Hallelujah
"My god Roderick, do you ever stop playing that damn thing?" Eliza muttered, knuckles white as she clenched her broom and gritted her teeth. She should know better than to get smart with Austria, but today the plucky notes of his piano were like nails on a chalkboard to her. She was supposed to be ladylike, she was supposed to be a good little girl. But it just wasn't… in her nature.
To her surprise, Roderick stopped. His hands slid away from the ivory keys. "You don't really care for music, do you?" he asked quietly, gazing out the window. She turned to him, wondering what had brought this on. Shouldn't he punish her for speaking out of line, for insulting his beloved music?
…
"Elizaveta I…" Austria fell silent. Hungary had dragged an old wash basin up to the widow's walk on the roof. She sat in it now, her long, flowing chocolate hair wet and gleaming in the moonlight as she ran her fingers through it. She was silhouetted perfectly by the full moon, bright against the dark night like a diamond set against charcoal.
She didn't notice him. Roderick was frozen, mesmerized by her beauty. Her skin was as soft and fair as the moonlight that shone against it. He had always had a suspicion, but now he had proof. In that moment, he knew he loved her. The gentle, chaste love of a broken man falling for the young and beautiful yet strong and stubborn girl before him now. What a lovely love it was.
…
Two steady streams of tears fell unceremoniously from his eyes onto the piano keys. Here he was again, sitting at his piano. She hadn't cared for music; she hadn't cared for him. The corners of his mouth twitched – on the inside, he was laughing at himself. It had been years, decades even, and he was still hung up over Elizaveta Hedervary, when she had never showed even the slightest hint of a reciprocation of such feelings. To her, their brief marriage was nothing more than any other loveless, desperate, arranged political marriage.
He stretched his fingers before splaying them out over the keys. He would play, one last time… the fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift. All the while he wept, crying for words unsaid and for the words spoken that he had never meant to say. The whole thing had been sloppy, messy, hasty. He remembered lots of yelling and shouting, the scribbled signing of divorce papers, and the sound Eliza's high heels had made as she stormed out the door and out of his life. The heels sounded like steak knives stabbing maliciously at the abused floor, cutting away at his cold, broken heart.
The gun lay on the window sill, metal lustrous in the clean, pure sunlight. It was little more than an old toy from when he was young, way back when he had still been friends with Vash, but it would do the job. Oh, he remembered how he somehow always used to get himself into trouble, and Vash would have to come rescue him. For a moment Austria absently wondered why their friendship had gone so sour, but he guessed it really wouldn't matter after this.
…
"Mr. Austria?" Eliza called. No one had answered the door, but it was unlocked so she had gone ahead and let herself in. Upon entering, she gasped. The house was a complete and utter mess, quite unlike anything Austria would ever allow. Where were the maids? Where the hell was Austria? Hungary hurried her way through the chaos of overturned furniture, empty beer bottles, sheet music and paperwork strewn about. What if he was sick, or hurt, and there was no one to take care of him?
But no, the worry gripping her chest eased up when she heard the faint but obvious sounds of his piano. She sighed in relief and trotted up the stairs, the music growing stronger yet softer at the same time. It sounded so… sad. She knew it was ridiculous, but something in the far strung notes made her want to cry. The door was ajar, so she gently pushed it inwards to find the source of such beautiful music.
Her green eyes widened in a mixture of shock and horror. Roderick's violet head was hung, fingers straining over the piano like every note took great effort and caused him immense pain. Tears poured out of his eyes though they were shut tight; his body seized and shuddered as violent sobs racked his frame that she had once thought was so strong. It wasn't like she didn't still think he was strong, it was just… without all his fine clothes and puffery, he looked so slight and frail, like the plain white shirt he wore would swallow him whole any moment now.
He hadn't noticed her yet; she took a tentative step forward and felt glass crunch underneath her shoe. She looked down, at his mangled and broken glasses. She looked up to him again, and that was when she noticed the gun on the windowsill, glinting in the sun.
"Austria, what is going on here?" Eliza said over the piano. Instantly his hands froze and his body went rigid. His head picked up and his eyes shot open. "N-nothing of course… and the house… well, I, um, gave the maids a holiday, you see, and as it turns out I'm not very good at keeping things clean, and so…" Eliza wasn't buying it. "Austria." She said sternly. But Austria shook his head. "Excuse my manners, Miss Hedervary, after all it is so nice to see you. I'm not very good at it, but shall I make us some… tea?" he still hadn't turned around to face her.
She never answered; she had walked over to his desk where a pen, paper, and bottle of ink had spilled all over the old, expensive wood and dripped onto the equally old and fine carpet. He heard the crisp rustling noise as she carefully fingered the note, and then the sweet gasps that befell her precious lips. "R-Roderick… what the hell is this? What's going on?" but she knew the answer. She covered her mouth with her hand and spun to face him.
…
She knew this room oh so well. This was Roderick's music room, where he would spend hours playing and composing music while she swept the floors and kept the house with little Italy. She'd been here before, she knew this room, she'd walked this floor, though he used to live alone before he knew her.
Austria laughed; a cruel, choked growly thing from the back of his throat. "I've seen your flag on the marble arch…" he trailed off, finally turning to meet her eyes. "Please Elizaveta, are you happy… with him?" he whispered. Eliza's free hand clenched. "Since when do you care about my happiness?" she hissed incredulously. His watery eyes and tear stained, pallid face looked so hopeful yet so desperate. He gave that awful, pathetic laugh again.
Elizaveta's face softened. "Roderick… d-do you…" he waved his hand and looked away, lips quirked in a despondent kind of smile. "Love is not a victory march…" he said quietly, the words barely ghosting out of his mouth. Hungary forced her feet to move, forced them to take her to his side even though her heart was pounding against her chest from the shock and sudden heart ache and fear. She laid a hand on his shoulder, shivering as she felt how sharp his shoulder really was, how thin he had become. So he hadn't just appeared weak, he really had been reduced to this feeble, trembling fragment of a man.
"There was a time when you let me know, what's really going on below. But you never show it to me anymore, do you? What happened, Roderick?" he looked up at her, and as she gazed deep into the depths of his violet soul she saw the lost, broken man he really was, the man he had become because of her. "Oh Austria…" she breathed.
He waved his hand dismissively. "Maybe there's a God above, but all I've ever learned from love is how to shoot at someone who outdrew you." He laughed again, and her grip on his shoulder tightened. "Don't say things like that, Austria! Damn it, that's… that's… blasphemy!" she cried, her voice catching as she felt the pressure of unshed tears pressing against her own vocal chords.
"You say I took the name in vain but if I did, really, what's it to you?" he asked, his voice suddenly cold and hard and his gaze icy. She shivered and he stood, looking down on her now. She never noticed how tall he was compared to her, and she suddenly felt very small and broken. "I did my best, sorry it wasn't much. But I've told the truth, I didn't try to fool you. And even though it all went wrong, every breath we drew was…" she grabbed his face and he was jerked into a kiss.
Tears streamed down both of their faces. She continued to grip the sides of his face, even though he had settled into the kiss, tentatively wrapping his arms around her. They held on to each other like if they didn't, the other would slip away into nothingness. Which, until a few minutes ago, was entirely possible. Hungary promised herself she would never let that happen again.
…
One hand slid down and grabbed his lapel; she broke away from him and dragged him out the door, furiously wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve, sniffling. He stumbled in tow after her, still confused and in shock by her previous actions.
She threw him roughly into a kitchen chair, her face set and grim. He twisted his head around to see what she was doing, his face appearing almost childlike without his iconic glasses. She quickly pulled his hands behind the back of the chair and lashed them together, tying him down. He cried out in surprise, but she was already back around to the front and cut him off with another crash of their lips.
…
Sliver flashed in the fading daylight pouring in like liquid gold through the window. With a flick of her wrist she cut his hair and several soft strands of his deep mauve hair drifted to the floor. She smirked against his lips as he squirmed underneath her. The knife clattered to the floor, the sharp sound echoing through the otherwise empty house. One hand cupped his jaw, while the other tore away the crest around his neck. She pulled away from him just long enough to stand and crush the emblem under her foot, breaking his throne. This time, his crazy, stupid grin matched hers and he felt as if a major weight had been lifted from his aching shoulders.
She made him see colors he had never seen before, experience a light he had never known, and he moved in her. He couldn't feel so he tried to touch, but they both ended up a mess. It didn't matter which – the holy or the broken. Because it's not a cry you can hear at night. From his lips she drew the cold and the broken hallelujah.