A/N: Don't expect to find any clever historical references in this fic. I'm by no means an historian, just a fan who doesn't own Hetalia.
Hungary lingers in the room, dustcloth going over and over the same surfaces while she waits for the notes. He must not know she's there, because he'd never intentionally let her see his shoulders sag like this.
There's dust on the keys. She should get that, but she doesn't want to disturb him.
He probably wouldn't notice. He's probably still preoccupied with the men who were here earlier. Hungary had gotten only a brief glimpse of them before Austria had been there, behind her, just for a moment, murmuring about how she should take Italy upstairs, and she shouldn't worry about dinner, and it was going to be all right….
Austria shakes. It's just a little bit of movement, but sometimes a little is a lot. Hungary drifts closer, terrified and fascinated.
She can feel how worn his coat is almost before her fingers even reach it.
He jerks around at the contact, eyes wide for just an instant before composure fights its way back onto his face. "Oh— Miss Hungary… it's you."
"Yes. I'm sorry— if I—"
"No. I was… lost in thought."
Hungary nods, as if it's fine and natural for Austria to be lost in anything besides music.
He sighs and says, after a moment, "Why… why are you here?"
"I have to dust the room…." She waves her dustcloth. As long as she has it, or a mop, or some similar domestic weapon, Hungary can go anywhere unchallenged.
"No. Why are you here, in this house, still? Why haven't you left?" He reaches out, for some reason.
"W-where else would I go?"
Austria's hand falls back to his side. It's strange to think that maybe she should have taken it. "France. Spain. England would take you— he'd like to take everybody."
"I'd rather not go with England."
"He'd like you to. Some people might say you should. At least at his house you'd get a decent amount of food."
Hungary tries for a smile. "For a given value of 'food.'"
At that Austria actually does touch her, or at least her sleeve, guiding her down to sit beside him on the piano bench. It's too small for two people; they have to shift constantly so that one of them doesn't fall off.
"Miss Hungary?"
Hungary carefully doesn't look back at him, keeping her face turned toward the piano as she wipes down its keys. She drags her fingers up and down over black and white, do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-doand a chromatic scale the other way. "Hm?"
"Thank you. For…."
"For staying." Her heart skips; it's one thing for her mind to fill in the gaps when he talks, because that sort of thing is inevitable when one person knows another for as long as she's been in his house. It's quite another for her voice to forget that she is in his house, and for what reason. "Well, I— if I weren't here, who would look after Italy?"
"You would worry about the maid." Is it her imagination, or did Austria just smile?
"Everybody needs somebody to worry about them sometimes."
"Even maids."
"Yes, Austria." Definitely a smile, and the thought sends one spreading over her own lips. "That's what I meant."
I live with four piano players. Going without practice long enough for the piano to get dusty is Simply Unacceptable.
Reviews, please?
