingers were in his grip.
"Yao, лапочка, you misunderstand me," Ivan cooed, his voice returning to that soft, sing-song cadence that felt almost patronizing. He squeezed Yao’s hand, looking into his eyes with absolute, unshakeable earnestness. "I am not trying to be like Alfred. I hate Alfred."
He stepped closer, leaning down so his forehead almost touched Yao's.
"Everything I do—the rockets, the tests, keeping track of every breath Washington takes—it is all for us," Ivan insisted, smiling softly as if he were explaining something simple to a child. "The West is a pack of wolves, Yao. If I do not show them that my teeth are sharper, that my bombs are bigger, they will devour us both. I am building a shield big enough to cover Moscow and Beijing. I am making sure no one can ever hurt you again."
He hummed, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of Yao's knuckles. "So you see? You do not need to be jealous of him. Everything I take from him, I bring back to you."
Yao’s hand went completely limp in Ivan’s grip. The warmth in his eyes drained, replaced by a stillness as ancient and unyielding as the mountains of his homeland.
He didn't yell. He didn't pull away aggressively. Instead, he slowly withdrew his fingers, stepping out of Ivan’s reach. The absolute lack of heat in Yao's posture was far more terrifying than any burst of rage.
"Jealous?" Yao echoed, his voice dropping into a quiet, icy register that sent a chill through the warm suite. "You think this is about envy, Ivan?"
Yao took a slow step forward. He reached up, his long, slender fingers gently resting against Ivan’s pale cheek. His thumb brushed over the Russian's cheekbone with a tenderness that felt almost agonizing against the bitter words to follow. Ivan blinked, momentarily disarmed by the soft touch, his eyes searching Yao’s face for a sign of reconciliation.
"Look at me," Yao whispered softly, his dark eyes locking onto Ivan's. "I am not in love with Khrushchev. I am not in love with the Soviet Union, or its doctrine, or its military growth." His thumb stroked Ivan's cheek one last time before his hand dropped back to his side, ghosting Ivan's frostbitten skin. "I was in love with you, Ivan. The man, not the empire."
Ivan opened his mouth to interrupt, but Yao raised a single hand to silence him.
"If you choose to run after Washington, chasing 'peaceful coexistence' and bending your principles just to appease imperialism, then China will no longer follow," Yao said, his tone resolute and devoid of room for negotiation. "You are abandoning true Socialism for revisionism. You neglect the proletariat revolution and leave them to starve, all to play dangerous nuclear games with your rival across the sea. We will not- I will not compromise with imperialists, and will not play second fiddle to a Soviet leadership that has lost its way and forgotten their founding principles."
Yao turned his back, walking toward the window to stare out at the blinding snow over Red Square. The silence between them felt heavier than the winter outside, thick with the undeniable truth that something fundamental had just shattered.
He glanced over to the clock, which had just struck midnight. It seemed the end of 1957 would also end the Golden Age of the Sino-Soviet Alliance.
"Happy New Year, Ivan," Yao murmured to the freezing glass, his reflection expressionless. "Please leave my room."