Prussia doesn't care for such things as nice hair or a pretty face, because Prussia is a warrior and Prussia takes, as much as she wants, for as long as she wants, until she gets bored, breaks something and finds a new toy. If there's anything she's ever learnt out of centuries, that probably would be it, along with the fact that she hates, hates, hates that very annoying, stupid, prissy, cowardly old aristocrat Austria. She hates Austria and she hates the way he passes his hand through his hair and exhales and says, on the tip of his tongue, words that have the hidden strength of steel.
Still, it seems that centuries have rolled by, now, and there's no way to go around things like she used to, be it by killing infidels in the sands of Jerusalem or getting into a fight with Denmark or Sweden or fucking Russia. The new century calls for alliances, ballroom dancing and waltzes of a whatever it is that they like to call The Concert of Europe. It's the typical type of name Austria would come up with that Prussia would laugh out loud if she wasn't currently getting her hair done by a very amused, very much grinning Hungary.
"I never thought you'd ask me to help you out with that in your life," he says, as he brushes her hair meticulously. "I thought you only ever kept your hair this length to make everyone forget about you thinking you only had to wait to grow a penis."
"Okay but could you shut up about that? That was, like, five centuries ago."
She would kick him, but it's awkward with him standing behind her like that. There's also the annoying fact that Hungary is oddly skilled when it comes to hair care for a brawny guy who spent most of his childhood in bloody wars. It must be something about living with Austria for too long, and Prussia needs to look her best this time around. Partitioning Poland usually works better for everyone when she agrees to put on a dress, no matter how frustrating that task sometimes is.
Hungary shrugs, and he doesn't stay silent for a very long time, the asshole he is.
"Just saying that it's cute to see you at least trying to look like a lady for once. Although you do have an awful lot of split ends there. You really should get a proper hairdresser if you want to keep that mane healthy."
Prussia scoffs.
"Haven't had time, y'know, with the whole Empire-crushing, Waterloo-winning, saving-useless-England thing. Sorry I don't insist, like some idiot, to wear a flower in my hair on the battlefield - Ouch!"
There's a tug on her hair that makes her yelp out both in surprise and, if she was to be completely honest, in a tiny little bit of pain. Prussia's always been a bit skirmish with her hair, and she tries to tell herself that it is her only weakness, almost.
"I kicked your ass with that flower in my hair, remember?"
Prussia has to acknowledge that fact, and it makes her grimace.
"Just stop talking and make one of these fancy updos I've seen on France's hair lately..."
There's a little smile that passes on Hungary's face, and Prussia doesn't even have to turn around to know it's there. Idiot. She wishes she could bring herself to properly hate him sometimes, but it's a lost cause, even after centuries of kicking each other where it hurts, as hard as possible. Stupid womanly sentimentality, the Old Man would say, and she would laugh, sourly so.
"You still haven't told me why you've asked me to help you out with this," Hungary says as he applies the iron curler to the papillotes in her hair. The whole process feels really awkward, with the heated instrument looking like some sort of torture device. "Last time I've seen you dressed up like that, Austria took a fancy to wearing really high, really stupid looking collars for over a month."
She would try to deny it, but then this is Hungary, and it would be stupid to forget that he's always been a nosy, annoying son of a bitch. Prussia rolls her eyes at the grin she knows is once again on Hungary's face.
"I'm not doing this for him." The words fly out of her mouth too fast for her to properly catch herself saying something stupid. "... Or whatever you try to imply by this. I just want to look nice while I celebrate beating that bitch France back into monarchy."
"Yeah, sure."
She would, once again, smack his dumb face for that, but he is in fact holding hot curling irons and she's not exactly willing to get another scar on her face just yet. The Crusades were bad enough as it. Prussia sighs, looks out the window.
Vienna is pretty, as it always is, the same infuriating kind of pretty that comes with artfully tousled hair and long, skilled pianist hands. It's sunny and warm, late spring after a summer of anxious warring in the West, music, and balls, and words, words, words. The whole city seemed to open like a flower to her, when she had come back earlier in the week, still crusty and disgusting from the mud of Belgium and the blood of a thousand Frenchmen. It's because she's never laid siege to it, broken it, unlike Austria, few short decades earlier, walking in the streets of Berlin with a stern, yet content expression on his face. Stupid prissy prettyboy fuckface.
"Happy?" Hungary asks when he's done with her hair and presents her with a large mirror to appreciate his work.
He's smug, as always, because if Hungary is aware of something, it's of his own skill with iron and a decent amount of handiwork. Prussia passes a neglectful hand through her newly curled hair, the elegant way it falls down her face, frowns briefly.
"Not bad. You should have made it, y'know, poofier."
"You should stop bitching, Prussia, I know you love this."
Prussia gives him a look, and realises her grin matches Hungary's, for once. She doesn't have to say it out loud, as they both know that, even like this, the most fashionable dress she could grab out of in victory from Paris and Plauen lace ribbons in her hair, Prussia always, always dresses to kill.
Vienna, and its Congress, are infuriatingly pretty the same way Austria is, and Prussia can't help but to be amazed by the seemingly careless expenses that came into the organising of tonight's feast. If there's anything Austria knows just as well as his ridiculous piano, it's how to spend money and turn gold into promises and games he never fails to win. This is one of those moments. They're meeting in the Hofburg, the lot of them, with diplomats and sweet-talkers who, for the most of them, haven't lifted a sword or a gun in the past few years. It makes Prussia want to throw up to look at them go and dance.
She pointedly refuses every waltz from English, French, German, Italian and Russian representants alike, non merci, je vous en prie, as if it's some kind of game, because it is some kind of game, the kind she hates, the kind she knows she is bound to lose. Prussia isn't here to strike a deal with the ones she knows weren't there when she had her pride stepped on and thrown in the trash, she's here to have them crushed.
Obviously, that part includes drinking herself mildly silly on an amount of champagne that's probably worth more than the monthly pay of a Prussian officer.
"You look like shit," Russia says sweetly when he passes her by, looking like an tastelessly overdressed peacock.
"Just like Moscow when it burns," she mutters under her breath.
The words only make him laugh that stupid childish laugh and continue his way towards what Prussia believes to be the Austrian Prime Minister. Fucking nutjob of a country.
"Behaving?" a voice enquires behind her.
Prussia has to bite the inside of her mouth not to say anything stupid, even in her inebriated state. It doesn't really work.
"No."
Austria is bored and haughty because it's the way he behaves in what he likes to call proper society. Vienna isn't, never will be a battlefield the way Berlin might be, under the wheels of war. He has a ridiculously nun-like aura for a man when he get irked by Prussia's antics, with his silk redingote and lace cuffs. Prussia blames it on the eternal catholic guilt. It makes her glad to have thrown all that bullshit out of her system ages ago.
"Of course you're not," Austria concedes. "And how much have you drunk?"
"Not nearly enough."
She grins. He marks a very short, very meaningful moment of silence.
"Try to stay out of trouble, will you?"
The order, even formulated as a nice little request, is still an order, as if she was Poland or fucking Bohemia. He's only trying to be nice because of her managing that military feat in Belgium, they both know that. Still, it pisses her off, as he leaves, probably to talk with that French embassador that looks even more constipated than Austria could ever look, how he seems to think her an idiot. She's not going to fuck this up with Russia, mainly because she's not a complete idiot just yet, and also because she knows how much of a mess last time was. She has no intention of ever going back to the East, to an endless wasteland or scorched earth and snow, and to the corpses of thousands of starving young men.
It's not, however, Russia that manages to make her do something actually stupid enough to require Hungary (Because it's always Hungary that finds his way next to her in that kind of moment, or maybe it's Austria that told him to be there.), taking the wine glass out of her hand with his dumb big muscles and that half-serious, half-mildly-amused frown. It's France.
"Quelle allure provinciale... Je comprends désormais pourquoi ce cher Frédéric ne vous aimais pas, hé bien, comme ça..."
It would require great narrative talent and considerable lengths to properly portray the nature of France and Prussia's relationship, as it is, as any relationship, made of ups and down, grand victories and bitter betrayal. Still, some scars are indeed still too fresh, in Eylau, in Tilsit, in fucking Berezina and in Waterloo. England likes to joke about it being a querelle de chattes, but that's only when he's too drunk on a victory that has been Prussia's all along to bother with the sharp, cutting slap that comes to his face from his ally. It's not nearly as bad as the look France and Prussia exchange when she sees her old whore of an enemy, ally, friend, fiend or whatever happened to the both of them in Paris back in 1792.
It does take a coalition larger than the one that just took down the First Emperor of the French to keep both Prussia and France to properly destroy each other's face. It's because Bavaria's actively doing something for once, holding Prussia back while France's nose bleeds onto a dress that probably cost nearly as much as a French diplomat's loyalty.
"Let me teach the fucking bitch some manners, fuck!"
Prussia's a bit useless without her regiment, or a proper weapon. Bavaria's always been bigger than her, even though he's nearly as useless as Austria is with a rifle, and there's something very annoying about his smile that makes her wonder very briefly if relatives really shouldn't get a proper beating too in that very special kind of situation. It's not like if she could be doing anything anyway here, not now, not yet.
What happens is what always happens, somehow. Prussia is still boiling when she storms out, and there's Austria's passing glance towards her that falls heavily upon her on the way to the door. It's anger, surprise, too, in a way, along with something else Prussia can't really put her finger on. She doesn't have the energy to reflect upon that fact as she heads out, definitely needing something quite stronger than the fancy rhinewine ambassadors and aristocrats insist on drinking.
Austria has this stern, annoyed look as he sits at his desk. There's a frown on his face as he writes what seems like an apology letter for her to put her name on to some French embassador Prussia couldn't care less about. Prussia doesn't care about anything, except her own glory, and how much she wish she could have strangled France yesterday back in that ballroom.
Still. She sits next to him like a punished yet not quite repentant child. There's the soft sound of quill brushing against paper that fills the room, elegant French words coupled with what she knows to be Austria's most flattering grammar. It shouldn't piss her off as much as it does. She blames it on the wine, a little bit, and on the way Austria's hair look. It's different when he's angry, somehow, something about the way his eyebrows curve next to his side bangs, probably, and how he pushes them past his ears with his dainty, almost womanly pianist fingers.
Prussia groans, crosses her arms over her chest.
"Could you not do that, please?"
Austria's eyes haven't moved away from the paper, and he hasn't stopped writing. Once again, stupid prissy prettyboy fuckface.
"Do what?"
Austria stops. He turns his head, observes her, briefly, behind his glasses as if she was some sort of amusing monkey. Then, he smiles, that infuriating ironic little half-smile, shakes his head, and it makes Prussia want to punch him. Some things never really do change.
"Nevermind."
The way his lips curl in condescension almost has Prussia rising from her seat and leave out of outrage. He shouldn't be like that, Austria, Austria who lost their wars, sweet-talking his way out of this ugly business with France's Emperor, as always. He should be at her feet and begging her forgiveness. She doesn't do it, though, her legs crossed over a dress that feels almost alien after years of battlefields.
"You do realise I ain't apologising to that bitch?"
It looks as if Austria tries his best not to roll his eyes. It shows in the thin line his mouth forms, the slight, almost invisible tremor of his lips. It makes Prussia crackle uglily, and Austria's anger flare up, suddenly, his cheeks tinted with the lightest shade of red.
"You really don't understand, do you?"
The writing quill is abandoned on the desk, and a tiny little drop of ink fall on the paper, muddying Austria's neat handwriting. Prussia's attention, however, isn't the letter anymore. She's looking at Austria, at how true, over anger transforms his features as he rises up. Austria has never been very tall, not as much as Saxony or Bavaria, but he has a way of looking down upon people that makes him seem so. The violet irises, Prussia has to guess, and the long fluttering eyelashes.
Prussia spends a short moment captivated by Austria's dangerously controlled breathing, the way it makes his nostrils tremble out of anger, the radiating tension that seems to drip for his very pores. It's arousing because this is it, this is the Austria that makes Prussia want to fight as they always would, thirty years morphing into seven, coalitions forming and breaking in front of advancing armies. She grins, looking up, not moving. She's enjoying this far too much and she knows it.
"I don't want to understand, Austria. There's nothing I would understand about you letting France come here after two fucking decades of shit and lost wars anyway. Is she that good of a fuck, really?"
Austria raises an eyebrow, and it seems suddenly that all his pent-up anger has gone. Prussia doesn't understand, not right away anyways, not until Austria's mouth turns into a mildly amused smile as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. It's typical in a way that makes Prussia want to hit him.
"So it's jealousy, then, really?"
He still has that stern look on his face and the mildly ruffled hair that always seems to be the most evident outward expression of anger with Austria, but there's that hint of victory in his tone. Fuck.
Prussia doesn't answer out of sheer stubbornness that makes Austria's expression turn into a full-blown smirk. Her arms are firmly crossed over her chest, over that dumb expensive parisian dress, her nails digging into the skin of her arms. Austria's eyes glint with victory as he leans forwards, towering over her sitting form as if this was the first time they were playing this anxious game of cat and trapped mouse. Piece of shit conceited stupid attractive lazy aristocrat.
Austria's hand comes to caress the aide of her face almost impudently and Prussia looks at is as if she's about to bite it. She doesn't do it, though, closes her eyes, bites her lips to keep herself from saying something that might betray her.
It's because Austria is both girlishly pretty and annoyingly male in the way he seems to grin, but no quite, tilting her head up as he seems to tower over her. It pisses her off so much the feeling is almost physical. It makes her whole body almost vibrate in want.
When they do kiss, just like that, Prussia can feel Austria's amused smile against her lips, and she growls. That prick.
Of course. Of course it's jealousy.
A few days later, she finds herself once more dolled up to what seems like another of these pointless balls Austria is so fond of. She's playing the delicate wallflower part, and she thoroughly sucks at it, but no one seems to care much, aside from France, maybe, who passes her by once and gives her a smirk of pure hatred under the badly swollen bruise on her nose.
She's standing next to Hungary, who is laughing his own stupid backside off internally, obviously. There's that dumb grin on his face that makes Prussia want to stick a knife through it. It's because of the necklace she's wearing, close to what everyone perfectly knows are fading bite marks, and the way she looks thoroughly pissed as with every time she ends up sleeping with that same person she knows perfectly well she shouldn't be attracted to. Idiot, idiot, idiot.
"You look tired," Hungary states as he sip his own glass of champagne.
He stole it, because Prussia is pretty sure fancy wine shouldn't be offered to dickheads. Once again, they are playing a game of diplomacy by coming here, the lot of them nations, kings, emperors and ambassadors. The entirety of Europe would be dry, was the no-assholes rule enforced.
Still, it's a surprise that Hungary is here tonight, given the fact that Prussia did give her word, along, well, other things, to reassure Austria that, no, she wouldn't be doing anything worrying violent and vulgar anymore, thank you very much. It's because Austria might trust her with his cock in her mouth, but obviously doesn't with politics. He's not wrong to do so, all things considered.
"I'm not."
"Rough night?"
"Go fuck yourself."
"That would be your job. Although wouldn't you like me to call the young master for that?"
Prussia would say something but she's not stupid enough to aggravate her case. At least he's not asking him if the said young master is a good fuck. Hungary is being merciful, because Austria is a tremendously good lover, annoyingly so, just as everything about Austria ever is, making her come at least twice with his fingers, then another time with his tongue while she's still halfway dressed. Or maybe he knows already, in some weird way Prussia isn't sure she wants to get into. Hungary's always been a little bit psychic.
She closes her eyes, sighs.
"This is so fucking stupid."
Hungary laughs, frankly this time, pats her shoulder. He's burning to say something along the lines of I told you so but he won't. That's one of the perks of century-old terrible friendships.
"Don't worry about it. I don't think Austria is nearly as much of whore as everyone seems to think, and I'm pretty sure he actively likes you maybe as much as you do like him."
Prussia shrugs. She doesn't care about Austria, or so she tries to convince herself as she toys with the tip of her nails nervously.
"He can get his sissy ass fucked by Russia for this stupid alliance, as far as I'm concerned."
The image makes Hungary chuckle politely.
"That's unlikely."
Fuck.
Austria has this way of appearing in times when Prussia doesn't want to see him. Silk waistcoat and the same annoying ruffled hair. He gives Hungary a polite nod, to which Hungary responds with a respectful bow. It's almost comical, in a way, the difference between the two of them, Hungary's tall, muscular stature stature next to Austria's lithe frame. There's a frown on his face, the eternal arched haughty eyebrows, and Prussia feels like spitting on it. She doesn't do it, and it's because she very much doesn't want to even look at Austria right now.
"I believe everything is going well with you two?" Austria asks as if he was fucking welcome here, which he is not, not at all.
"Fantastically so," Hungary answers mostly for himself, that fucker.
It doesn't matter, she tell herself, her hands neatly folded in front of her like the delicate young little thing she plays. Austria plays his games, neatly, expertly, with that very much infuriating stern stupid expression and sadistic prissy smirk that shows its dumb face once in a while. It's his thing, and it's one of the first and foremost reasons why she can't help but to bite her lips stupidly like some fucking novel heroine every time angry, desperate fucks like last night happen.
"Very well, then," Austria says, and Prussia almost exults at the idea of him leaving with just that, but he doesn't.
He doesn't and he leans next to her whispering in that discrete manner that should make him look stupid but doesn't, because Austria is incomprehensible. His breath tickle her ear, very briefly, and his voice is firm, although there is a hint of that biting, stone-faced sarcasm to it.
"Although, Russia, now, really? I thought we'd agreed on the pointlessness of your misguided jealousy, Prussia."
And on these words he leaves as quickly as he'd appeared, leaving Prussia both unnervingly flustered and definitely outraged. Still, she can only fume, and Hungary can only look at her with sharp teeth and a tiny little bit of curiosity around the corner of his eyes.
"Fuck this," she grunts, helping herself to another glass of champagne and a head movement towards the door on the other side of the ballroom. "Let's get out of here."
Hungary looks at her, and smiles, genuinely so. The dumbass. It's okay. They're both idiots, have always been.
"Ladies first."
If there's anything Hungary is an expert at, it's imitating Austria's dumb accent. Prussia punches his shoulder, but her heart isn't in it. She's laughing.
"Shut up."
"Will do."
Hungary's right about her awkward little crush, very much so, and it pisses her off. Still, centuries, come and go, and she can't help but to wonder what exactly will come out of this one, one that started, well, so strangely. Vienna still shines, as always, at the opening of a new age, one Prussia isn't sure is going to be quite the same as the one both her, Hungary and Austria have always known.