This anon apologizes for the lack of funny and the overload of sap.
**
“There is a story,” began China, looking very small beside the taller, broader man whose pale coloring made him look like a sizeable lump of moonlight with a very grotty scarf.
“There is always a story,” said Russia genially.
“Well, there won’t be one if I don’t get to tell it,” snapped China irritably.
Russia showed his penitence by filling China’s (girly little) cup high with vodka.
China accepted the apology by downing the drink with surprising ease for such a short, slender person. But then again, he had been underestimated for so long and that had been unwise. Russia reminded himself of this, and continued to smile.
The scent of good liquor and the sound of low, confiding voices filled a small space of the large and beautiful night. The breezes were gentle and fragrant, leaping and laughing about the two drinking partners while the stars sparked like fragments of burnt song in the sky.
This is the story that China told:
Once upon a golden age of poetry, there was a man called Li Bai. He could have been a scholar, if he had not been a drunkard first and a poet second. He had many adventures – none of them too pleasant, all of them a little sordid. He had once asked the lead eunuch to take his boots off in front of the emperor, had been exiled for slander and participated in a failed rebellion. None of these events are connected and Li Bai – so they said – had been drunk the whole while.
He died, eventually.
Some said suicide. Some said cirrhosis of the liver (whatever, China said, that is). Some said mercury poisoning. And yet more said he had dove into the water in order to embrace the moon. (Drunk, said China, off his head, obviously)
This is the story again, how China actually told it:
“Y’think sonnets’re hard work? Do Russians write sonnets? Do they? Dunno nomore. ANYways, dis Li Bai, s’bloody genius. Wrote good. REAL good, yanno. Bruddy stupid otherwise though. REAL stupid, yanno – poets. Wanted th’moon. Died f’r it. Aru, aru, etc.”
This might or might not have something to do with the fact that Russia had been consistently filling up their cups and China had been consistently emptying them. It seemed to him that the night was alive with the sound of Ivan’s steady breathing, the rustle of his clothes as he fidgeted on the grass, the low, uneven tapping of his fingers against the surface of the table; the night was alight with the glint in the Russian’s eyes; the world was on fire with the taste of maotai and vodka on his lips and the feel of his large, warm hands cupping China’s face.
“Do you want to know the secret of Li Bai’s poetry?” said China with surprising clarity for someone who was drunk and being taken advantage of by the Russian. “’I am drunk. I am lonely. Help me.’ That’s it.”
“I like your story,” Russia told China simply, as their noses bumped.
M O O N 1/?
**
“There is a story,” began China, looking very small beside the taller, broader man whose pale coloring made him look like a sizeable lump of moonlight with a very grotty scarf.
“There is always a story,” said Russia genially.
“Well, there won’t be one if I don’t get to tell it,” snapped China irritably.
Russia showed his penitence by filling China’s (girly little) cup high with vodka.
China accepted the apology by downing the drink with surprising ease for such a short, slender person. But then again, he had been underestimated for so long and that had been unwise. Russia reminded himself of this, and continued to smile.
The scent of good liquor and the sound of low, confiding voices filled a small space of the large and beautiful night. The breezes were gentle and fragrant, leaping and laughing about the two drinking partners while the stars sparked like fragments of burnt song in the sky.
This is the story that China told:
Once upon a golden age of poetry, there was a man called Li Bai. He could have been a scholar, if he had not been a drunkard first and a poet second. He had many adventures – none of them too pleasant, all of them a little sordid. He had once asked the lead eunuch to take his boots off in front of the emperor, had been exiled for slander and participated in a failed rebellion. None of these events are connected and Li Bai – so they said – had been drunk the whole while.
He died, eventually.
Some said suicide. Some said cirrhosis of the liver (whatever, China said, that is). Some said mercury poisoning. And yet more said he had dove into the water in order to embrace the moon. (Drunk, said China, off his head, obviously)
This is the story again, how China actually told it:
“Y’think sonnets’re hard work? Do Russians write sonnets? Do they? Dunno nomore. ANYways, dis Li Bai, s’bloody genius. Wrote good. REAL good, yanno. Bruddy stupid otherwise though. REAL stupid, yanno – poets. Wanted th’moon. Died f’r it. Aru, aru, etc.”
This might or might not have something to do with the fact that Russia had been consistently filling up their cups and China had been consistently emptying them. It seemed to him that the night was alive with the sound of Ivan’s steady breathing, the rustle of his clothes as he fidgeted on the grass, the low, uneven tapping of his fingers against the surface of the table; the night was alight with the glint in the Russian’s eyes; the world was on fire with the taste of maotai and vodka on his lips and the feel of his large, warm hands cupping China’s face.
“Do you want to know the secret of Li Bai’s poetry?” said China with surprising clarity for someone who was drunk and being taken advantage of by the Russian. “’I am drunk. I am lonely. Help me.’ That’s it.”
“I like your story,” Russia told China simply, as their noses bumped.