Got any vietchu( china x vietnam) fics or art?
This one I've actually posted in my oneshot collection (which you can read on ao3 here) but i quite like it so here you go! tumblr version!
“If you,” China says as he looms over her, the light behind him obscuring his face in shadow. “Pretend to love me, I shall too. Together, we can live in this false paradise.”
At the time, when Vietnam heard those words leave China’s lips, all she could do was stare at him, unblinking. But internally, her insides twisted, disgusted at this display of fragility and self-consciousness, as if he was trying to mock the position she was now in.
After being given some time to mull it over, however, she came to some new conclusions.
One. She was talking to this enormously successful subjugator and devourer of nations. He didn’t need her to pretend she liked him- that was his attitude towards a lot of things, actually, based on his curtness with his government and leaders. China could’ve turned Vietnam into livestock feed for all he wanted. He was the conqueror, and she was the conquered- that was how the world worked.
Two. It could benefit her and her people to get on his good side. Despite her now diminished standing, nations still held sway in administration. Like him, she was a survivor- nothing came before one’s survival. This, however, brought her to her next conclusion, and possible obstacle.
Three. Would he let such attachments and passions cloud his judgment? Would he be swayed by such fleeting and foolish sentiments?
Nations existed beyond what was possible for humans, beyond the limits of their impossibly brief lives and narrow perspectives- China, having massacred anyone who dared to stand in his way, stood as the exemplar of their kind. The chances of him retaining any traces of softness were close to nothing.
But when she’s taken away from her warm, lush home, and brought to live at his damned capital for several months, she makes some new observations, which leads to her readjusting her initial assessment.
The corners of his lips tugged downwards when he met with his ruler, despite his otherwise cordial tone. He would obediently nod and mutter monosyllabic responses, but even she suppressed a laugh at how quickly his head whipped away from the Emperor himself to hungrily stare at today’s banquet. He loved eating, probably too much for his own good.
He was ridiculously vain about his hair at times. He nagged at her for how poorly she kept her own. She told him where he could stick his jade comb.
He insisted on arranging his house and furniture in preposterous ways. “For good energy,” he claims, as he scoffed at a nearby house for their ‘haphazard’ placement of decorative rocks. To her, every rock was haphazardly placed.
He loved children, and frequently stopped to chat or play a game with them. He’d even give up his favorite snacks to them, even when she could see the comically sad longing in his eyes.
He also liked flowers, was often found in the palace gardens. Once, when Vietnam’s form was hidden by foliage and flora, she saw him cradle the bud of a lotus; there was a melancholy glimmer to his gaze, and an almost gentle, thoughtful sorrow in his movements.
It was the weight, the weariness, the ache of walking centuries, millennia on this earth. She knew it all too well.
But it disappeared just as quickly as it came, and he returned the bud to the waters, before he saw her and began to again complain.
There were sides to every nation, she knew that, sides to every human, in fact. But the contrast was still a little dizzying.
One dawn, she woke up early, before the sun had even risen. Slipping out of her room and avoiding the guards, she wandered the ornate palace, tracing memories of past arguments and walks and discussions, and somehow, found herself in his room.
She paused at the doorway, before striding towards his bed where he is still sleeping.
When she reaches his bedside, she stops. Hundreds of thoughts swirl in her mind. He’s defenseless, she thinks, he’s unguarded and unarmed and unconscious and completely vulnerable.
She stares at that white throat of his. Memories of the morning he jabbed her in the rib and told her that they would be traveling to his capital so she could be “civilized” course through her. She had been coughing up blood and phlegm then; the gravest injury he had was some drool finding its way down his face.
She sits down on the bed, motionless. Then, she reaches a hand towards him. She’s staring so hard that her vision is bleeding and her chest is tight from holding her breath and she can almost pretend that she doesn’t feel the way her hand tremble-
It’s only when her fingers make contact with China’s smooth skin that it drops to the blanket, useless.
It’s pointless, Vietnam wretchedly thinks as he pulls her hand back. She knew better than anyone else that this would accomplish nothing, beyond worsening the conditions of her stay.
She looks at China again, this time at his eyes. They were closed shut, and as a result, he looked far more peaceful than any conscious version of him had ever been.
Her hand reaches out again, and it takes everything in her to brush her fingers against his dry cheek and not do something rash.
She refuses to give him false love. She was incapable of it. They had only acquainted themselves over a series of months, fleeting seconds in her eyes. And their knowledge of each other’s existence only went back to a few decades of military engagements, crossed blades, and spat out insults.
No, she could not give him love or any imitation of it. She was too old for such falsehoods.
But, she could pretend she tolerated his presence. That would be enough, for now.
> This is supposed to take place during the Qin Dynasty campaign against what is now Northern Vietnam, around the 200s BCE? > Did you know that Feng Shui (practice of arranging ur house in certain ways for good luck) has been around for 4000+ years?
