art shtuff!!!

Ten hours of negotiations, and the base of China's skull was pounding irregularly. Her hair desperately needed to be washed, and her clothes felt sticky and cool against her, the disgusting feeling she had come to associate with sweating in an air conditioned room.

Ten hours of negotiations, and little to show for it except her bedraggled state.

China scowled at the bathroom mirror, rubbing at her temples. Well - it’s not that she hadn’t handled worse before. It was just that - for heaven’s sake, could these idiot officials stop for even five minutes so a woman could have a bite to eat? And, speaking of officials, the other fucking nation involved in this and her stupid face -

The door is thrown open and the sound of heels raps against the floor before China makes eye contact with India in the mirror.

India looked displeased, as always, to see her. Her lips - usually smiling, painted with a shade of rather garish red - were turning down, and a knit was forming between those eyebrows.

"India."

"China."

They stared at each other, waiting for the first strike.

"For a person so blunt in private, you've certainly played with your words well, these past few months." India's teeth clipped together almost viciously as she spoke.

"I don't know what you're talking about. My interests have remained clear and unambiguous, all this time."

India’s frown deepened. "I’m aware of your interests. I'm simply pointing out your clear disinterest in reconciling them with mine."

"Oh?" China stepped forward. India’s face stilled. "Maybe you just have unreasonable expectations for compromises. It's not the 1950s anymore. Still submerged in your visions of what could be and not what is, aren't y-"

Finally, the rage breaks unstoppably across India’s face. "Do you ever shut up," she growls, closing the last gap between them.

The kiss is hungry and bloody, filled with the sheer resentment and desperation of the last few hours and months and years; China bites at India's lips, tongue flicking out to lick all that lipstick away. India reangles herself and China curses - would curse, if they weren't busy shredding each other- as she tastes iron and pain in her bottom lip. India sucks at the cut; they break apart; a clear string of fluid connects them.

They look at each other.

China seizes India by her military collar and kisses her again. India hooks a leg around her ankle. China hisses and pulls a fist back, ready to jam into India’s solar plexus, before India breaks off and snaps, "I'm just trying to move us, calm down”. They continue kissing until they're against the bathroom wall, where China does jam said fist into her solar plexus, and India doubles over.

"That," India wheezes, "was unprompted."