Elizabeth has a charming voice, she really does, and Hungary can't help but to wonder how German, ugly, dreadful, terrible German, can sound so lovely on her lips. She smiles a lot, eats little, laughs with Hungary when they get to spend time together here in Vienna, which is whenever the empress of Austria isn't out of the country, to visit the far ends of the world. It's not a lot of time, because if there's anything that binds the two friends together, it's their common hatred of Vienna's high society. The thing is that Elizabeth can leave this place, while Hungary is stranded.
"Did you enjoy your latest trip ?" she asks Elizabeth, German still feeling not quite right on her tongue. "Where did you go this time ?"
It makes the empress eyes shine to talk about the worlds she discovers whenever she leaves the stuffy rooms of her husband's country to explore the world. She talks about Greece and the Antiquity, the legends she has read in their original version, the colour of the sun over the Mediterranean Sea. Her words are like music, a Liszt composition, aware of her surroundings and yet detached from the reality of the world she lives in. Hungary shakes the idea off her head quickly; it sounds too much like the kind of thing Austria would say.
Elizabeth toys nervously with the piece of cake in her plate as she speaks, never gets herself to place it in her mouth, making a mess of jam and bread in her plate. It was her idea to have coffee and cake, but they both know that Elizabeth doesn't like eating. Sometimes Hungary catches her gaze upon her, and she doesn't know if it's admiration or jealousy that she sees glinting in her dark eyes as Elizabeth stares. Hungary will never age, and maybe the empress hates her just a little bit for that. Hungary tries not to think too much of it, of how humans will never truly understand her kind and how Elizabeth seems to age more noticeably with every year that passes. Grief makes her look even thinner than she actually is. The empress' eyes haven't found back that quiet joy they used to have, so many years ago.
Hungary turns her head to the window, still half-listening to Elizabeth travel stories. It's snowing over Vienna, and she hates the Hofburg a lot more than she hates Schönbrunn, maybe because there are parks there, and she can lose herself in their intricate green mazes during the summer months. It's better than staying here and see that ironic smile on Austria's face whenever he plays Chopin for her. He knows how it makes her feel, and it makes her want to break his girly, dainty little neck.
"You know, I've been practicing a bit of Hungarian since my last visit there," she says, her Bavarian accent singing and pretty on her tongue."I don't want to lose it, with all the Greek I've been learning. Tud nekem segíteni ?"
The empress' pronunciation is a bit terrible but Hungary smiles anyway. She likes Elizabeth, unlike Austria, because Elizabeth is like her, a woman captive of a marriage motivated by politics, even though Sisi does love her husband somewhere, unlike Hungary, who's often dreamed of strangling Austria in his sleep. She has never gotten around the logistics of actually doing it, though.
She's about to answer her in Hungarian but there's a knock on the door and, still not free from all those years she spent as a vulgar maid in Austria's house, she goes to answer it.
It's the emperor himself, and Hungary can't help but to grit her teeth to keep herself from running away. She likes Elizabeth, with her wide-eyed idealism and her long hair, but she hated the emperor, the way he moves, his militaristic stance and the way he wages war, not without skill but with absolutely no compassion. She has to remind herself that this is a man of Maria-Theresa's family every time she sees him to keep herself from tearing off the skin from his arrogant face.
"Greetings, your Majesty," she says, bowing a little even though it physically pains her to do so in front of him.
Franz-Joseph returns the salutation coldly, and Hungary knows instantly that she has to leave now, from the way he gives her a look and turns to his wife quickly afterwards, love and admiration shining in his eyes whilst Elizabeth can only smile awkwardly. There is something in her eyes that begs Hungary to stay, because she doesn't know what to do with the love her husband will never stop showering her with. Hungary can only give her an understanding yet tired look. She likes Elizabeth, but she doesn't want to have anything to do with this, the Hapsburgs and their complicated stories.
The door closes and Hungary heads towards her own quarters. It's almost five and she knows that her own husband usually eats at this time of the day. She doesn't want to see him just now, not with a day that started so well.
Austria, for some reason, visits her rooms that evening. It's getting dark and she's still at her mirror, braiding her long hair before bed, when she hears him. His steps are regular, measured, like a metronome, and she instantly knows that it's him behind the door even before he knocks. His dainty knuckles make three little dry sounds on the dark mahogany wood. She doesn't say anything to that. She doesn't want to see him, but she's not exactly in a position to refuse anything, has never been since she's been moved into this house, left as a bait for the relative independence of her people.
Austria pushes the door open, his ridiculously girly hands so white against the dark wood; it's almost as if they glowed in the twilight. He's hasn't been home very often, lately, running around Vienna's concert halls to forget his own self with the sound of classical music. He steps into the room, dressed in the most elegant black suit, and Hungary just looks at his reflection on the mirror in front of her, nightdress floating on her body as she stops brushing her hair.
He has always been this very strange kind of beautiful, because even though she hates him, she can't deny that he's good looking. He moves the way a prince would do, hands like water when he speaks. There's this soft quality to his features that will always stay, even when he breaks revolutions and hopes, turning those delicate words of him into weapons.
Hungary closes her eyes.
"What are you doing here ?"
There are a few more steps, slow ones, and she feels his hands on her shoulders. She tries not to think about Russia and the failed revolution, but it doesn't work, not with Austria's fingers brushing her collarbone through the fabric. The gesture is too painfully familiar.
"I wanted to talk with you," he says, and one of his palms slips down, tracing with his thumb the shapes of the scars that mar her back through the fabric. "Can I ?"
She doesn't move, doesn't look, and it's just as much of an answer than all the words the German language can offer. It's a surprise when she feel a light peck on the base of her neck, against the dark, ugly mark of a cut that never properly healed. Her eyes jerk open, and she would have screamed out of sheer rage and terror if she hadn't been smart enough to know that dealing with Austria never really worked that way. His lips don't linger there, and it doesn't hurt, but it's a message. He won't let her forget.
"Is it about Elizabeth ?" she asks, hoping that it's not. She doesn't like how Austria deals with the royalty they share, his sickening devotion for the emperor and constant gossiping, but she doesn't have much of a say in this.
Austria let out a dry laugh. He lets go of her shoulders, walking a few steps aside to face her properly. Hungary would sigh out of relief at the fact that he's not touching her anymore, but she knows better than to play right into Austria's mind games. She keeps the calm facade up, looks straight at him. His amused smile hasn't turned into a snarl yet.
"The empress' wanderings have stopped interesting me years ago." Austria speaks softly, and there is this subtle tone of disdain hanging on his tongue. He doesn't like Elizabeth, has never done. "I'm interested in your well-being. What have you been up to lately ?"
It's a lie, of course it's a lie, because she knows Austria too well to ever believe he could care about anyone but that precious boy with the sickly body that died in what seems like a thousand lifetimes ago. She smiles amiably, copying that monster of a husband modern politics gave her, and it scares her, for a brief moment, how she's slowly turning into him after all these years.
"You know that I never do anything here." Vienna is a prison for her, but she knows it's better for her to be there than for Austria to stay in Budapest. She wouldn't be able to deal with him there, bitching about the uncourtly manners of the Hungarians and constantly humiliating her there. "Why are you here, Austria ?"
He makes a tutting sound with his tongue, looks away. Hungary's grin grows wider, and she has to make an effort to hide it. She knows what that gesture means because she knows Austria and Austria's ways. This look always means something about Prussia, because it's always Prussia that makes him angry like this, the never-ending fighting and the long, sleepless evenings when he plays on and on again grating, insipid little concertos until his fingers ache. It also meant trouble, for her, of course, but it means that he aches himself too, and Hungary will take care of her marital duties if she can use it in any way to hurt him.
"It seems that we have news from the West," she enounces, and she knows she's right when Austria's face takes that subtle expression of anger. She relishes in the sight, even though she knows that he's better than her at those wars of words and gestures that they've been waging since their wedding.
"Strip," he says with that voice, the harsher one, and she knows the drill, after all these years.
Hungary rises from her seat, and she's slightly taller than Austria but it doesn't really show as she walks in the center of the room and undresses carefully, slipping out easily of her nightdress. He makes her kneel against the cold floor, dainty hand lingering in her hair when she's done. It makes her want to bite his ring finger off.
Austria is still the princely young man on the outside, dressed in that black suit that does look good on him, his long legs and thin waist, but she can see through the cracks on the mask, the stench of blood and madness hiding behind his purple eyes. He looks at her form on the floor, and Hungary recognises that look in his eyes. It's not lust, it's never been lust, and he turns around her like a scientist around an unknown specimen. When he touches the scars on her back, even though she knows that it is what he does every time he wants to give a little pointless show of power, she has to keep herself very still from not screaming. There are things she loathes about Austria more than anything, and this is one of them, the silence as he only looks at her and possesses her without even having to touch her. It reminds her of Russia's quiet smiles as he crushed her, decades ago, beating her with merciless blows as Austria watched and smiled softly. When she had finally been able to walk again, he had played her Liszt, her beloved Liszt, sad, gloomy song, with a satisfied smile on his face. Sometimes, she wonders how she managed to sit through it and not jump at his throat to strangle him. Then she remembers that her hands hadn't completely healed from Russia's last visit back then.
It's over faster than she thought it would be. Austria leaves, still dressed, because she disgusts him too much for him to ever have her sexually. The tails of his coat float behind him as he walks away. She's alone, naked and untouched in her own room, and she doesn't find it in herself to rise herself back up and get dressed. She stays there, and thinks of the years that have flown by since she came here, the polite smile on Austria's face when they spoke to each other back in the days. Whatever affection they might have had back in those days is lost now, with Austria's empty promises and Russia's hands on her throat as he laughs softly.
This game of politics has made men and nations go mad, she can't say otherwise, but it won't keep her from hoping for better days and Poland's smile as he holds her hand. She's not Austria and, unlike him, she hasn't stopped hoping. But tonight is not the time to let herself dream like this, and there are letters from Bohemia that she'll probably forget read in their entirety just now. She's not like him; she'll never, ever be like him, no matter what they might say.
That night, she sleeps a dreamless sleep