The Red Rupee

Drawings in the Sand - a China & Rome fic (part one!)

CAN IT BE? DID I WRITE? I DID.

this fic contains no pairings! it may not be entirely historically accurate (I am not an expert on these things) but I aim to make it as close to the truth as possible. I plan on making a series of ficlets about Rome and China, and this one in particular is about their first meeting.

ENJOY!

When China first meets the Roman Empire, he is unsure of what to do.

Although they are both male in body and flanked by overeager soldiers and their stern-faced bosses, that is where the similarities end. There are differences between them that only a sea of distance could create, differences that stun him into silence and inspire him to stand utterly still rather than greeting his guest with the cordiality he‘s been trained to possess when dealing with outsiders. This man is unlike any other human-bodied individual he has seen thus far; his skin is tanned by the sun and glistening with sweat, his arms and legs bound by muscles and unsightly dark hair that has never been groomed or managed. Even his face is wretchedly unshaven, short spikes of uncut stubble protruding from his chin and darkening the area below his nose in what is not quite a beard and not quite a moustache. The foreignness of his being is lessened by the amiable look on his face, but China cannot help but notice that his eyes are of a peculiar shape, rounded and domed by an extraneous flap of skin rather than almond-shaped and smooth. Although they seem similar in color to his own they are somehow larger even as they squint against the morning sun, a trait that matches his own people but not the crowd of strangers before him. The unusualness of his visage is brought together by the hair atop his head; it’s oddly short and swept upwards in the most peculiar of places, light brown curls shuffling against one another in the seaport breeze.

Curls - those are something new and thrilling. China watches them bounce against the gentle pull of the wind and wonders what they would feel like against his hands should he decide to touch them. Would the hair of this foreign nation be any different than his own, or that of his people? Would it have a certain coarseness to it, or would it feel more like the silk he sought so actively from unknown lands? The curiosity nearly overwhelms him, but the sound of voices draws him from his stupor once he realizes that their bosses are conversing actively like old friends reunited. It seems to him that they have met before to discuss trade, and he feels sorely out of the loop, wishing he could understand the unfamiliar words that swirl around him in a confusing flurry of mixed languages. The idea that his superior is discussing trade and foreign relations without consulting him brings an unhappy pout to his lips, but he stifles it by bringing his large sleeve up to hide his frown, hesitant to show such a vulnerable expression to a man dressed in armor with a spear tucked beneath his arm.

As intimidating as Rome and his many warriors look to the Chinese populace that cowers behind the line of soldiers standing at the ready, China cannot feel anything more than an innate curiosity towards him. A once-over glance reveals that he is young and excited; even his grin is strange, an unabashed display of tooth and gum and what looks like happiness to be in an unfamiliar territory. Shyly, the Oriental nation moves himself forward to meet the armor-clad Empire personally for the first time, his face still partially hidden beside the flare of his sleeve; the much larger man reciprocates the gesture, towering over him with a carefree smile and the pungent stench of seawater and far too many days without bathing. Although his hygiene is lacking from the long and arduous journey his hair remains soft-looking and recently washed, tousled by the open air and protruding from his head in perky crescent moons against the blue sky. They lack the words to properly greet one another and their native gestures would be lost in translation, so they merely stand and stare - one gazing up, the other glancing down - with varying degrees of contentment. A new wind blows the conversation away from their uncomprehending ears, and the mop of brown fidgets against it, unrestrained.

China decides that now is the time to satisfy his curiosity. While their bosses converse and their soldiers glare daggers at one another, he rises onto the tips of his toes, drawing his hand away from his face, and pinches a lock of the stranger’s hair between his fingertips.

Many things happen much too quickly. One of the Empire’s men takes note of the contact that has been initiated without permission and surges forward, the sharpened edge of his blade glinting dangerously as he utters a strained warning. A mob mentality takes over and within seconds half of Rome’s men are shouting and shaking their spears, uselessly threatening the robed Chinese man in loud voices and forming a protective barrier around their nation. Stunned by the sudden aggression, China lets out a frightened sound akin to a whimper and cringes away from the swinging weapons before he can be struck by them, his hands retreating fearfully into his sleeves once more as he backpedals into one of his own soldiers. Before their politicians can respond the Chinese mercenaries catch onto the aggressive mood and began reciprocating threats they do not understand with their own language, their weapons raised; the infantryman closest to his nation wraps a protective arm around the frightened individual, shielding him from a blow that does not come.

The mindless frenzy only lasts for a few short moments. A deep-voiced command of unknown origin breaks through the rallying troops with a series of piercing words that seem inarguable even to those who do not understand them; China realizes that it is Rome who has called out in such a decisive manner, and once silence settles around the harbor he turns on his men with an angered expression, scolding them without reservation and gesticulating wildly with his large hand while his spear mindlessly swings along to the lilt of his speech. The smaller nation is not as frightened by the display as he should be and instead considers it nothing short of fascinating, having never seen such an animated way of speaking before; he watches from where he is being cradled against the chest of one of his soldiers until the Empire runs out of steam and stands breathless, arms folded against his plated chest. The trail of sweat on his forehead has been renewed and his face is reddened with the forcefulness of his shouting as he looks upon his shame-faced ranks with a glare of fierce disapproval, his spear once more halted beneath the crook of his arms. For a moment China is inspired to give a similar speech to his own soldiers, who had been every bit as eager to take up their weapons as the foreigners, but they seem to have gotten the message even though they cannot not imbibe the words firsthand. They settle back into their former positions with their eyes downcast and their brows knitted in distress, thoroughly demure.

Their superiors are merely onlookers to a mysterious situation, and although they don’t understand what has happened, they seem grateful that a potential uprising has been quelled. They abruptly part ways and glide back over to their respective nations with traces of bewilderment still glazed across their faces, knowing better than to ask what caused the uproar. China can still feel his heart beating wildly from the urge of excitement but through the haze of adrenaline he understands that his boss is telling him they will continue negotiations indoors in order to quell the tension that the high-sun’s heat has created; a glance over in Rome’s direction leads him to believe that his own boss his telling him the very same thing, and he feels a strange sort of relief. The orders for a change of location are given out simultaneously to each set of troops, and each side obediently falls into their own practiced order, the Asian forces bringing up the lead as they guide their begrudging guests away from the familiarity of the ocean breeze.

As he walks beside his representative, China glances down at his still-trembling palms. He had barely gotten a feel for the foreigner’s hair before they were startled apart, but from what he remembered, it was a pleasant sensation not unlike the softness of his own hair. As strange as it is to experience such a similar tactile response when interacting with something foreign, he feels oddly satisfied by the endeavor, even going so far as to consider the bold action an absolute success. He is so caught up in his thoughts that he fails to realize someone has moved behind him; he only feels the softest of touches against his neck before his own dark tresses are lifted from where they’ve settled over his back, the beads and ornaments tied into the loose bun at the top of his head shifting against one another. He turns with a startled gasp to see none other than Rome himself, his vast palms covered by the hair of the other nation as if showing it off to anyone that is willing to look. The Roman man offers up a friendly smile and runs his thumb over the long locks, uttering a word China cannot understand before letting the length of the well-decorated hair fall back into place.

They walk the rest of the trip side-by-side, conversing in their shared silence.