Sadness and pain.

Why do I fail so much at writing it? I had to wrestle with so much writer's block to get this much out, yet it's still such a fail... and it's not even done yet. OTL

The clock was a liar, Yao decided. It was making time go faster than it should. They couldn't possibly still be awake at this hour.

Yet the blocky figures spelling out 3:28 AM glared at him through the darkness, reminding him of his exhaustion, taunting him to go to sleep. Yao glared right back. The rational part of his mind felt silly for having a staring contest with a digital clock, but nevertheless his gaze remained mulishly fixed on the glowing numbers. He would not surrender to the night. He would not lose himself to unconsciousness. Not yet. Not until Kiku had finally fallen asleep as well.

Which, unfortunately, seemed to be taking quite a while. The frequent coughing fits interspersing uneasy lulls did not help matters. Having taken up the responsibility of caring for the ill Japanese nation, Yao had stationed himself on the edge of Kiku's bed, his legs stretched out alongside his brother and his stiff back propped up against the headboard. He had lost track of how long he'd been running around the house, cooking meals and spooning medicine and emptying out basins of crimson-saturated vomit. It must have been hours, at least. Days? It all seemed like a blur. He'd barely gotten any rest since this whole nightmare began, but even though his mind screamed for sleep, he had to make sure Kiku was at ease first. Family always took priority over self.

The sudden shrill of an ambulance pierced the silence in the room. Yao's weary eyes strayed to the window (though they saw nothing but black), and part of his tired thoughts wondered where those paramedics were going — and what they would find there. Dying civilians shivering in their beds, wrapped in dirty, bloodstained sheets? Strained, haggard parents trying in vain to hush their crying children? People reduced to little more than corpses, dragging themselves through day after agonising day, feeling the life drain slowly from their bodies? These were the horrible conditions Yao had seen on the streets, conditions that were reflected in his siblings' own frail states. But, being nations, his siblings were at least granted immortality that allowed them to cling to precious life.

... No. Not immortality, he reminded himself grimly. Being nations, their lives were tied to their countries. If their people died, they would die with them. Nobody was truly safe.

Yao grimaced at the clock.

Beside him, Kiku stirred. Yao froze, half expecting him to collapse into sudden convulsions and start hacking up blood. Instead, he only tossed restlessly over to his side, splaying out a leg that might have punted Yao off the edge of the bed had it not been so weak. The Chinese nation remembered how they all used to do that — Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, even the perpetually stoic Hong Kong. As children they would disturb him in the middle of the night, begging to sleep in his room when storms thundered outside or scary stories kept their imaginations alive and their minds fearfully awake. Often still half asleep, he would let them in to share his bed... only to wake up the next morning with a foot in his face, tiny hands latched to his hair, and a tangled mass of limbs piled on top of him and trapping him to the mattress. Such mornings had always been endlessly uncomfortable, but Yao still looked back on them with fondness.

Fondness now tainted by heartache as he gazed at Kiku's deathly still figure curled up beside him.

He reached out and drew his palm across the rumpled blankets to smooth them out. He could barely feel Kiku's body buried beneath them. He traced around the thin torso, up the bony arms and gaunt shoulders... there was a moment's hesitation, and then he let his hand float up to his pale face, faintly illuminated by the clock's ghostly glow. It was as if they were three thousand years in the past, when the younger nation was still a child, lovingly watched over by his elder brother. Yao brushed Kiku's wispy black bangs away from his eyes, which were closed but seemed to be fluttering ever so slightly. (Was he pretending to be asleep...?)

He softly stroked the top of his head. "Shi shang zhi you mama hao... you ma de hai zi xiang ge bao," he sang in a whisper, hoping the old, familiar lullaby would help Kiku drift off to warm memories. (Did he even remember the song? It was so long ago...)

"Tou jin mama de huai bao... xin fu xiang bu liao..." He was singing himself to sleep, it seemed like. Yao's voice grew fainter as he fought to keep his own eyes open.

"Shi shang zhi you mama hao..."

A stifled yawn. (No, he would not fall asleep...)

"Mei ma de hai zi xiang ge cao..."

His hand slumped listlessly to the pillow.

"Li kai mama de... huai bao..."

(Not yet... not yet...)

"Xin fu... na... li... zhao..."

(Would not... fall...)

(... asleep...)

Minutes later, another ambulance passed by.

Neither Kiku nor Yao stirred. Its wailing siren faded into the night, unheard.

The ending is rusheddddd. I thought I was rambling too much and I didn't want to bore people, but maybe I went a bit too far in the other direction. x.o (Also, gratuitous Chinese for the win~ Hey, he is the freakin' People's Republic of China. I'm allowed. :D)

In other news, there's a long weekend coming up. Also, we may or may not be having tea-time in Chemistry now, just because Delbi doesn't want people falling asleep in his class (it being fifth period and all). xD