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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.
