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konstantyaO hai there, LJ. Just popping in for a quick little fic. That somehow became pretty significant in length. OTL.
Title: Young Man, I Do Believe You're Dying
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Drama, angst, romance.
Characters/pairings: AustriaxHungary, except it's really more like AustriaxHungaryxTurkey, except, well, it's complicated.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,000 (excluding notes)
Summary: In which Ottoman!Hungary becomes Habsburg!Hungary, Austria becomes something of a possessive creeper, and Turkey is a surprisingly good judge of character.
Period: 1687-1697.
"Heh," Turkey says, when Austria enters the chamber. "You got some guts, coming in here alone."
"My armies have this palace surrounded, and despite everything, you're not foolish enough to try attacking me in your state," Austria points out, the cracked walls and the bandage around Turkey's leg proof enough of the truth of this statement. "To bring an entourage inside would be superfluous."
Turkey laughs again, shortly. "You might act all sophisticated, kid, but deep down, you're a real punk, you know that?"
Austria doesn't respond to that, because he's old enough to know when someone is baiting him, and young enough to still be impatient. "I believe you have something of mine?" he tersely reminds him.
"Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on," Turkey says, the flippancy of his tone belying the laborious way he pulls himself to his feet. Wearily, limping just a little, he heads down a hall to the left.
A few minutes later, he brings her in, wrists bound behind her, struggling, and though it has long since come out that Hungary is female, Austria still finds himself taken aback by how very womanly she looks, in appearance if not in mannerisms. Not even the masculine ensemble she wears—baggy trousers, boots, sash, and all—can disguise the fullness of her hips, nor the way her waist nips in. Her hair, which had always been pulled back in some horrid knot or another when they were children, hangs long and free, falling in her eyes as Turkey pushes her out into the middle of the room.
"Guess this is it, princess," he says, a little ruefully, and Hungary whirls around to face him, releasing a vicious string of what Austria gathers are some very unflattering things in idiomatic Turkish.
Turkey smirks, almost wistfully, putting strong fingers to her chin and tilting her head up. "I knew I should have gotten into the habit of washing your mouth out. Guess this'll have to do." And without presage, he jerks her mouth to his, wrapping his other arm around her waist and pulling her close.
Austria can see her entire body tense, her hands curling into fists, fighting against the rope that binds them. Turkey's hand is rough against her jaw, his lips prying hers apart, his tongue dipping deep into her mouth, and even Austria, himself, bristles at the demonstration—partly because he firmly believes a man should never force himself on a woman, and partly because it is much like watching someone play with a toy that is his. Even so, Austria stills his tongue; no matter how much he might want to object, he suspects this display—this brazen, flaunting display—is as much a last-ditch attempt to rile up an enemy as it a cocky farewell to a lost territory, and Austria refuses to give him the satisfaction. Still, he has to force his own hands to not clench resentfully, has to force his eyes to keep watching, impassively, lest he give himself away by looking off to the side in disgust.
Finally, Turkey breaks the kiss. He pulls back, his now-wet lips quirking crookedly as he looks down at her, chin still in his hand. "For old time's sake," he murmurs. Hungary spits in his face, and with that, Turkey shoves her over to Austria, so suddenly and so forcefully that she barrels into him, stumbling, and he has to put his arms around her to steady her. She pulls her face back from his collar and looks up at him, flushed and disheveled, green eyes wide and wary, and Austria blushes a little, himself, and finds he has to swallow—because she is so very feminine in form now, and that fact is so very impossible to ignore with her pressed up against him.
Turkey chuckles from across the way, almost vengefully flicking her spittle from his cheek. "Well, don't you two make a cute couple," he drawls. Austria levels a cold glare at the older nation, and allows his arm to tighten, just a little, around his new acquisition, half-protectively and half-possessively.
---
She sits in front of him on the way back to Vienna, riding sidesaddle, because he would have it no other way. He has to keep his arms around her, to hold the reins, and Hungary tries to pull herself in as much as physically possible to minimize contact between them. Still, the length of an arm is constantly pressed against his chest, and her leg keeps brushing his knee. Hungary resolutely keeps her eyes on the ground, her demeanor sullen and silent.
"One would think you'd be happier to be free of Ottoman rule," Austria eventually says, mildly, trying to instigate conversation.
For a long moment, there is simply more silence—but then, finally, she speaks, her voice low and very curt. "You're no different."
Austria arches an affronted eyebrow and glances down at the nation in his arms. "I'll have you know I make it a point to not go around assaulting women."
"Big deal."
"I'd like to think so," he remarks.
"If you're so different, then why haven't you untied me?" she asks sourly, shifting her still-bound hands. They brush against his stomach, and he pulls back to look at her.
"Would you promise not to run?" he asks pointedly in return, and Hungary stares at him, a little guiltily, her silence answer enough. Her mouth is firm, lips sealed and wary, and Austria suddenly wonders what they taste like. Suddenly wonders just how terrible it would be to let his personal ethics slip, just once, to close the few, short finger-lengths between their mouths and claim hers the way Turkey had. It is a brash, impossible desire, he knows—brought on by petty jealousy and a youth he hasn't quite grown out of—but it is there, all the same.
"So you see why I can't," he finally says, more than a little arrogantly.
"I see you've gone from a chubby pushover to a pompous ass," she grumbles, looking away again, and it is then that the road sharply dips, that the horse's gait suddenly shifts, and that Austria has to tighten his grip around her, lest she fall off. He can feel her intake of breath as her back is pressed against his front, and a moment later, when the road evens out again, his hold relaxes once again, and what meager distance they can afford is placed back between them.
Hungary blows in her face and twitches her head, trying to push back a lock of hair that fell in her eyes. Austria watches this with a mild sort of amusement for a moment, before shifting the reins to one hand and reaching up with the other, sweeping the hair off her forehead and tucking it almost tenderly behind her ear. Her eyes jerk up to his again at the contact, and Austria finally addresses the insult she leveled at him.
"I'll let that one slide, today," he says, both coolly informing and coldly warning her.
---
Upon pulling up in front of his home—a grand manor that is quickly growing grander—Austria dismounts, then helps her do the same. A hand settles firmly on her bound hands the instant her feet are steady, and as a stable boy comes up to lead the horse away, he turns to a maid who stands expectantly in the entranceway.
"Draw a bath," he orders. "And find some appropriate clothing for Miss Hungary, here." He can feel her tense at that, even through her wrists. The maid scurries off, and they're left alone in front of his house.
"Don't tell me you're having me made up to be some sort of entertainment," she says over her shoulder, trying to mask her nervousness with contempt and only half-succeeding.
Austria's expression turns flat, and he sniffs derogatorily. "Don't be ridiculous. It was a long, dusty ride, and male Turkish dress is hardly appropriate for a lady in my house, that's all. We'll get you a decent dress or two." Hungary relaxes, sneers, and rolls her eyes at this, all at once—and Austria chooses that moment to cut through her bindings. She gasps, belatedly bracing herself, and he re-sheathes his knife. Delicately, he brushes the rope from her skin.
Her wrists are red and swollen from where the fibers bit into her, and he massages them carefully, gently, slowly stroking the feeling back into her fingers and palms, and, a bit apprehensively, Hungary accepts this kindness. Again, Austria thinks of Turkey's kiss, and of how very much it nettles him. It is utterly foolish and irrational, to want to erase the action, as if it is some symbolic claim the Mediterranean nation has laid on her, but that doesn't stop his hands from engulfing hers, from his fingers pressing sensuously into her flesh, as if massaging her wrists is something similarly intimate that only he is entitled to.
"There," he murmurs when he is done, closer to her ear than is perhaps necessary. His fingertips brush her skin one last time before he lets go of her completely.
Hungary finally turns around to face him, cheeks tinged pink, and cradles her hands in front of her, echoing his ministrations. She looks up at him as if he's a puzzle she can't figure out. "So now what?" she asks.
Austria blinks languidly and tilts his head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you'll put me to work in your house, right? That's what all you empires do." Her expression turns a little more surly, and her body language turns a little more defensive.
"Ah," he says, clasping his hands behind his back and easily ignoring her verbal slight. "Yes. I'm sure we can find some household chores that will suit you. Gardening, perhaps. Truth be told, considering your experience, I'd prefer to have you in the stables, but we can't risk having you run off, now can we?"
Hungary exhales disdainfully through her nose, her nostrils flaring, and he wonders if she knows how very equine the action appears. She glares at him, but Austria pays it no mind, and a moment later, she goes back to rubbing her wrists and forearms.
A thought strikes him then, and carefully, trying to act merely curious, he asks, "Might I…ask what your duties were in Turkey's house?" Visions of scantily-clad slave girls dance in his head and make him dread the answer, make his fingers want to fidget anxiously behind his back.
Hungary snorts. "Mostly cooking, though he said I was terrible at it. Sometimes he'd have me bandage his wounds or wash his hair—until I managed to snip off that stupid curl of his, at least."
Amusement twitches at his mouth—and relief, and jealousy—and Austria runs a self-conscious hand over Mariazell. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, and gestures for her to precede him inside.
Later that night, in the privacy of his bedchamber, against his will, the image of her with a gauzy skirt and bare midriff invades his mind, her hands soapy and slick, in Turkey's hair, on his broad, bare shoulders, and back, and chest—and Austria tosses and turns, throws the covers off his too-hot body, and doesn't manage to sleep a wink.
---
She looks very different in a simple day dress, he thinks. Less exotic and more boring, and as strange as it sounds, he likes her better this way. She pulls the weeds and beats the carpets and glares at him whenever she has the chance, but Austria pays this show of hostility no mind. Because they are his weeds, and his carpets, and she wears his clothes, speaks his language, lives in his house, and that is enough, Austria thinks.
Turkey's influence fades more with every passing season, and Austria contests that that is enough.
---
It is not long after it comes out that Turkey and his army are in Belgrade again that she comes barging into his office. Upon raising his eyes from his maps and letters, any sharp reprimand Austria might have had on his tongue is left to flounder in his mouth—because she is dressed in full armor, in breastplate and boots, her hair in a braid and her sword ready at her hip.
"I want to fight for you," she says, without preamble, and Austria is suddenly torn—between saying yes, yes, because she is so bright, and fierce, and beautiful, and he is so ecstatic at the thought of having her by his side, at having this fiery warrior defend him. But another part of him wants to lock her up, right then and there, because he is suddenly so terrified Turkey will simply snatch her off the battlefield, will simply grab her and kiss her and debase her like he did before, and all those jealous insecurities he thought had faded suddenly come barreling back down onto him.
Austria finds his fingers unconsciously tightened around his quill, and he forces his hand to relax, forces his movements nonchalant as he places the pen back in his inkwell, forces his voice calm and steady as he asks, "Are you sure?"
"I spent a hundred and fifty years with that prick," Hungary says, crossly. "I'm not about to go back."
Something surges in his veins at that, but he suppresses it and mildly asks, "Does this mean that you prefer my rule to Turkey's?"
She flushes hotly. "I never said that! I just want to keep my land in one piece, is all."
A smile wants to twitch at his mouth, because she is so transparent, her actions so honest, and she's so his. Not Turkey's, but his, he tells himself. His.
"I see," Austria says. He leans back in his chair, folds his hands together. "I suppose it's only fair, to let you fight for your land." He pauses a moment, and then, because it is so very true, says, "I would be honored to accept your help."
Hungary smiles a very small smile, her breastplate gleaming, her eyes glittering, and Austria suddenly, acutely knows that he can waste no time in planning, can leave no opening when attacking.
---
In the aftermath, he finds Turkey on the outskirts of the battlefield, propped up against a tree, sopping wet and breathing raggedly. His mask is gone, presumably lost to the river, and the sash at his waist is deeply stained.
"You got a lot of balls for such a delicate daisy, you know that?" he says when Austria comes to stand in front of him. Turkey tries to smirk, but it comes out more like a wince.
Austria poises his hand on his sword-hilt and wants to make some remark about how it has nothing to do with genitalia, or the reckless bravery they symbolize, and everything to do with strategy, but finds himself simply staring down at the defeated nation. "Did you honestly think you could take her back so easily?" His voice is quiet and restrained, but the way his hand tightens around his weapon gives away just how very livid he is—because she's his, she's his, and how dare Turkey try to challenge that, how dare he mark her so brazenly, so indecently, so deplorably—
"She's a pain in the ass," Turkey admits, "but what can I say? I miss the way she burns breakfast." He coughs hoarsely, turning his head and spitting both blood and water. Wearily, he runs the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving a smear of crimson, and settles his head back against the tree trunk. "So?" he asks Austria. "Whaddya want? You've already got my treasure, my cannons, fuck, my harem—" He coughs again, weakly, licking a split lip, making it glisten wetly, and Austria suddenly, madly knows what his answer is.
He kneels down beside him, putting an uncharacteristically forceful hand to Turkey's throat, and then—pushes his lips down on his, his tongue into his mouth, trying to steal back the kiss that Turkey, himself, stole ten years ago, imagining that if he just goes deep enough, he can taste her, can lap her up by proxy and be done with it. It's half-vengeful and half-desperate, and when Austria finally pulls back, Turkey sputters and twists his features, as if he just ate a bad date.
"What the hell was that for?" he demands, more confused than anything.
"Because I can't do it to her," Austria practically grinds out, fingers twitching at the Mediterranean nation's neck. He heaves a breath, and his hand drops to the ground in defeat. "I can't," he says again, going from angry to anguished, and Turkey quirks a dubious eyebrow.
"You've got some issues, kid," he says, and Austria's inclined to agree with him.
---
When he sees her with their armies, she is dirty and disheveled, but when she sees him, she grins, and it is so, so vital and vibrant. She runs toward him and throws her arms around his neck and laughs and laughs, and Austria is so taken aback by this that he can only fumble his hands awkwardly in the air by her sides, his face flushing all the way to the tips of his ears.
"We kicked so much ass!" she's saying. "I mean, omigod, were we awesome! We got his sultan's seal and everyth—oh!" She pulls back, her expression turning concerned. "You're bleeding." She tugs her sleeve down, over her hand, and gently dabs at a cut on his cheek he didn't even know he had, and Austria's breath hitches—not because it is painful, but because it is utterly, perversely pleasurable. To feel her fingers on his skin, to see concern for him on her features.
In a terribly selfish movement, he covers her hand with his own, holding it to his cheek, closing his eyes, relishing the sensation. He lets his fingers close around hers, lets his lips graze her palm, and thinks that this might be enough, that this has to be enough, because he'll tear himself to pieces otherwise.
"…A-Austria?" Hungary asks, her voice suddenly unsteady, her cheeks suddenly a deep pink.
"I'm just glad you're safe," he murmurs—which is both a lie and the agonizing truth.
-----
Historical Notes:
-Hungary basically lost her independence after the Battle of Mohács, in 1526, which was fought against the Ottoman Empire. Her king, Louis II, died in the conflict, and rule of Hungary officially defaulted to Louis's brother-in-law, who was of the Austrian Habsburgs. In practice, a great deal of her land, which had already been taken over by Turkey, fell under rule of the Ottoman Empire. (Hungary was essentially divided in two at this point, the Habsburg portions being Royal Hungary, and the Ottoman portions being Ottoman Hungary.) Come 1541, Turkey conquered even more of her land, including her capital, Buda, leaving Austria with just a fraction of her territory. Things stayed like this for over a century.
-By 1683, Austria was really starting to get the hang of this "heading an empire" thing, and, with help from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and some other badass nations, managed to keep Turkey from capturing his capital in the Battle of Vienna. Following that, Turkey started falling into a bit of a decline, while Austria started to enter his heyday. Over the next few years, a great deal of Hungary was reclaimed, including Buda in 1686. 1687 saw the (Second) Battle of Mohács, which Turkey lost, big time, and after which Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I was crowned King of Hungary, finally fulfilling that long-awaited Habsburg dream Austria had tried to secure, way back when, with one of his strategic marriages.
-In July of 1697, Austria learned that the Ottoman armies were in Belgrade, and rallied a force somewhere in the range of 55,000, about 20,000 of which were Hungarian. They moved to intercept the Ottoman forces, trying to engage them near the Petrovaradin Fortress, but Turkey said, "Nah, I'm not feeling this battlefield—Ima go further north." Turkey was looking to capture another fortress, at Szeged, and use that as a base with which to siege the Habsburg forces, but this plan fell through, and Turkey basically said, "Ah, well, winter's on its way, so I'm off." Austria went, "Whoa, whoa, you start a fight and then don't see it through?—entirely dishonorable and wholly ungentlemanly of you," and pressed on, forcing a fight at the Tisza River, in what became known as the Battle of Zenta. Long story short, Austria was completely badass, and Turkey ended up completely fucked. Ottoman losses numbered 30,000. Habsburg losses? Not even 500. Plus, Austria made out with some super-sweet swag, including the sultan's official seal, and yes, his harem (which, in the Ottoman Empire, was less concubines and more wives and daughters of the ruling family and their ladies-in-waiting, but still). This was the last great battle of the Great Turkish Wars (as all of this, from 1683, had been dubbed, and which had been fought mostly on and for Hungarian land), and after a few half-assed skirmishes, Turkey finally gave up the ghost and signed the Treaty of Karlowitz in 1699.
A/N: I have dueling head-canons when it comes to Hungary. The one I generally go with, because it's the one canon seems to support, what with her inclusion in the Chibitalia segments, is that she moved into Austria's house in 1526, and stayed there throughout the 1600s. But then there's that whole "majority of Hungary was actually under Ottoman rule" that keeps nagging at me, hence the canon used here—that if she was with Austria at all, it was only briefly, from 1526-1541, and then was with Turkey all the way until 1687-ish. Ideally, I think I'd like to come to a compromise between the two, but I've regretfully had other things to do than wrack my brain about head-canon. (Which is a shame. T_T)
For reference, Austria and Hungary are supposed to physically be right around 17-18 in this. Turkey, being that I peg him as being in his mid-thirties in modern day, probably looks to be in his mid- to late-twenties.
By the by, the Edelweiss Arc isn't dead. I've been plugging away at the next installment, it's just that it's slow-going, and so I started plugging away at a really old, long AustriaxHungary fic, which made me want to post something more blatantly AustriaxHungary than what the Edelweiss Arc typically yields, but Turkey weaseled his way in with his smarm charm, and then Austria turned into a jealous creeper whose gentlemanly ethics backfire on him spectacularly. Which is okay, because I rather like him that way. XD
All other Hetalia fanfics can be found here.
Title: Young Man, I Do Believe You're Dying
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Drama, angst, romance.
Characters/pairings: AustriaxHungary, except it's really more like AustriaxHungaryxTurkey, except, well, it's complicated.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 3,000 (excluding notes)
Summary: In which Ottoman!Hungary becomes Habsburg!Hungary, Austria becomes something of a possessive creeper, and Turkey is a surprisingly good judge of character.
Period: 1687-1697.
- Young Man, I Do Believe You're Dying -
"Heh," Turkey says, when Austria enters the chamber. "You got some guts, coming in here alone."
"My armies have this palace surrounded, and despite everything, you're not foolish enough to try attacking me in your state," Austria points out, the cracked walls and the bandage around Turkey's leg proof enough of the truth of this statement. "To bring an entourage inside would be superfluous."
Turkey laughs again, shortly. "You might act all sophisticated, kid, but deep down, you're a real punk, you know that?"
Austria doesn't respond to that, because he's old enough to know when someone is baiting him, and young enough to still be impatient. "I believe you have something of mine?" he tersely reminds him.
"Yeah, yeah, keep your panties on," Turkey says, the flippancy of his tone belying the laborious way he pulls himself to his feet. Wearily, limping just a little, he heads down a hall to the left.
A few minutes later, he brings her in, wrists bound behind her, struggling, and though it has long since come out that Hungary is female, Austria still finds himself taken aback by how very womanly she looks, in appearance if not in mannerisms. Not even the masculine ensemble she wears—baggy trousers, boots, sash, and all—can disguise the fullness of her hips, nor the way her waist nips in. Her hair, which had always been pulled back in some horrid knot or another when they were children, hangs long and free, falling in her eyes as Turkey pushes her out into the middle of the room.
"Guess this is it, princess," he says, a little ruefully, and Hungary whirls around to face him, releasing a vicious string of what Austria gathers are some very unflattering things in idiomatic Turkish.
Turkey smirks, almost wistfully, putting strong fingers to her chin and tilting her head up. "I knew I should have gotten into the habit of washing your mouth out. Guess this'll have to do." And without presage, he jerks her mouth to his, wrapping his other arm around her waist and pulling her close.
Austria can see her entire body tense, her hands curling into fists, fighting against the rope that binds them. Turkey's hand is rough against her jaw, his lips prying hers apart, his tongue dipping deep into her mouth, and even Austria, himself, bristles at the demonstration—partly because he firmly believes a man should never force himself on a woman, and partly because it is much like watching someone play with a toy that is his. Even so, Austria stills his tongue; no matter how much he might want to object, he suspects this display—this brazen, flaunting display—is as much a last-ditch attempt to rile up an enemy as it a cocky farewell to a lost territory, and Austria refuses to give him the satisfaction. Still, he has to force his own hands to not clench resentfully, has to force his eyes to keep watching, impassively, lest he give himself away by looking off to the side in disgust.
Finally, Turkey breaks the kiss. He pulls back, his now-wet lips quirking crookedly as he looks down at her, chin still in his hand. "For old time's sake," he murmurs. Hungary spits in his face, and with that, Turkey shoves her over to Austria, so suddenly and so forcefully that she barrels into him, stumbling, and he has to put his arms around her to steady her. She pulls her face back from his collar and looks up at him, flushed and disheveled, green eyes wide and wary, and Austria blushes a little, himself, and finds he has to swallow—because she is so very feminine in form now, and that fact is so very impossible to ignore with her pressed up against him.
Turkey chuckles from across the way, almost vengefully flicking her spittle from his cheek. "Well, don't you two make a cute couple," he drawls. Austria levels a cold glare at the older nation, and allows his arm to tighten, just a little, around his new acquisition, half-protectively and half-possessively.
She sits in front of him on the way back to Vienna, riding sidesaddle, because he would have it no other way. He has to keep his arms around her, to hold the reins, and Hungary tries to pull herself in as much as physically possible to minimize contact between them. Still, the length of an arm is constantly pressed against his chest, and her leg keeps brushing his knee. Hungary resolutely keeps her eyes on the ground, her demeanor sullen and silent.
"One would think you'd be happier to be free of Ottoman rule," Austria eventually says, mildly, trying to instigate conversation.
For a long moment, there is simply more silence—but then, finally, she speaks, her voice low and very curt. "You're no different."
Austria arches an affronted eyebrow and glances down at the nation in his arms. "I'll have you know I make it a point to not go around assaulting women."
"Big deal."
"I'd like to think so," he remarks.
"If you're so different, then why haven't you untied me?" she asks sourly, shifting her still-bound hands. They brush against his stomach, and he pulls back to look at her.
"Would you promise not to run?" he asks pointedly in return, and Hungary stares at him, a little guiltily, her silence answer enough. Her mouth is firm, lips sealed and wary, and Austria suddenly wonders what they taste like. Suddenly wonders just how terrible it would be to let his personal ethics slip, just once, to close the few, short finger-lengths between their mouths and claim hers the way Turkey had. It is a brash, impossible desire, he knows—brought on by petty jealousy and a youth he hasn't quite grown out of—but it is there, all the same.
"So you see why I can't," he finally says, more than a little arrogantly.
"I see you've gone from a chubby pushover to a pompous ass," she grumbles, looking away again, and it is then that the road sharply dips, that the horse's gait suddenly shifts, and that Austria has to tighten his grip around her, lest she fall off. He can feel her intake of breath as her back is pressed against his front, and a moment later, when the road evens out again, his hold relaxes once again, and what meager distance they can afford is placed back between them.
Hungary blows in her face and twitches her head, trying to push back a lock of hair that fell in her eyes. Austria watches this with a mild sort of amusement for a moment, before shifting the reins to one hand and reaching up with the other, sweeping the hair off her forehead and tucking it almost tenderly behind her ear. Her eyes jerk up to his again at the contact, and Austria finally addresses the insult she leveled at him.
"I'll let that one slide, today," he says, both coolly informing and coldly warning her.
Upon pulling up in front of his home—a grand manor that is quickly growing grander—Austria dismounts, then helps her do the same. A hand settles firmly on her bound hands the instant her feet are steady, and as a stable boy comes up to lead the horse away, he turns to a maid who stands expectantly in the entranceway.
"Draw a bath," he orders. "And find some appropriate clothing for Miss Hungary, here." He can feel her tense at that, even through her wrists. The maid scurries off, and they're left alone in front of his house.
"Don't tell me you're having me made up to be some sort of entertainment," she says over her shoulder, trying to mask her nervousness with contempt and only half-succeeding.
Austria's expression turns flat, and he sniffs derogatorily. "Don't be ridiculous. It was a long, dusty ride, and male Turkish dress is hardly appropriate for a lady in my house, that's all. We'll get you a decent dress or two." Hungary relaxes, sneers, and rolls her eyes at this, all at once—and Austria chooses that moment to cut through her bindings. She gasps, belatedly bracing herself, and he re-sheathes his knife. Delicately, he brushes the rope from her skin.
Her wrists are red and swollen from where the fibers bit into her, and he massages them carefully, gently, slowly stroking the feeling back into her fingers and palms, and, a bit apprehensively, Hungary accepts this kindness. Again, Austria thinks of Turkey's kiss, and of how very much it nettles him. It is utterly foolish and irrational, to want to erase the action, as if it is some symbolic claim the Mediterranean nation has laid on her, but that doesn't stop his hands from engulfing hers, from his fingers pressing sensuously into her flesh, as if massaging her wrists is something similarly intimate that only he is entitled to.
"There," he murmurs when he is done, closer to her ear than is perhaps necessary. His fingertips brush her skin one last time before he lets go of her completely.
Hungary finally turns around to face him, cheeks tinged pink, and cradles her hands in front of her, echoing his ministrations. She looks up at him as if he's a puzzle she can't figure out. "So now what?" she asks.
Austria blinks languidly and tilts his head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean you'll put me to work in your house, right? That's what all you empires do." Her expression turns a little more surly, and her body language turns a little more defensive.
"Ah," he says, clasping his hands behind his back and easily ignoring her verbal slight. "Yes. I'm sure we can find some household chores that will suit you. Gardening, perhaps. Truth be told, considering your experience, I'd prefer to have you in the stables, but we can't risk having you run off, now can we?"
Hungary exhales disdainfully through her nose, her nostrils flaring, and he wonders if she knows how very equine the action appears. She glares at him, but Austria pays it no mind, and a moment later, she goes back to rubbing her wrists and forearms.
A thought strikes him then, and carefully, trying to act merely curious, he asks, "Might I…ask what your duties were in Turkey's house?" Visions of scantily-clad slave girls dance in his head and make him dread the answer, make his fingers want to fidget anxiously behind his back.
Hungary snorts. "Mostly cooking, though he said I was terrible at it. Sometimes he'd have me bandage his wounds or wash his hair—until I managed to snip off that stupid curl of his, at least."
Amusement twitches at his mouth—and relief, and jealousy—and Austria runs a self-conscious hand over Mariazell. "I'll keep that in mind," he says, and gestures for her to precede him inside.
Later that night, in the privacy of his bedchamber, against his will, the image of her with a gauzy skirt and bare midriff invades his mind, her hands soapy and slick, in Turkey's hair, on his broad, bare shoulders, and back, and chest—and Austria tosses and turns, throws the covers off his too-hot body, and doesn't manage to sleep a wink.
She looks very different in a simple day dress, he thinks. Less exotic and more boring, and as strange as it sounds, he likes her better this way. She pulls the weeds and beats the carpets and glares at him whenever she has the chance, but Austria pays this show of hostility no mind. Because they are his weeds, and his carpets, and she wears his clothes, speaks his language, lives in his house, and that is enough, Austria thinks.
Turkey's influence fades more with every passing season, and Austria contests that that is enough.
It is not long after it comes out that Turkey and his army are in Belgrade again that she comes barging into his office. Upon raising his eyes from his maps and letters, any sharp reprimand Austria might have had on his tongue is left to flounder in his mouth—because she is dressed in full armor, in breastplate and boots, her hair in a braid and her sword ready at her hip.
"I want to fight for you," she says, without preamble, and Austria is suddenly torn—between saying yes, yes, because she is so bright, and fierce, and beautiful, and he is so ecstatic at the thought of having her by his side, at having this fiery warrior defend him. But another part of him wants to lock her up, right then and there, because he is suddenly so terrified Turkey will simply snatch her off the battlefield, will simply grab her and kiss her and debase her like he did before, and all those jealous insecurities he thought had faded suddenly come barreling back down onto him.
Austria finds his fingers unconsciously tightened around his quill, and he forces his hand to relax, forces his movements nonchalant as he places the pen back in his inkwell, forces his voice calm and steady as he asks, "Are you sure?"
"I spent a hundred and fifty years with that prick," Hungary says, crossly. "I'm not about to go back."
Something surges in his veins at that, but he suppresses it and mildly asks, "Does this mean that you prefer my rule to Turkey's?"
She flushes hotly. "I never said that! I just want to keep my land in one piece, is all."
A smile wants to twitch at his mouth, because she is so transparent, her actions so honest, and she's so his. Not Turkey's, but his, he tells himself. His.
"I see," Austria says. He leans back in his chair, folds his hands together. "I suppose it's only fair, to let you fight for your land." He pauses a moment, and then, because it is so very true, says, "I would be honored to accept your help."
Hungary smiles a very small smile, her breastplate gleaming, her eyes glittering, and Austria suddenly, acutely knows that he can waste no time in planning, can leave no opening when attacking.
In the aftermath, he finds Turkey on the outskirts of the battlefield, propped up against a tree, sopping wet and breathing raggedly. His mask is gone, presumably lost to the river, and the sash at his waist is deeply stained.
"You got a lot of balls for such a delicate daisy, you know that?" he says when Austria comes to stand in front of him. Turkey tries to smirk, but it comes out more like a wince.
Austria poises his hand on his sword-hilt and wants to make some remark about how it has nothing to do with genitalia, or the reckless bravery they symbolize, and everything to do with strategy, but finds himself simply staring down at the defeated nation. "Did you honestly think you could take her back so easily?" His voice is quiet and restrained, but the way his hand tightens around his weapon gives away just how very livid he is—because she's his, she's his, and how dare Turkey try to challenge that, how dare he mark her so brazenly, so indecently, so deplorably—
"She's a pain in the ass," Turkey admits, "but what can I say? I miss the way she burns breakfast." He coughs hoarsely, turning his head and spitting both blood and water. Wearily, he runs the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving a smear of crimson, and settles his head back against the tree trunk. "So?" he asks Austria. "Whaddya want? You've already got my treasure, my cannons, fuck, my harem—" He coughs again, weakly, licking a split lip, making it glisten wetly, and Austria suddenly, madly knows what his answer is.
He kneels down beside him, putting an uncharacteristically forceful hand to Turkey's throat, and then—pushes his lips down on his, his tongue into his mouth, trying to steal back the kiss that Turkey, himself, stole ten years ago, imagining that if he just goes deep enough, he can taste her, can lap her up by proxy and be done with it. It's half-vengeful and half-desperate, and when Austria finally pulls back, Turkey sputters and twists his features, as if he just ate a bad date.
"What the hell was that for?" he demands, more confused than anything.
"Because I can't do it to her," Austria practically grinds out, fingers twitching at the Mediterranean nation's neck. He heaves a breath, and his hand drops to the ground in defeat. "I can't," he says again, going from angry to anguished, and Turkey quirks a dubious eyebrow.
"You've got some issues, kid," he says, and Austria's inclined to agree with him.
When he sees her with their armies, she is dirty and disheveled, but when she sees him, she grins, and it is so, so vital and vibrant. She runs toward him and throws her arms around his neck and laughs and laughs, and Austria is so taken aback by this that he can only fumble his hands awkwardly in the air by her sides, his face flushing all the way to the tips of his ears.
"We kicked so much ass!" she's saying. "I mean, omigod, were we awesome! We got his sultan's seal and everyth—oh!" She pulls back, her expression turning concerned. "You're bleeding." She tugs her sleeve down, over her hand, and gently dabs at a cut on his cheek he didn't even know he had, and Austria's breath hitches—not because it is painful, but because it is utterly, perversely pleasurable. To feel her fingers on his skin, to see concern for him on her features.
In a terribly selfish movement, he covers her hand with his own, holding it to his cheek, closing his eyes, relishing the sensation. He lets his fingers close around hers, lets his lips graze her palm, and thinks that this might be enough, that this has to be enough, because he'll tear himself to pieces otherwise.
"…A-Austria?" Hungary asks, her voice suddenly unsteady, her cheeks suddenly a deep pink.
"I'm just glad you're safe," he murmurs—which is both a lie and the agonizing truth.
-----
Historical Notes:
-Hungary basically lost her independence after the Battle of Mohács, in 1526, which was fought against the Ottoman Empire. Her king, Louis II, died in the conflict, and rule of Hungary officially defaulted to Louis's brother-in-law, who was of the Austrian Habsburgs. In practice, a great deal of her land, which had already been taken over by Turkey, fell under rule of the Ottoman Empire. (Hungary was essentially divided in two at this point, the Habsburg portions being Royal Hungary, and the Ottoman portions being Ottoman Hungary.) Come 1541, Turkey conquered even more of her land, including her capital, Buda, leaving Austria with just a fraction of her territory. Things stayed like this for over a century.
-By 1683, Austria was really starting to get the hang of this "heading an empire" thing, and, with help from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and some other badass nations, managed to keep Turkey from capturing his capital in the Battle of Vienna. Following that, Turkey started falling into a bit of a decline, while Austria started to enter his heyday. Over the next few years, a great deal of Hungary was reclaimed, including Buda in 1686. 1687 saw the (Second) Battle of Mohács, which Turkey lost, big time, and after which Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I was crowned King of Hungary, finally fulfilling that long-awaited Habsburg dream Austria had tried to secure, way back when, with one of his strategic marriages.
-In July of 1697, Austria learned that the Ottoman armies were in Belgrade, and rallied a force somewhere in the range of 55,000, about 20,000 of which were Hungarian. They moved to intercept the Ottoman forces, trying to engage them near the Petrovaradin Fortress, but Turkey said, "Nah, I'm not feeling this battlefield—Ima go further north." Turkey was looking to capture another fortress, at Szeged, and use that as a base with which to siege the Habsburg forces, but this plan fell through, and Turkey basically said, "Ah, well, winter's on its way, so I'm off." Austria went, "Whoa, whoa, you start a fight and then don't see it through?—entirely dishonorable and wholly ungentlemanly of you," and pressed on, forcing a fight at the Tisza River, in what became known as the Battle of Zenta. Long story short, Austria was completely badass, and Turkey ended up completely fucked. Ottoman losses numbered 30,000. Habsburg losses? Not even 500. Plus, Austria made out with some super-sweet swag, including the sultan's official seal, and yes, his harem (which, in the Ottoman Empire, was less concubines and more wives and daughters of the ruling family and their ladies-in-waiting, but still). This was the last great battle of the Great Turkish Wars (as all of this, from 1683, had been dubbed, and which had been fought mostly on and for Hungarian land), and after a few half-assed skirmishes, Turkey finally gave up the ghost and signed the Treaty of Karlowitz in 1699.
A/N: I have dueling head-canons when it comes to Hungary. The one I generally go with, because it's the one canon seems to support, what with her inclusion in the Chibitalia segments, is that she moved into Austria's house in 1526, and stayed there throughout the 1600s. But then there's that whole "majority of Hungary was actually under Ottoman rule" that keeps nagging at me, hence the canon used here—that if she was with Austria at all, it was only briefly, from 1526-1541, and then was with Turkey all the way until 1687-ish. Ideally, I think I'd like to come to a compromise between the two, but I've regretfully had other things to do than wrack my brain about head-canon. (Which is a shame. T_T)
For reference, Austria and Hungary are supposed to physically be right around 17-18 in this. Turkey, being that I peg him as being in his mid-thirties in modern day, probably looks to be in his mid- to late-twenties.
By the by, the Edelweiss Arc isn't dead. I've been plugging away at the next installment, it's just that it's slow-going, and so I started plugging away at a really old, long AustriaxHungary fic, which made me want to post something more blatantly AustriaxHungary than what the Edelweiss Arc typically yields, but Turkey weaseled his way in with his smarm charm, and then Austria turned into a jealous creeper whose gentlemanly ethics backfire on him spectacularly. Which is okay, because I rather like him that way. XD
All other Hetalia fanfics can be found here.
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Date: 2011-07-07 06:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-07 03:18 pm (UTC)Glad you liked it!
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Date: 2011-07-07 08:46 pm (UTC)I feel like you really tapped into something in this that I've always loved writing with Austria--the way his internal conflicts are played up by the fact that he's so damn sensitive. All those little physical touches are ridiculously titillating and meaningful to him. XD (Whereas Hungary is probably like, what the hell?) I love how you capture his thought processes too--how he wrestles with feelings that he knows aren't appropriate or necessarily logical. He's really in combat with himself a lot, and puts this unhealthy amount of analysis behind his actions.
Hungary's characterization was good too. She's got a good amount of defensiveness and spunk to her, and you did a good job of suggesting her age and position without detracting from the strength of her character. (I've always found her difficult to write, personally, perhaps because of all the different interpretations of her that are really out there, so props to you.)
Turkey is pretty much exactly how I imagine him. Snarky, condescending, and with that careless air of power that makes him intimidating. The scene with Austria kissing him did take me aback a bit--it makes sense in context, but came as a surprise--but of course Turkey makes that frank comment afterwards that is so in character. XD
Anyway, nice to see someone writing about this portion of history in the first place, and nice job with the characterization as usual. :3
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Date: 2011-07-07 11:37 pm (UTC)the fact that he's so damn sensitive.
I KNOW. That's one thing I really love about Austria--he's so reined in all the time that all these little things others might take for granted can and do become very passionate and even erotic. I mean, really, he's all, "OMG IT'S LIKE MY HANDS ARE MAKING LOVE TO HER HANDS," and meanwhile Hungary's probably like, "Should I be weirded out by this or not?" XD
Hungary generally comes pretty easily to me, but even then, sometimes I wonder. I think the problem might stem from the fact that she's very much an "everygirl," if you will. I mean, aside from the yaoi fangirling, she's kind of your average cheery, spunky female character. I tend to play her up as someone who never really grew out of her masculine mannerisms and behaviors, even in modern day, and as someone very sincere--if she likes you, you'll know it, and if she doesn't like you, you'll know it. I think, in many ways, that's why my Austria (maybe not this Austria, but the one I generally use for AusHun fics XD) is so drawn to her--he has to deal with so much cutthroat court politics that it's probably very refreshing to find someone who simply is what she presents herself as.[/head-canon ramble]
Yeah...the AustriaxTurkey action took me by surprise, too. Turkey basically says exactly what I was thinking when it happened: Dude, Austria, how can you be so proper and yet so fucked up? I wonder if I maybe pushed his characterization a little too far with that, but at the same time, it's fanfic, and that's one of the neat things about it--you get to play around.
And on that note, OH, TURKEY. It's the first time I've written him, and it was so much fun because he's so snarky and smarmy and can brush off being kissed by another dude and is probably quite a bit more decent than he lets on and I LOVE HIM SO MUCH.
The recent scanlation with his fail!torture techniques just made it worse.Erm, yeah. Can I just say I love your reviews? Because they're wonderfully specific, and make me think, and then I launch into long, rambling character discussions. XD
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Date: 2011-07-08 12:28 am (UTC)XDDD I giggled at that. But yes. I've found it interesting as well that his self-restraint is fairly consistent over many years, even if society in general doesn't behave that way. I mean, he'd be right at home in the Victorian era, but in certain time periods he must have looked obviously repressed. Though it makes sense for him, considering that he does have to deal with all that court intrigue and two-facedness and a lot of his demeanor is in reaction to that, at least in my headcanon. Emotions are weakness in most contexts, in his mind.
Yes, that's a good way to put it. I find it annoying that most interpretations of her as being more masculine tend to make her violent, while I agree that it's expressed more through her directness than anything. That's a really good point, too~ Austria needs people that do tell it like it is, without pretenses. (And that same reasoning probably replies to when I ship him with Belgium. Huh. Maybe that's just part of his type. I have a tendency to make 'people that will troll him into being honest about his feelings' another criterion, I've noticed. XD)
Yep~ I know I've written some fics that I've looked back on and been like, oh my god that isn't in character, but really if it works within the lines of the themes and setting of the fic, you can get away with stuff.
Ffffff. I love long, rambling character discussions. I've spent many hours just talking about Austria because he is so damn complicated and has so many problems. :3
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Date: 2011-07-08 02:03 am (UTC)Yes. Exactly. Maybe it's just personal experience that I project onto her (I grew up in a family full of men), but there are a great many things that come across as "masculine," and most of them are a hella lot more subtle than a penchant for violence and fighting.
Oddly enough, I seem to have the same problem with Belgium that you have with Hungary. Aside from her being flirty, I have trouble coming up with a solid characterization for her. I actually really like your take on her--that she's feminine, but not a lady. She's a casual sort of feminine. Stick her in a simple dress, let her hair hang free, and forget a carriage, she'd prefer to walk, thank you very much.
*Suddenly just had a flash of ElizabethBennet!Belgium* XD And Darcy!Austria, pfft!And it might be totally based in fanon, but I admit I do love the idea that she could give either of the German brothers a run for their money in a beer-drinking contest.
*Sigh* One of these days I will write a Hungary-Belgium fic.
That will ideally involve them doing each other's hair, getting supremely drunk, and then using Germany's and/or Austria's front lawn as a shooting range.One of these days...no subject
Date: 2011-07-08 02:33 am (UTC)My characterization for Belgium was iffy for a while when I started out with her--I'm pretty sure I just sat down once and was like, 'I think she'd be more interesting if she were flirty.' And she kinda came into her own from that. Aww, thanks~ Yeah, I've always seen her as a girlish sort of character. She's not a refined lady, but she's not like, very sexual or slutty either. There's really more of a playfulness about her, this testing of limits in a way that isn't antagonistic. She sort of knows her boundaries and pushes them, but isn't apt to break them, partly because as someone that was ruled by other nations, she could get legitimately punished. XD And I think rebelling in little ways was really a coping mechanism in itself, for her.
Also, I'm never going to be able to unsee that now, thank you.Oh, my headcanon states that she holds her alcohol very well. (And since one of my good friends is a Prussia, we've totally imagined her hanging out with him. They'd just troll people together.)
I would love it if you wrote a fic like that and would probably giggle like a complete moron over it. XD
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Date: 2011-07-08 03:47 am (UTC)I think it's pretty easy to see her as flirty and playful, what with the way Himaruya has a tendency to draw her with a :3 face. Definitely girly, but not promiscuous. Though I'd love to see a female nation very in-touch with her sexuality and unapologetic about it. *cough*Portugal?:DDD*cough*
And omg, I think I ship PrussiaxBelgium now. If only as the OTP of drinking buddies. XD
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Date: 2011-07-08 10:12 pm (UTC)...I need to stop ranting. XD)Oh man, I would too. Lol, maybe~ I just wish there were more female characters in general to work with.
XDD Yes. Best drinking buddies ever.
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Date: 2011-07-09 03:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 03:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-08 02:05 am (UTC)Mmm... Imperial Austria is deliciously passionate and high strung (pun intended). Someone characterized him as "a true artist, with seething emotions under his icy exterior, with highs and lows of mood that he mostly puts into his music." The passionate artist isn't quite there but still, his relative youth and arrogance really shines through, which is a wonderfully nuanced way of looking at him, instead of a simple icy prince or a soft child.
Hungary has a good presence but the two male characters were what especially shone for me, and their dynamic only highlighted it all.
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Date: 2011-07-08 04:40 am (UTC)I'd hazard to say that's a perfect characterization of Austria (or at the very least, near-perfect). His artistic side didn't make an appearance here, but you still get the sense that there's a lot under that cool, collected exterior. Teenage!Austria is terribly fascinating to me, because there has to be some sort of transition from that soft child to the refined man. I guess I just see the Habsburgs doting on and educating the hell out of him once they come to power--so by this time, be basically knows all the rules of propriety and how a gentleman should act, but hasn't quite mastered it all yet. Despite his best efforts, he's still very much an impetuous teenager, and maybe even a bit of a spoiled teenager
with raging hormones he doesn't know what to do with XD.Boy, I'm rambling a lot about head-canon tonight. OTL Anyway, thank you so much for the comment! I'm glad you enjoyed it! :D
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Date: 2011-07-09 03:35 am (UTC)Oh my I love your Teen Austria, so prim and awkward and possessive. And touchy, but not like Spain or France, but in his own sensitive, special, repressed way. XD
One wonders how Austria changed so dramatically from his bright, perky, naive childhood; since Himaruya canon is somewhat vague, head-canon can take all sort of fun liberties with Austria's teenage years! Swiss conflicts, Habsburg ambitions, religious dissent, all steeling him and making him outwardly more well-spoken and cold and distant. Add hormones. XD
Yeah exact same deal with me regarding Hungary. I think Himaruya logic'd that Hungary would stay at Austria's place because he has the crown, and most (not all) Hungarian landowners supported the Habsburg claim. But Turkey had control over most of the land for 150+ years and Ottoman administration had influenced land and customs somewhat. Fanon depends on whatever story they want to tell, I guess. I personally like the thought of Hungary staying with Turkey at least for a time, not many girl nations in his empire for him to play with! (romania is male in canon, slightly disappointed)
there's a good fic (aaargh I wish I could find it again) that depicts the Habsburg-Ottoman conflict as dinners in Hungary's dining room/kitchen which degenerate into epic fork stabbing, chair flipping, her chinaware smashed, collateral damage etc.
she puts up with it partly because the sight of the two of them wrestling on the table is quite *cough* appealing.Ok, all my long comments warrant this, and I'm starting my new policy of not-lurking and actually contributing to the hetalia com, so!
Can I friend you?
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Date: 2011-07-09 04:54 pm (UTC)"...in his own sensitive, special, repressed way." *snerk* XD Teenage Austria is fun--it's like he's trying so hard to prove he can play in the Big Boy League, but a part of him still has that very child-like "mine!" reaction to a lot of things. (Actually, I don't think he ever really grows out of that until after WWI. XD He might get a little better after his marriage to Hungary, though.) I guess in my head-canon, he got too much responsibility thrust on him a bit too early, and ended up kind of high-strung and neurotic because of it. Like he grasped onto The Rules as a way for him to keep his head from going under, so to speak--and possibly even as a coping mechanism, what with his falling out with Switzerland and all that.
Yeah, it's hard to interpret things with Hungary. (Same thing with Italy in the mid-1800s. Like, should he still live with Austria, or should he have a little place of his own, just not with Romano yet? *scratches head*) I guess I'd like to think she's primarily with Austria, but maybe has to spend a few decades here and there with Turkey? It's hard to say.
I would love to read that fic if you ever find it.
Because, yes, if Austria and Turkey were wrestling on my dining table, I wouldn't be entirely upset. XDAnd I'd love to friend! I think I actually thought about asking before, but RL recently has been all "D:<" Meanwhile I'm all, "But, but...fandom! :*(" and RL is like, "No. D:< You have shit to do." Like...even now...I have things I should be doing instead of responding to comments... DX
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Date: 2011-07-24 07:16 pm (UTC)You wrote everyone so OC,so beautifully :3 I especially love your Turkey,and Austria was written pretty good too :3 I always love how he tries to control himself, he isn't emotionless at all *wink*
Plus Hungary - it was so much like her, when I read it I could feel that this is right, it fits and I could see her :) Pretty OC...you can see many "versions" of Hungary but still I deffo love yours :)
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Date: 2011-07-25 11:44 pm (UTC)I always love how he tries to control himself, he isn't emotionless at all *wink*
Hehe...I can't help but think Austria tries to be emotionless, or at least thinks he should be emotionless...but yeah, it doesn't really work out for him very well. XD
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Date: 2012-01-02 11:57 pm (UTC)But back to the fic - teenage Austria is awesomely messed up: trying so hard to be a gentleman but so possessive and jealous, and so happy when Hungary is all "I'm going to fight for you!" (And yay fighting!Hungary. I like how you preserve her strength, despite the fact that she's in a pretty difficult position here - her only choice is which conquerer to back, which has to hurt, but having made that choice she goes with it 100%.)
And good job with Turkey. I've never been able to get a handle on his character, but he's a palpable presence here (and I can so imagine him and Prussia hosting a party where they drink all the other nations under the table. Except perhaps Hungary. And then the three of them sing drinking songs.)
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Date: 2012-01-05 10:45 pm (UTC)I tweaked Austria's character a bit darker for the sake of the story here, but he ended up so deliciously fun and messed up that I kind of wonder if I don't want to adopt it as my official ("official"?) head-canon--that his teenage years were this weird, almost apprehensive period. Knowing the rules of being a gentleman, but not quite having them mastered yet, you know. And still having this very child-like sensitivity which manifests itself in weird ways. (I bet, looking back, Austria just hated puberty. XD) In a lot of ways I can see it meshing with his bossier/snappier attitude shown in the Chibitalia strips.
And, oh, Hungary. In some ways I feel bad for her--it was supposed to be an Austria/Hungary fic, but the tension between Austria and Turkey (or perhaps more accurately, the tension from Austria towards Turkey) kind of took over. But I do like the way she came out. I've always loved her as a character, and her strength, even when she's in real shit positions, is a big part of that.
...And now Turkey is officially added to this little list in my head that might as well be called "Hungary's Harem." XD
Other official members are Austria, Prussia, and Spain.no subject
Date: 2012-01-07 04:00 pm (UTC)Also, I think that makes perfect sense for Austria - he doesn't seem like the type to go through adolescence gracefully. There's all these FEELINGS and he can't CONTROL them and Hungary is SO CONFUSING, etc. etc.
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Date: 2012-01-07 09:03 pm (UTC)Also lol Hungary's harem /has been reading the comments ngl I ship her with almost the entire cast, oops.no subject
Date: 2012-01-10 10:18 pm (UTC)I ship both Hungary and Austria with a multitude of rare pairs. OTP: Im doin it rong. XDno subject
Date: 2012-01-10 11:49 pm (UTC)Pfff, AusHun may be my OTP but I ship Hungary with almost everyone and have a few side ships for Austria too. OTP is a relative term~
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Date: 2012-01-08 02:30 am (UTC)So I'm finally going to take the plunge.It's so full of tension and captures the feeling perfectly, of Austria struggling with the whole "You've got some issues, kid" and keeping himself so tightly restrained--and probably not even because he's ever done anything like Turkey does that merits Austria holding himself back and forcing himself to be a gentleman. It seems here more like the other way around, messing himself up and inadvertently creating new issues while trying to avoid the original problem--Austria forcing himself to be a gentleman first of all and thus creating the anxiety about what kinds of inappropriate things he might do if he ever slipped up in reining himself in. Austria's war with himself playing out in all the little touches and the times he doesn't touch and the strict control.
I think my favorite line that summed Austria's conflict up in a nutshell was this bit:
partly because he firmly believes a man should never force himself on a woman, and partly because it is much like watching someone play with a toy that is his.
He wants to be proper and he wants to be possessive and all he ends up doing is kissing Turkey after he's already beaten him because Austria's still insecure desperate to prove to himself that he's won.
Also it feels like a story that's driven very much by the focus on the characters and their internal struggles and their conflicts interacting with each other, and your writing succeeds so powerfully because the characterizations of everyone here are brilliant. I can recognize lovable bits of Austria and Hungary and Turkey from canon, but you've also adapted and interpreted and added to each of them to fit the seriousness and tone of the story. And it turned out perfectly.
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Date: 2012-01-10 10:57 pm (UTC)It seems here more like the other way around, messing himself up and inadvertently creating new issues while trying to avoid the original problem
I think that's really it. The concept of being a gentleman is so hard-wired into him, and so very much a part of his identity even, that I think the idea of letting that personal code of ethics slip, even for a moment, really freaks him out. So he builds up all these defenses in an attempt to protect himself, but just ends up screwing himself over in the end. I do see him (at least in his empire days) as a bit neurotic and prone to over-thinking things because EMOTIONS = SCARY VULNERABILITY to him most of the time. But of course he is emotional, incredibly so at some times, and that just makes it even worse. I'm glad that came through.
Moreover, I'm glad to here that characterization (of everybody, not just Austria) worked. That's one thing I always kind of wonder about, writing a more serious/dark story when the canon's lighter/goofier, as it is with Hetalia. It's really important to me for the characters to still be recognizable, and it means so much to me to hear that they are, that my interpretations of them don't slide off into OOC territory. So really, thank you. And again, thank you for the phenomenally awesome comment.
<3
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Date: 2012-01-13 02:33 am (UTC)Yes yes, this and also pretty much everything else people were saying in the other comments. As much as Austria seems to come off as cold and stiff and formal and restrained, he also seems like someone with a very sensitive, high-strung, bit-neurotic kind of personality. Which is a thing that fits with the image of him as a musician (as there seem to be plenty of examples of great artistic people with great emotional turmoil and troubled personal lives). Like Austria has all these ~feelings~ that he does not really know how to deal with properly or express unless it's with his music. And it all comes to a very intense crisis in this fic, and it's all shown so beautifully well without having to be flat-out told to us.
I always want to write, like, N. Italy in really sad depressing fics, so I know exactly what you mean with the worrying about interpreting, which is why I wanted to make sure you knew you were Doing It Right.