Countryhumans Art Book

Drinking Buddies (China's Perspective)

   China was many things. An artist, a musician, a soldier, a politician, a Marxist, a slut, a 'lying bastard' (affectionate), a lying bastard (derogatory).

    And right now, he was also wallowing.

   He took another swig from his can of soju, before dropping it on North- on Korea's dining table. His friend would hate how slovenly he was being, leaving rings of sticky alcohol on the fine wood surface, and painting characters in the wet.

   But North was no longer here. Korea was. And when China had drank with South, the careless man had only laughed when he had 'accidentally' spilled soju all over the table and carpet, and said that someone would clean it up, so who knew how he would feel.

   China leaned back on the pile of red cushions he had made, staring at the ceiling.

   He had known that something was wrong. He had known that it was suspicious that the militants in Hong Kong had increased their violence at the same time as those in Ukraina and the Baltics had, drawing CCCP and Russia, drawing him away from North.

   But he had still gone. Because he was not the beuracratic dictator his enemies said he was, and he could not in good faith send some low-ranking Party member to drag Hong Kong back to Beijing. His 'little cousin' had been furious enough that it was China essentially quarantining him, even if he had understood why.

   He wanted more autonomy, not independence. And he certainly didn't want another Western country colonizing him, even if that was what those rioters wanted.

   And America knew that. Just like he had known China would go to him. Because after all those years of pretending to be cold, careless, and opportunistic, of fooling not just Western politicians, but his own, and his provinces, and his loved ones, they hadn't been enough.

   He had fooled the UN and the rest of America's puppets. They couldn't strike Korea or Beijing because there was no way that China, selfish as he was, wouldn't be hidden miles underground in a bunker. It had fooled his Party, most of them, those who knew he loved his people, but also 'knew' he wasn't above secreting himself away while they fought tirelessly.

   But it hadn't been enough to fool the one person that really mattered.
   
   It didn't matter that America's monetized call for information on China's whereabouts hadn't been answered. He knew he was in Korea, because that was where his friend was. And he knew he would go to Hong Kong, because when the militants had set off those bombs, the timing almost certainly at their puppet master's behest, it had not only hurt China, but his 'little cousin.'

    What was the point of it? China had chosen his role to protect his people, not just those who were Chinese citizens. He had spent years crafting the perfect mask, pushing away those he loved, pretending he had forgotten the past, opening up his country and closing himself off and abandoning his best and only friend for twenty-three years.

    What was the point of any of it, if in the end, it wasn't enough to protect one of the people he loved?

  The door to the dining hall opened, and China immediately changed his expression, putting on his smile.

   'Let it be Korea.' Let him have come creeping in to give him that look that China knew meant he felt apologetic about something he had said, even if he wouldn't actually apologize for it. Let him sit down and call him a slob as he took one of the soju cans for himself, and then let them fall asleep on the dining room floor like they had used to.

    But he knew it wouldn't be him. Not just because he was Korea now, but because even as North, after their reunion his friend had no longer slept near him. Even when China offered and he gazed longingly at the heated floor. It never hurt. China knew the role he was playing didn't encourage vulnerability from others, and he knew his friend had his own role to play, one that could no longer fall asleep with his head pressed to China's while they stared at the ceiling.