[fic] Hetalia - "Something Blue"
Oct. 29th, 2009 11:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
konstantyaTitle: Something Blue
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Drama, general, angst.
Characters: Austria, Germany, mentions of Prussia. (Implied AustriaxHungary.)
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,500, excluding notes
Summary: The Iron Curtain is drawn heavily. Germany is lonely. Austria is lonelier. Not that he'll ever say as much.
Period: August, 1961.
Part of the Edelweiss Arc.
Austria’s telephone is ringing.
He stubbornly keeps his eyes closed. The darkness will tempt sleep to stay, long enough for a servant to answer the device and thus cause the offending noise to stop.
Austria stubbornly keeps his eyes closed until he remembers that it is 1961. He no longer has servants who live on the premises, who will answer telephones for him at any hour of the day. He has a secretary that will answer his office line Mondays through Fridays. A maid that comes twice a week. A gardener that comes once.
Upon opening his eyes to his pillows, Austria also remembers that he no longer has anyone to share a bed with. (But that is another matter. And one he is used to by now. At least, he tells himself he is.)
Austria has not been paying much attention, but he figures the number of rings must be close to ten by now. He throws off the covers and sits up. He rakes his hair off his forehead. Blearily places his glasses on his face. Stands, straightens his shorts, and swiftly descends the stairs in his pajamas. There are advantages to not having a household staff. (He can pretend there are.)
The morning is bright. The wind chilly. The telephone rings. Perhaps it’s the chancellor. Perhaps the president. Austria cynically thinks that only the government would be so persistent.
Unless it’s America, and he dryly lifts an eyebrow at the receiver.
It rings.
He picks up. “Yes?” He can’t remember when he stopped answering with “hello.” (He can remember why.)
“Österreich?” The voice is deep and familiar, though one he has not heard in quite a while.
“Deutschland,” he simply says.
“Are you busy?” There is a strange note of anxiety to Germany’s voice, but it is not outright urgent, and so Austria waltzes around the question with one of his own.
“Why do you ask?”
“I…I was wondering if I could pay you a visit,” the younger nation blurts out, managing to sound both formal as a member of parliament and embarrassed as a schoolboy at the same time.
Austria considers declining. He doesn’t particularly feel like entertaining. And there is paperwork to tend to, after all. (An excuse. It could easily be put off. It is not much. It is rarely much, these days.)
“When?” he asks.
“Today?” Germany does sound a little urgent now, particularly to want to make such a journey so suddenly. Austria cannot bring himself to refuse. They have been through too much misery together to turn their backs on each other and cause even more. (Spite requires too much energy that he has too little of.)
“Today, then. When should I expect you?”
“The late afternoon, I hope. Maybe four o’clock.” No doubt, right on the dot.
“Then I shall expect you around four,” Austria confirms. (Formality is a refuge he often seeks comfort in.)
“I appreciate it,” Germany says, perhaps a little awkwardly. “Auf wiedersehen.”
“Auf wiedersehen.”
Austria hangs up the phone.
His house is quiet and empty.
In the afternoon, after lunch, Austria bakes a chocolate torte. Germany likes his sweets. Germany also likes his beer, and so Austria makes sure he has at least a few bottles stocked and chilled. (Not wanting visitors is no excuse for poor hospitality when they are present.)
Austria’s bell rings a few minutes to four o’clock. He slides his suit jacket on and goes to answer it.
Germany’s hands are slung into his pockets in a simulation of leisureliness, but the rest of him looks as relaxed as ever. Which is to say, not very.
“Herr Deutschland,” Austria greets, mildly, even pleasantly.
Germany nods. “Österreich.”
Austria gestures to his foyer. Germany steps in.
“You look well,” Austria says. It’s true.
Germany nods again. “You too.” (After losing two World Wars and enduring a crippling divorce, simply being able to stand is “looking well.”)
“I made a torte, if you would like a piece,” Austria says. “Chocolate.”
“Oh?” The excitement is obvious in his voice. Self-consciously, Germany clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to bring anything…”
Austria brushes it off. “Nonsense. Think nothing of it.”
He shows his guest to his front room. Germany sits. Austria excuses himself to his kitchen. He cuts two pieces of cake, pours two cups of coffee, and returns. (The tray is heavy; playing host reminds him of when someone else did the job for him.)
Austria sets the refreshments down, distributes them between the two of them, and takes a seat himself.
They eat. Dessert forks clink against plates. Porcelain cups against saucers.
“It’s very delicious,” Germany says, genuinely impressed.
Austria nods, his mouth full. He takes a sip before he speaks. “Thank you.”
Germany finishes his cake and systematically drinks his coffee. Austria chews leisurely.
When he is done eating, Austria places the plates back onto the tray, along with Germany’s cup and saucer. “Would you like some more coffee?” he asks. “Or a beer, perhaps?”
Germany perks up considerably at that. “A beer, please, if you don’t mind.”
Austria nods, walks to the kitchen, and puts the dishes in the sink. He retrieves a bottle, opens it, and returns. Germany drinks gratefully. Austria reseats himself and nurses the remains of his coffee.
“How long do you intend to stay in Vienna?” Austria asks.
Germany slowly pulls the beer from his lips and swallows thickly. There is a coaster within easy reach on the low table in front of them, but he does not relinquish his grip on the alcohol. “Not long,” he finally says. “I should return today. To be honest, I shouldn’t even be visiting. I can’t afford to be away from Berlin, not really, but…I just had to get out of there, if only for a few hours.”
Austria nods, hums neutrally in acknowledgement, but does not pry. (Prying would compromise the solitude he covets like a crutch.)
Germany sits on the edge of the cushion and looks as if he wants to fidget. The Cold War is primarily between America and Russia, but unfortunately the whole of Europe is caught in the crossfire tensions.
“It’s the wall they’re building,” he abruptly confesses. “I just can’t stand to look at it.”
Austria knows the feeling. He can’t stand to look at the border fences. (Though whether that’s out of guilt or loss, he isn’t sure, and will not dwell on the matter enough to come to a conclusion.)
Austria concentrates on the taste of coffee on his tongue and nods again, sympathetically. Germany takes a drink of his beer.
“Do you—?” Germany stops.
Austria raises a polite eyebrow. “Do I…?”
Germany swallows. “…Think he might still be over there somewhere? Even though the name has changed?”
Austria blinks languidly and speaks frankly. “Names have little to do with it. Prussia used to not even be a country.”
Germany’s fingers twitch worriedly around the bottle. Belatedly, Austria’s own hands tense uncomfortably around his saucer and his eyes stare at the dark surface of his coffee. It reflects the wavering form of the ceiling light—an elegant but simple chandelier. There are no opulent strands of crystals that hang from this one. (Even still, he has much to learn.)
“I mean—” Austria begins.
Germany drinks. “It’s fine,” he grunts. “Teutonic Order, I know.”
Austria breathes and tries to remedy the situation. “If he was truly gone, we would know.” Many of them remember the fall of the Roman Empire, and have said as much.
Germany nods, barely consoled. “I…I just—miss him,” he mutters, ducking his head, scratching the back of his neck. Telling state secrets would be easier for the stern, blond nation.
Truth be told, Austria also misses him—though he cannot claim the close title of “brother” that Germany can. Prussia’s brash vulgarity would be a distraction, if not an entirely welcome one. (He would be too annoyed to be lonely.)
Austria finishes his coffee. He sets the cup and saucer on the table. “But Veneziano helps, I’m sure.”
Germany sighs. “As much as he ever has.”
Which, Austria knows from personal experience, isn’t much. He smirks briefly, a little humorlessly, a little nostalgically.
“He does, really,” Germany amends, gratefully. “He’s…company.” Austria is aware of the hesitancy in his voice, the way his eyes stay stuck on his now-empty bottle of beer. The sheer lack of company in Austria’s house hangs loud and heavy. (There are no flowers in vases, or folk dresses lying around waiting to be embroidered, or charmingly off-key humming.)
He stands, perhaps too abruptly, takes the bottle from Germany’s hand. “I’ll get you another,” he offers, in a perfectly composed voice, and Germany glances up in what might be a thanks or an apology.
Austria’s steps to the kitchen are steady and casual. The refrigerator is a modern invention. Inelegant and out-of-place compared to the iceboxes he was so fond of, and Austria likes the appliance simply because he doesn’t like it.
He grabs two beers, opens them, returns to his front room, hands one to his guest, and sits back down with the other. The lip of the bottle is wet and cold against his, and the alcohol is dark and bitter. (It tastes like memories, though he mostly drank wine back then.)
Germany’s face pulls into an expression that might be called dour confusion. “I didn’t think you liked beer.”
Austria sets his drink down and his response is mild. “Funny, what one picks up over time.”
A taste for beer, a knack for baking, a forty-year bout of smoking. (An empire. A wife. A sense of humility. Regrets.)
Germany exhales ruefully. “Or loses,” he murmurs, hands hanging between his knees, arms propped on his legs, weight shifted forward. Germany does not slouch, but still his posture contrasts severely with Austria’s prim way of lounging; he is still very much a soldier, ready to leap to attention at a moment’s notice. A business suit does not change that.
“It’s a hard fall,” Austria states, not unkindly.
Germany nods. “…Do you miss it, ever?”
Austria’s dark blue eyes flick coolly to the other country’s bright ones. “Do you?”
Germany drops his gaze to the floor and shrugs awkwardly, as if his shoulders no longer fit his shirt. It’s a strangely boyish gesture; it is easy to forget how young he really is, considering his usual severity. (Considering how old this century has made them.)
“I don’t know,” Germany mutters to the rug. “It was nice to be strong, to really be recognized. I’d never had that. I just wish I had gone about it differently, I guess…” His voice changes tone, his back straightens. “But I’d much rather be the lesser power I am now than the great power I was then.”
Austria smiles slightly, perhaps with pride, perhaps to cover pain. “Your government’s a good one,” he points out. “Erhard, especially, is an economic genius. He’s helped get you back on your feet.” And indirectly, has helped Austria walk straight once more.
Germany’s mouth twitches into a hesitant smile of its own. “I’m very grateful to him,” he admits.
The hall clock chimes. Austria considers his economy. Germany drinks his alcohol. (The Eastern Bloc is an elephant in the room.)
“Well?” Germany prompts.
Austria lifts an eyebrow. “Well?” he echoes.
“Your situation was different from mine. Do you miss the way things were?”
Austria thoughtfully tilts his head and manages to make even beer-drinking look sophisticated. “Yes and no,” he says at length, and focuses more on the no than the yes. “It’s a great change, to be sure… But I have more time. More time for hobbies, more time to travel among my people. It’s easier in many ways.” And more difficult in others. For all his propriety, he has not been fond of relinquishing power, and to have it forcibly taken from him at the end of the First World War was a very bitter pill to swallow. Sometimes he feels it’s still stuck in his throat. (Sometimes it’s in the shape of a wedding band.)
Germany laughs once, despite himself. “True. You’re not separated in two.”
Austria presses his lips together apologetically. “No, I’m not,” he admits. (Yes, he is.)
They drink.
When they are done, Austria offers to play some music. Germany accepts. It has been a long time since he has heard the musician play in person. Austria shows him to his study, which also doubles as his music room, and sits at his piano. Germany takes a seat in a chair off to the side.
He runs through a brief warm-up, and then plays Wagner. Germany listens politely. The hall clock chimes again.
Afterwards, Germany resigns himself to the fact that he needs to be on his way. Austria cuts him half of the remaining chocolate torte, wraps it up, and sees the other nation to the door. Germany clasps his hand in a firm, formal shake. “Thank you for the visit on such short notice. And for the cake,” he adds. Austria smiles, a little indulgently. It is perhaps for the visit. (It is perhaps for the fact that it is over.)
Germany draws himself up very officially. “Well. Auf wiedersehen.”
Austria inclines his body in a slight bow. “Auf wiedersehen.”
Germany leaves. Austria closes the door.
His house is quiet and empty.
In the evening, after dinner, Austria sits at his piano again. The night is cool. The wind still. The lighting in his study low and warm.
His fingers press idly against the keys, and his thoughts wander back to Germany, to his visit, to the reason for it. A solid barrier between east and west. It is unfortunate, but there is nothing he can do. He no longer meddles with the affairs of others.
Austria closes his eyes and relaxes. He lets his fingers roam of their own accord, finding notes, and rhythm, and structure, and before long, he is playing a full melody. And when he realizes it is Liszt, his hands freeze. (His feet want to run, or slide into stirrups, or shove the accelerator pedal down to the floor of his car.)
Austria gingerly closes the keyboard lid and gracefully stands. His pace, as he walks to the kitchen, is unhurried. He cuts a piece of his left-over torte and enjoys it thoughtfully. Germany, he knows, is not the only country that likes chocolate. Perhaps Austria could follow his lead and pay another a visit. (Someone to the west. Most importantly, to the west.)
Spain’s telephone is ringing.
-----
Notes:
“Auf wiedersehen”: formal way of saying “goodbye” in German.
The Berlin Wall: construction began in August, 1961.
Erhard: Ludwig Erhard, Minister of Economics from 1949 to 1963, who was greatly responsible for the reconstruction of the German economy after WWII. Using a similar model for economic reconstruction, Austria also recovered.
Wagner: famous German composer of the 19th century (you probably already know this).
Liszt: famous Hungarian composer of the 19th century (you probably already know this).
A/N: Head-canon states that Austria became something of a hermit after WWII, and likely tried to convince himself of his own neutrality—at least until the border opening with Hungary in 1989 (hehe).
Fandom: Hetalia
Genre: Drama, general, angst.
Characters: Austria, Germany, mentions of Prussia. (Implied AustriaxHungary.)
Rating: PG
Word count: 2,500, excluding notes
Summary: The Iron Curtain is drawn heavily. Germany is lonely. Austria is lonelier. Not that he'll ever say as much.
Period: August, 1961.
Part of the Edelweiss Arc.
- Something Blue -
Austria’s telephone is ringing.
He stubbornly keeps his eyes closed. The darkness will tempt sleep to stay, long enough for a servant to answer the device and thus cause the offending noise to stop.
Austria stubbornly keeps his eyes closed until he remembers that it is 1961. He no longer has servants who live on the premises, who will answer telephones for him at any hour of the day. He has a secretary that will answer his office line Mondays through Fridays. A maid that comes twice a week. A gardener that comes once.
Upon opening his eyes to his pillows, Austria also remembers that he no longer has anyone to share a bed with. (But that is another matter. And one he is used to by now. At least, he tells himself he is.)
Austria has not been paying much attention, but he figures the number of rings must be close to ten by now. He throws off the covers and sits up. He rakes his hair off his forehead. Blearily places his glasses on his face. Stands, straightens his shorts, and swiftly descends the stairs in his pajamas. There are advantages to not having a household staff. (He can pretend there are.)
The morning is bright. The wind chilly. The telephone rings. Perhaps it’s the chancellor. Perhaps the president. Austria cynically thinks that only the government would be so persistent.
Unless it’s America, and he dryly lifts an eyebrow at the receiver.
It rings.
He picks up. “Yes?” He can’t remember when he stopped answering with “hello.” (He can remember why.)
“Österreich?” The voice is deep and familiar, though one he has not heard in quite a while.
“Deutschland,” he simply says.
“Are you busy?” There is a strange note of anxiety to Germany’s voice, but it is not outright urgent, and so Austria waltzes around the question with one of his own.
“Why do you ask?”
“I…I was wondering if I could pay you a visit,” the younger nation blurts out, managing to sound both formal as a member of parliament and embarrassed as a schoolboy at the same time.
Austria considers declining. He doesn’t particularly feel like entertaining. And there is paperwork to tend to, after all. (An excuse. It could easily be put off. It is not much. It is rarely much, these days.)
“When?” he asks.
“Today?” Germany does sound a little urgent now, particularly to want to make such a journey so suddenly. Austria cannot bring himself to refuse. They have been through too much misery together to turn their backs on each other and cause even more. (Spite requires too much energy that he has too little of.)
“Today, then. When should I expect you?”
“The late afternoon, I hope. Maybe four o’clock.” No doubt, right on the dot.
“Then I shall expect you around four,” Austria confirms. (Formality is a refuge he often seeks comfort in.)
“I appreciate it,” Germany says, perhaps a little awkwardly. “Auf wiedersehen.”
“Auf wiedersehen.”
Austria hangs up the phone.
His house is quiet and empty.
---
In the afternoon, after lunch, Austria bakes a chocolate torte. Germany likes his sweets. Germany also likes his beer, and so Austria makes sure he has at least a few bottles stocked and chilled. (Not wanting visitors is no excuse for poor hospitality when they are present.)
Austria’s bell rings a few minutes to four o’clock. He slides his suit jacket on and goes to answer it.
Germany’s hands are slung into his pockets in a simulation of leisureliness, but the rest of him looks as relaxed as ever. Which is to say, not very.
“Herr Deutschland,” Austria greets, mildly, even pleasantly.
Germany nods. “Österreich.”
Austria gestures to his foyer. Germany steps in.
“You look well,” Austria says. It’s true.
Germany nods again. “You too.” (After losing two World Wars and enduring a crippling divorce, simply being able to stand is “looking well.”)
“I made a torte, if you would like a piece,” Austria says. “Chocolate.”
“Oh?” The excitement is obvious in his voice. Self-consciously, Germany clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to bring anything…”
Austria brushes it off. “Nonsense. Think nothing of it.”
He shows his guest to his front room. Germany sits. Austria excuses himself to his kitchen. He cuts two pieces of cake, pours two cups of coffee, and returns. (The tray is heavy; playing host reminds him of when someone else did the job for him.)
Austria sets the refreshments down, distributes them between the two of them, and takes a seat himself.
They eat. Dessert forks clink against plates. Porcelain cups against saucers.
“It’s very delicious,” Germany says, genuinely impressed.
Austria nods, his mouth full. He takes a sip before he speaks. “Thank you.”
Germany finishes his cake and systematically drinks his coffee. Austria chews leisurely.
When he is done eating, Austria places the plates back onto the tray, along with Germany’s cup and saucer. “Would you like some more coffee?” he asks. “Or a beer, perhaps?”
Germany perks up considerably at that. “A beer, please, if you don’t mind.”
Austria nods, walks to the kitchen, and puts the dishes in the sink. He retrieves a bottle, opens it, and returns. Germany drinks gratefully. Austria reseats himself and nurses the remains of his coffee.
“How long do you intend to stay in Vienna?” Austria asks.
Germany slowly pulls the beer from his lips and swallows thickly. There is a coaster within easy reach on the low table in front of them, but he does not relinquish his grip on the alcohol. “Not long,” he finally says. “I should return today. To be honest, I shouldn’t even be visiting. I can’t afford to be away from Berlin, not really, but…I just had to get out of there, if only for a few hours.”
Austria nods, hums neutrally in acknowledgement, but does not pry. (Prying would compromise the solitude he covets like a crutch.)
Germany sits on the edge of the cushion and looks as if he wants to fidget. The Cold War is primarily between America and Russia, but unfortunately the whole of Europe is caught in the crossfire tensions.
“It’s the wall they’re building,” he abruptly confesses. “I just can’t stand to look at it.”
Austria knows the feeling. He can’t stand to look at the border fences. (Though whether that’s out of guilt or loss, he isn’t sure, and will not dwell on the matter enough to come to a conclusion.)
Austria concentrates on the taste of coffee on his tongue and nods again, sympathetically. Germany takes a drink of his beer.
“Do you—?” Germany stops.
Austria raises a polite eyebrow. “Do I…?”
Germany swallows. “…Think he might still be over there somewhere? Even though the name has changed?”
Austria blinks languidly and speaks frankly. “Names have little to do with it. Prussia used to not even be a country.”
Germany’s fingers twitch worriedly around the bottle. Belatedly, Austria’s own hands tense uncomfortably around his saucer and his eyes stare at the dark surface of his coffee. It reflects the wavering form of the ceiling light—an elegant but simple chandelier. There are no opulent strands of crystals that hang from this one. (Even still, he has much to learn.)
“I mean—” Austria begins.
Germany drinks. “It’s fine,” he grunts. “Teutonic Order, I know.”
Austria breathes and tries to remedy the situation. “If he was truly gone, we would know.” Many of them remember the fall of the Roman Empire, and have said as much.
Germany nods, barely consoled. “I…I just—miss him,” he mutters, ducking his head, scratching the back of his neck. Telling state secrets would be easier for the stern, blond nation.
Truth be told, Austria also misses him—though he cannot claim the close title of “brother” that Germany can. Prussia’s brash vulgarity would be a distraction, if not an entirely welcome one. (He would be too annoyed to be lonely.)
Austria finishes his coffee. He sets the cup and saucer on the table. “But Veneziano helps, I’m sure.”
Germany sighs. “As much as he ever has.”
Which, Austria knows from personal experience, isn’t much. He smirks briefly, a little humorlessly, a little nostalgically.
“He does, really,” Germany amends, gratefully. “He’s…company.” Austria is aware of the hesitancy in his voice, the way his eyes stay stuck on his now-empty bottle of beer. The sheer lack of company in Austria’s house hangs loud and heavy. (There are no flowers in vases, or folk dresses lying around waiting to be embroidered, or charmingly off-key humming.)
He stands, perhaps too abruptly, takes the bottle from Germany’s hand. “I’ll get you another,” he offers, in a perfectly composed voice, and Germany glances up in what might be a thanks or an apology.
Austria’s steps to the kitchen are steady and casual. The refrigerator is a modern invention. Inelegant and out-of-place compared to the iceboxes he was so fond of, and Austria likes the appliance simply because he doesn’t like it.
He grabs two beers, opens them, returns to his front room, hands one to his guest, and sits back down with the other. The lip of the bottle is wet and cold against his, and the alcohol is dark and bitter. (It tastes like memories, though he mostly drank wine back then.)
Germany’s face pulls into an expression that might be called dour confusion. “I didn’t think you liked beer.”
Austria sets his drink down and his response is mild. “Funny, what one picks up over time.”
A taste for beer, a knack for baking, a forty-year bout of smoking. (An empire. A wife. A sense of humility. Regrets.)
Germany exhales ruefully. “Or loses,” he murmurs, hands hanging between his knees, arms propped on his legs, weight shifted forward. Germany does not slouch, but still his posture contrasts severely with Austria’s prim way of lounging; he is still very much a soldier, ready to leap to attention at a moment’s notice. A business suit does not change that.
“It’s a hard fall,” Austria states, not unkindly.
Germany nods. “…Do you miss it, ever?”
Austria’s dark blue eyes flick coolly to the other country’s bright ones. “Do you?”
Germany drops his gaze to the floor and shrugs awkwardly, as if his shoulders no longer fit his shirt. It’s a strangely boyish gesture; it is easy to forget how young he really is, considering his usual severity. (Considering how old this century has made them.)
“I don’t know,” Germany mutters to the rug. “It was nice to be strong, to really be recognized. I’d never had that. I just wish I had gone about it differently, I guess…” His voice changes tone, his back straightens. “But I’d much rather be the lesser power I am now than the great power I was then.”
Austria smiles slightly, perhaps with pride, perhaps to cover pain. “Your government’s a good one,” he points out. “Erhard, especially, is an economic genius. He’s helped get you back on your feet.” And indirectly, has helped Austria walk straight once more.
Germany’s mouth twitches into a hesitant smile of its own. “I’m very grateful to him,” he admits.
The hall clock chimes. Austria considers his economy. Germany drinks his alcohol. (The Eastern Bloc is an elephant in the room.)
“Well?” Germany prompts.
Austria lifts an eyebrow. “Well?” he echoes.
“Your situation was different from mine. Do you miss the way things were?”
Austria thoughtfully tilts his head and manages to make even beer-drinking look sophisticated. “Yes and no,” he says at length, and focuses more on the no than the yes. “It’s a great change, to be sure… But I have more time. More time for hobbies, more time to travel among my people. It’s easier in many ways.” And more difficult in others. For all his propriety, he has not been fond of relinquishing power, and to have it forcibly taken from him at the end of the First World War was a very bitter pill to swallow. Sometimes he feels it’s still stuck in his throat. (Sometimes it’s in the shape of a wedding band.)
Germany laughs once, despite himself. “True. You’re not separated in two.”
Austria presses his lips together apologetically. “No, I’m not,” he admits. (Yes, he is.)
They drink.
When they are done, Austria offers to play some music. Germany accepts. It has been a long time since he has heard the musician play in person. Austria shows him to his study, which also doubles as his music room, and sits at his piano. Germany takes a seat in a chair off to the side.
He runs through a brief warm-up, and then plays Wagner. Germany listens politely. The hall clock chimes again.
Afterwards, Germany resigns himself to the fact that he needs to be on his way. Austria cuts him half of the remaining chocolate torte, wraps it up, and sees the other nation to the door. Germany clasps his hand in a firm, formal shake. “Thank you for the visit on such short notice. And for the cake,” he adds. Austria smiles, a little indulgently. It is perhaps for the visit. (It is perhaps for the fact that it is over.)
Germany draws himself up very officially. “Well. Auf wiedersehen.”
Austria inclines his body in a slight bow. “Auf wiedersehen.”
Germany leaves. Austria closes the door.
His house is quiet and empty.
---
In the evening, after dinner, Austria sits at his piano again. The night is cool. The wind still. The lighting in his study low and warm.
His fingers press idly against the keys, and his thoughts wander back to Germany, to his visit, to the reason for it. A solid barrier between east and west. It is unfortunate, but there is nothing he can do. He no longer meddles with the affairs of others.
Austria closes his eyes and relaxes. He lets his fingers roam of their own accord, finding notes, and rhythm, and structure, and before long, he is playing a full melody. And when he realizes it is Liszt, his hands freeze. (His feet want to run, or slide into stirrups, or shove the accelerator pedal down to the floor of his car.)
Austria gingerly closes the keyboard lid and gracefully stands. His pace, as he walks to the kitchen, is unhurried. He cuts a piece of his left-over torte and enjoys it thoughtfully. Germany, he knows, is not the only country that likes chocolate. Perhaps Austria could follow his lead and pay another a visit. (Someone to the west. Most importantly, to the west.)
Spain’s telephone is ringing.
-----
Notes:
“Auf wiedersehen”: formal way of saying “goodbye” in German.
The Berlin Wall: construction began in August, 1961.
Erhard: Ludwig Erhard, Minister of Economics from 1949 to 1963, who was greatly responsible for the reconstruction of the German economy after WWII. Using a similar model for economic reconstruction, Austria also recovered.
Wagner: famous German composer of the 19th century (you probably already know this).
Liszt: famous Hungarian composer of the 19th century (you probably already know this).
A/N: Head-canon states that Austria became something of a hermit after WWII, and likely tried to convince himself of his own neutrality—at least until the border opening with Hungary in 1989 (hehe).
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 05:27 pm (UTC)Oh, but poor Ludwig!!! *huggles him* Chocolate and beer make everything better, that's a trufax.
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Date: 2009-10-29 07:38 pm (UTC)And I feel like I should say "Nice bananas!" because of your icon. XDno subject
Date: 2009-10-29 07:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 08:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 09:23 pm (UTC)I love that the little additions in the parentheses are not just what they won't admit to each other, but what they won't admit to themselves. And just, argh I kinda love this post-war era as Germany and Austria's time for recovery and contemplation and maybe no longer being an empire isn't so bad after all.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 11:46 pm (UTC)At any rate, thank you for reading! ^_^
no subject
Date: 2009-10-30 06:04 am (UTC)But yeah he still holds on to his past pretty fiercely. Oh yes Roddy I recognized the Imperial Eagle color scheme on your Guard troops don't even try to deny it.
no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 11:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-10-29 11:53 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading! ^_^
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Date: 2009-10-30 12:17 am (UTC)Yes, I'd totally agree with that. It's like he's someone who has most of what's going on in their head being subconscious. Gah, that's a horribly awkward sentence, but I can't figure out how to phrase it any better than that. --Anyway, it's like he's always trying to take things in stride even if he's in a situation where that's not really feasible.
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Date: 2009-10-30 12:42 am (UTC)YES. AND MORE YES.
(And don't worry. I totally get what you're saying.)
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Date: 2009-10-31 04:45 pm (UTC)Austria presses his lips together apologetically. “No, I’m not,” he admits. (Yes, he is.)
Oh, wow. Just...wow. This captures how badly how cut up both Germany and Austria are on the inside. The emptiness and bleakness of the house atmosphere and the way Austria tries to say he's okay but really isn't broke my heart. ;_;
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Date: 2009-11-01 05:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-01 04:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-08 03:07 pm (UTC)This time, I really liked all the lines in parentheses. It's a clever way to underline the fact that what people say often isn't exactly what they mean or what they think. I liked the idea of the parentheses because - hrm, because - they act like a very small barrier between the 'truthier' part of the text and the rest. A few too many and it might've been too much but you left just enough space between the lines that it worked.
Truthier? Really? English fail.
I really love Germany in this. I think he would be a very, very hard character to write. You don't have to be a history major to know that stuff was pretty bad during the second world war. I think it's a hard line for people to walk along - how to talk about that kind of history honestly without, well, being reduced to unpleasant balls of angst.
“It’s the wall they’re building,” he abruptly confesses. “I just can’t stand to look at it.”
I don't know why I like that line so much but I do. Maybe it's because you can almost hear how Germany says that all in a rush. (And I love how he misses his brother; yes, yes I do. Family themes are oddly lovely in Hetalia).
I also like the contrast you end up making between Germany & Austria. Germany goes to talk to someone who understands; Austria goes to talk to someone who knows nothing about any of it. Denial & avoidance much, Austria?
Is it wrong that I think that Austria just really needs to go get laid? I mean, honestly Austria - how can you make a refrigerator sound angsty? Someone needs to get that boy good and drunk and have a rough tumble in the hay with him. XD
Just sayin'. ;)
-T. pirate
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Date: 2010-01-08 06:52 pm (UTC)I think he would be a very, very hard character to write.
Oh god, yes. Germany terrifies me even more than music, haha. Because it is an angsty time for him, but I don't think he's the sort to really, you know, let himself angst. At the same time, I think he's more...accepting of his angstiness than Austria.
"Angstiness"? WTF, words. XDBut I mean, at least Germany can admit he misses Prussia, while Austria's all, "What? I just left the piano because I wanted cake, that's all."And I love family in Hetalia, particularly between Germany and Prussia. If I could drag myself away from Europe, I'd probably do the same thing with America and Canada. XD
Is it wrong that I think that Austria just really needs to go get laid?
That's what Tifa's for. XD Unfortunately, WWII comes around and fills up the angstometer again. Poor guy. He could rival Vincent as the most-angsty-of-them-all. At least Vincent's a little more verbose about his "beautiful Lucrecia." XD
I almost want to write a follow up to this, where Austria does visit Spain, because I think Spain would catch on to more than Austria might want him to. They might talk about the whole ex-great-power thing (though it's been a LOT longer for Spain), and as oblivious to the Cold War as Spain might be, I think he'd pick up on Austria's loneliness. ("Hey, Austria...lots of nice Spanish ladies around, you know?" ;D) Plus, I adore the idea of Spain playing guitar and Austria fiddling away on a violin, out on the Spanish countryside or something.
:D Thanks again, muchly.
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Date: 2010-01-08 07:12 pm (UTC)Vincent: ... I stood by while my lover committed death-by-science & gave birth to a Hell-child that, thirty years later, almost smooshed my home planet with a GIANT ROCK. Beat that.
Austria: *straightens cravat* I participated in two world-wars that killed millions of people, cost me my empire, my fortunes, and my wife of 400 years. And just when I thought things were going to get better, fucking communism happened.
Vincent: ... damn. *offers cigarette*
XD
----
I would seriously love that Spain fic. And the 1920s America fic. I am, in fact, a terrible fic mooch, just so you know. ;)
*tips hat*
-T. pirate
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Date: 2010-01-08 07:38 pm (UTC)Hah. Death-by-science. Love that term. XD
Similarly, I would love to see Cid/Prussia interaction. Or maybe Reno/Prussia interaction. But my internal Reno-voice isn't actually that funny, whereas I think Cid's would be, so we'll go with Cid.
And I secretly think Prussia is a tea sort of guy. Yanno, when there's no beer around.no subject
Date: 2010-04-08 04:03 pm (UTC)I also love your writing style--it's the kind I've been trying to emulate in my own fanfictions lately. Saying little, but just enough. You manage to suggest such strong feelings with such simple phrases, and I really admire that ability.
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Date: 2010-04-10 05:31 pm (UTC)Thank you for the comment! I probably think about Austria far more than I should, so it's comforting to know that all that head-canon is not for naught. I'm pleased-as-punch you've enjoyed my stuff so much, and here's wishing you luck with your own writing. (True fact: I used to be verbose as all get-out, and still can be--I think my real talent lies in editing the hell out of things after the fact. XD)
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Date: 2010-04-14 07:55 pm (UTC)Nothing wrong with coming up with tons of headcanon. I tend to have loads of it, myself. (And AU stuff. Loaaads of AU stuff. I have a nasty tendency of ripping canon to shreds when I'm into a series with a lot of it.)
Man, same here. I used to write all sorts of lengthy description and have to be careful to avoid that.
Thanks a lot, and you're welcome. I figured I ought to stop lurk-stalking and actually express my admiration at some point. XD