Author's Note: A Muse tormented me into writing this, that's all I can say. So, here it is. Italy is still a child, so he is still thought of as a girl. Hungary and Austria are living together (but aren't married yet). I really love Hungary and Austria, so I hope I got their characters right. I did work hard sculpting out what muse handed to me, but you have to understand this wasn't my idea.
Nights like this are never warm. They are cold and the wind billows outside. It takes a long time putting Italy to bed. He is scared of the wind monster, so he says between muffled sobs against her breast. She sings him a lullaby that she must have heard somewhere, but she cannot remember. Her voice sounds rough even to her ears, but at least Italy falls asleep. She presses a kiss on his rosy cheek, smooths his auburn bangs up off his forehead, kisses that too. For a while, she just sits there, staring at him, thinking about how adorable he is, wondering how he will turn out when he gets older.
Outside, it is overcast, but the full moon is hardly hidden. Rather the clouds reflect its light, so that it does not appear to be ten o'clock at all. It is late, she realizes. They usually go to sleep earlier, but Austria had been in a beastly mood all day. Comes with the weather, she supposes. He says that the cold makes his fingers stiff, and his usually beautiful playing has been lacking.
"Hungary?" a hurried voice calls, "Is…is…she asleep?"
"Yes, Mr. Austria."
"Ah, good. Come…down, yes?"
Austria is shouting now. She fears he will wake Italy. Leaving the room, she shuts the door quietly.
"Be quiet," she snaps, glaring at Austria, who stands at the top of the stairs looking almost foolish. He's been drinking. She can tell, but all he does is shrug and offer her his arm, silent, subdued. She takes it, guiding him down the stairs and into the living room where she sits him down on a pile of blankets near the fireplace.
"It's…it's been a bad day," he tells her, pulling her close. She agrees, nodding her head against his chest, as her arms hold him steady.
The fire has turned her brown hair to gold. Alchemy, pure alchemy. He sighs and runs his fingers through the long waves, which are not as soft as they look. In fact, as his fingers trail down and deeper, he comes across numerous tangles. She has not had much time for herself that day, or that week for that matter. For a while, they just sit there in silence, holding onto each other, like two strands of a knot, but soon he grows uneasy of the stillness, tries to think of something to say.
"Hungary," he says, as soon as it pops into his head, "did you have a first love?"
"What?" she asks, startled by the question. She stares up into his face, studying the fine features and indigo eyes, but she can read nothing there.
"A first love," he repeats. He hardly thinks of Hungary now, though he is speaking to her. His mind is back, far away in another time. Someone else is supporting him; the moss is soft under a clear blue sky. Young and trusting, he smiles at the other boy, tickling his nose with a clover flower. Birds fly overhead. He does know what kind. He asks but does not care. Later on he falls asleep in the arms of that blond boy, on the moss, in the open air he will later shun
Hungary does not know what to answer. Staring into the fire, she thinks back on the days long gone, before she knew Austria. She remembers the battles, the blood, being alone, free, wild. She did not live in a palace; her walls were not anointed with the stiff heads of Austrian royalty. There had been a boy, a silly one, with a mess of pale hair; hot, red, wet eyes. He taunted her until she beat him up, and then he cried.
She looks back at Austria and shakes her head.
"I guess…" she murmurs, "that would have to be you, Mr. Austria."
Austria shakes his head vigorously. His cheeks are flushed, and she begins to wonder if he might have a fever.
"No, I meant someone fr'm childhood. Someone…made everything feel right…when he near."
Why is he delving around in her past? Does he not trust her? Hadn't she told him when she came to the house that she was looking to start her life over? What is left behind belongs there. She blushes even thinking of what a stupid, little thing she was, firmly rooted in the belief that she was a boy. Prussia was kind enough to play along for a time, for a time. He had been the closest a thing to a friend she had. Yet, another part of her knows that if Austria asks, if asks nicely, she'd slice off Prussia's head. She cannot keep any happy memories. Not from before. They no longer belong to her.
"No," she says, not looking at him.
Austria sighs. Sometimes she is like a cat: cuddled in his arms, but not caring. She does not need his love. Oh, at times, she pretends to need him. She plays with him like a child might turn a top, but she is no child. Nor was she a child, when she entered the service of the Holy Roman Empire. She was a youth, tall and boisterous. Before he met her, he had never seen a broom used so forcefully. She swung it around as if it were a sword, whacking floor, walls, ceilings, attempting to get the cleaning done all at once. She succeeded only in creating greater chaos as painting and porcelain were knocked to the floor, but that is nothing compared to what she can do with a frying pan. At times, she frightens him. She is lighting. She moves so fast, that not even love can keep a hold of her.
"Everything wrong then," Austria hears himself saying, though he has not planned to, "just a tumble in the cool, cold grass."
Why does he want to know? Hungary eyes him with suspicion. His words seem almost like an accusation, as if he were desperate to find fault with her. What if she cared for another? Not that she does, but he cannot hold that against her. He has had plenty of lovers, been married many times, though in truth it is never said that he loved any of them. It was just a ploy to move up in rank, power through marriage, but that makes it worse, doesn't it? In fact, if he were a woman he would be considered an emending whore. If he were a woman…but he has no right to accuse.
"What are you talking about?" Hungary blurts out in a passion, "Are you asking if I am a virgin?"
"No," Austria stumbles back in surprise, "I am sorry…I don't know what…"
"One does not ask a girl such questions!" she interrupts then cools suddenly, "I thought you would know that."
Because you are such a gentleman.
He can feel her scorn and her fury. It is not fair. He has not meant to upset her, but that is all he seems to be good at. Perhaps, she will be like the others, coming back to humiliate him once the affair is over. The others. He can feel their eyes and fingers crawling over him like centipedes. Laughing, their faces contorted with hate and lust. He will only be a body to them, because that is all he offered, that is all he would give for his kings and queens. To Hungary, though, if she asks he will give more.
"Perhaps," he mumbles, eyes pleading for forgiveness "but I thought maybe, perhaps we might…be friends."
Hungary stops now. He has thrown her world upside down. Friends, it's a far cry from maid or even lover. Friends. You can live in the same house with someone and not know who the hell they are, but…She is starting to understand. It is not a trap. It is an invitation. There is more than one side to their story, and suddenly, she wants to know. Wants to know, who he is, what's going on in his head. What it is that makes him feel. He is drunk, tired, depressed. She can so easily step in and take control.
"Did you?" she asks.
"Yes, I mean, aren't we?"
"I meant did you have a first love?" she scrambles to say, cheeks burning a bit, but her bright eyes are steady. Austria senses a shift in her mood. It worries him.
"Well…I am not sure if that's what it was."
"But not one of those people you just married, because…"
"No, nothing like that."
"So, what was she…or he like?"
Austria hesitates, wondering how exactly to describe Switzerland. He was so much to him it would be hard to begin, but he stumbles upon a word.
"Leather."
"To your lace?" Hungary asks, suppressing a giggle. She is not drunk, but she might as well be, she is so tired.
"No," Austria says with a sigh, "he did not approve of my lace."
"Ah, so what was it that he did approve off?"
"He thought…I should be a soldier."
"Really…how exciting! And I suppose, you tried to impress him, and got beaten up, am I right?"
Austria blushes deeply.
"Please," he begs, "I do not really want to talk about it."
"Why not?" Hungary throws out carelessly, her green eyes glinting wickedly in the light of the fire "why not tell me? My opinion isn't worth much. It'd be like talking to an old wall. France or Spain or the others, I know why you wouldn't tell them. They'd be jealous. They might rip your little lovebird apart."
"He's not my lovebird," Austria hisses, coughs and then continues, "If I walked up to him and begged him to say one word to me, one word, he'd walk away."
Hungary stops. She comes to a complete halt. She is looking at Austria and realizing that if she wants to she can dissect him.
"What did you do to him?" she asks, softly.
"Nothing. It was my boss's fault."
Hungary nods.
"They can really muck things over, can't they?"
"Yeah," he says.
"Well," she says, doing her best to look cheerful, "Y'know, some things are better left in the past."
"Right," he says with a curt nod.
"And," she adds. She places a hand on his arm, "if you need a shoulder to cry. I'm always here."
"Thank you," he says. He forces a smile then adds, "if you'd like we could sleep down here tonight."
Hungary smiles back at him. He looks so young even nervous.
"Of course," she says, "I'll just check on Italia and get a couple pillows."
"Oh," Austria says. His voice shifts, becomes more commanding, "I am sure Italia is fine. She can sleep through almost anything. And we don't need pillows. You can lie your head on my chest, if you want."
He does not want this moment to end. He knows that if she got up, they would make some excuse about not needing to stay here.
"Please," he says. She relents, sliding down beside him. She lies with her back turned to him, making a pillow with blanket folds. He wraps his arms around her waist, holding her close. Soon he can her breath become longer, deeper. She sleeps peacefully within his embrace. He prays that this is a sign for the future. Something akin to happiness, love stirs within his breast, but there is always the fear that this too shall pass.
If you have time, please review, but time or no, have a good day/night/morning