China is tired of belonging to Russia.
It is so one-sided, and it offends his sharing nature.
So tonight he has planned a reversal.
He slides the door open on hinges oiled just that morning. He slips into the room as silently as possible, then draws back the covers. Russia does not stir.
China reaches out and slips a single button free. Russia sleeps on.
China continues his work. Russia continues to sleep.
China pulls away the fabric in its entirety. Russia murmurs something about "sunflowers under the snow, da?"
China freezes.
Russia snores.
China reaches with a shaking hand into his coat and removes a small pot. He pulls out the stopper.
He picks up his brush.
And he paints Russia's scarred torso all over, mine, China's possession, property of China, mine, mine, mine.
Russia's eyelids flutter open.
China panics, ink nearly slopping over his hands, and his brush slashes across Russia's chest through Ice Of The Red Dragon.
Russia's hands snap up and catch China's small wrists. He looks down at his ink-stained chest and chuckles lightly.
"Take off your jacket, da?"
China is trembling. Russia deftly takes the ink and brush, sets them on his nightstand.
"Take off your jacket."
China does not move.
Russia reaches up for the fastenings, and China flinches back.
"Take off your jacket."
China's shaking hands pull away the fabric. He is wearing no shirt underneath, so that the ink in his inner pocket has stayed close to his skin and warm enough not to wake Russia. Or so he had hoped.
Russia's gaze does not stray from China's face.
"Turn around."
China obeys.
Large hands roam over his back and he shudders.
"Feel."
China cocks his head to the side in confusion, so Russia takes his hand and presses it against the scars that cover China's back.
Scars that China did not know existed.
"How..."
"Hush, China. Did you think that you were alone in wanting to mark your lover?"
"But I never felt..."
"Of course."
Russia can be so incredibly gentle.
