civilize | Backstory ficlet for Alliance

They get married in Western suits. Despite the poverty and corruption that still gnaw at his guts, China is very much a modern nation, and it is important to present himself as such. America equivocates, of course, slowly strangling himself with partisan gridlock. He runs a hand through tousled hair, one side of his collar sticking up. China reaches over and fixes it without a thought, the way he might for Korea or Hong Kong. America startles and stares at him, at his hand, at the casual intimacy of the gesture.

“The senate’s voting to confirm today,” he says, even though China has kept up with the process meticulously.

“Tea?” he offers. America shakes his head, heading off in search of an intern to fetch him more coffee, which will doubtless not help him relax. Yao sips his tea, smoothes invisible dust off his lapel, and waits.

*

A few hours later a knot of self-congratulating diplomats surrounds them as the President of the United States and the General Secretary of the Party (and also the President, worthless though title is) of China put their names to paper in the Oval Office.

America’s President is a Pennsylvania man, with the slightest hint of Appalachia leaning on his vowels, coiled around the rigidly straight column of his spine. He has a great talent for dignity in the face of degradation, framing the alliance as a partnership rather than a sale through the sheer force of his conviction.

It is a partnership, of course. Because a partner is what China wants, diplomatically and economically and military. China needs the untouchable patina of American superpower, even though he has no illusions about America’s weaknesses. And with the debt of generations cupped lightly in his hands, China can have America any way he wants.

Alfred and Yao sign after their leaders. Everyone claps. They do not kiss.

*

Later, in the hallway, America pulls off the tie he has been fidgeting with all day. He fishes two rings out of his pocket and tosses one to China, who catches it one-handed. He examines the cheap trinket with a raised eyebrow and half a smile. America jams his own ring on the appropriate finger and then crosses his arms over his chest, daring China to reject the underhanded gesture.

China puts on his ring.

*

At some point during the dinner, the speeches, or the drinks, America’s jacket went the way of his tie. He sits on the edge of the bed in shirtsleeves, tugging at his cuffs.

It isn’t a honeymoon. It’s a consummation. A legal formality.

China rests slender fingers on America’s wrist, tracing vulnerable blue veins with the faintest pressure. America cannot stand to be controlled, which makes him ironically easy to manipulate.

“Don’t think of it as an obligation, Alfred,” China murmurs.

“Is it supposed to be a perk?” America sneers. China smiles at the comment, even though he isn’t really amused. America’s scowl loses some of its venom.

“Consider it a bonding experience,” China says dryly, letting his own hint of disdain make them conspirators together against the aggravations of tradition. America grins at the euphemism, and China moves into that opening, that imagined moment of connection between them. He leans in and kisses America slowly, light but lingering, teasing America’s lips with his own. It takes a few seconds of careful plying, but eventually America kisses back.

*

Perhaps because China still cultivates a slight air of androgyny, America expects to top.

He lifts China into his lap, brashly forward, confident in the momentum of cliché, if not his own prowess. China nibbles his neck, deft hands unbuttoning America’s shirt and pants, nimble fingers stroking and exploring until he finds the spots that make him moan and twitch, then exploits them mercilessly.

America is certainly easy on the eyes, China admits as he watches sweat gleam in the hollow of his throat, the taut muscles of his chest strain and shudder, his strong jaw go slack in surprise and pleasure as China goes to work on him.

*

By the time America is splayed across the bed – loudly, dramatically, a spectacle as always – he is completely naked, adorned only with red proto-bruises and crisp bite marks dappled over his stomach and chest. Bent over America’s sprawling body, China caresses him from the inside, long fingers pressing and twisting, drawing out sharp, thin moans that glint and catch and unspool like fine industrial wire. He teases one nipple with his teeth, nibbling and tugging, rubbing between America’s legs with one knee still clothed in his black designer suit pants, the scrupulous line of the crease still falling exactly straight down his shin.

America screams and surges, almost – almost – throwing him off.

The pants, China decides, are an acceptable sacrifice.

America is conscientious enough to want to reciprocate despite his unvoiced embarrassment. China reclines in the pillows, meeting America’s eyes as he strokes him with broader hands that can’t quite seem to decide what calluses they have. The color is high in America’s cheeks. The exertion plastered few strands of gold hair to the skin of his forehead. His eyes focus on China, full of a bright, powerful intensity rarely brought to bear at once, part gratification, part aggravation, part curiosity.

China gasps softly, intrigued, anticipating, aching, and spills between them, twitching in America’s hand.

*

America kisses him again, after. No hurry, no lust, no bid for advantage or planned seduction. It’s just a kiss, sweet and plain and a little awkward with spontaneity and the poor spatial-temporal judgment of first time lovers, unaccustomed to one another’s presences, because they are married now and they may as well.

China isn’t sure whether he thinks that’s idealistic or practical. America rolls away to the other side of the bed shortly afterward, slipping fast into a restless, agitated sleep, while China stares at the irregular plaster pebbling on the ceiling as he thinks about the past, the present, and the future.

Before America pulled away, China knows that he kissed him back.