He let the notes hang in the air far longer than he should have. Reverberating through the empty house they fought against the hush that filled the halls. He played them far longer than the music sheets, ink drawn notes dark against the rapidly yellowing paper, demanded of him. As if it wasn't bad enough that his hands shook so badly that he had to constantly start over as to not insult the great composers with his appalling workmanship.
Again, another sour note, not even close ruined the whole song. He paused trying to quell the trembling in his hands, reminding himself that this was not his first time in front of the piano and he's played this piece countless times before. He closed his eyes and started again.
How many times has he had to restart this simple piece? About a dozen he would estimate, perhaps more. Much more.
Play the music; he tried to do so with his usual vigor. Tried to breathe life into every note, let it flow from his fingertips. He attempted to get lost within the melody that cut through the stifling silence like a knife. Yet, as the notes hovered in the air he was lost in something else.
Listening….
Not to the music, however, to something he couldn't seem to convince himself no longer existed.
A pause in the measure.
Holy Roman Empire, despite the great name he wore proudly, had the appearance of a small boy. And the trouble one would expect of a teenager. Each day lead to Austria attempting to soothe or block out, depending on his mood that day, the boy as he bemoaned his inability to deal with Italy. His crush on the other child was great and Austria was always hearing one of two things with him. Either the wailing of Italy or HRE as another attempt at something ordinary was blown out of proportions or he would come dejectedly into his room telling Austria his confusion about his feelings. He came to be advisor and listener to HRE and his troubles. Expecting a new story everyday of how Italy taught him to draw or how he messed up trying to chase a rat out of the house only for it to end up in Italy's dress. Moments they spent together sitting on the couch together or if Austria had the time, over a cup of tea. HRE was the first to leave…
His hands continued to tremble and the silence was overbearing. He played a note longer than it was written.
It wasn't long after he took in Italy that he realized how much noise the little one produced. Constantly crying or wailing at every little transgression or muttering to herself, or rather himself as he later learned. Even in the simple act of cleaning or sleeping a soft sound of effort came forth. In the time after HRE left, he constantly heard heartbreaking sniffling or the soft singing as he made up his own song. If he ever lost track of the child he'd only need to listen for that constant stream of sound. At first it was just another annoyance that came with dealing with children in the house he stayed in, but as time passed, hearing his soft voice reassured him. Becoming as familiar as any melody come from his instruments, in which he could find comfort that there was someone there with him. That constant stream of noise hasn't changed in the years that passed, as Italy grew into a young man to his surprise, but it no longer belonged in his home…
He wanted to hear something, anything. The song was becoming slower; the trembling was getting worse with the onslaught of memories.
Hungary liked to hum. When she did the dishes, when she dressed Italy in clothing she made, or when she sat enjoying a rest. It was gentle and feminine, surprising when he thinks about her fighting days. Even more so when he hears her talk when Prussia's around. The red eye man was also a clamor he came to expect. Bursting in at random, his rough voice grating yet familiar would burst through the halls obliterating any hush that dared to stay within his presence. Laughter, arrogant declarations, and long arguments would follow in his wake. That and the sound of a frying pan as it smashed into various things if she was in a mood. The three of them shared day to day racket like this, but to him it was almost harmonious, something annoying yet needed greater than any melody in his piano produced. He always played well those days. That is until Prussia stopped coming…
His hand slipped, discordance rang through him. Messed up again. His hands were weak; he couldn't control the trembling this time. They were strained and tired, but he couldn't stop. Not now or the silence will suffocate him. He waited the longest then, listened hardest, and hoped the most.
"Dear Mr. Austria," sweet and gentle, "don't give up. It was a beautiful tune. Play it again, please?"
He knew, when he seemed to hear it whispered in his ear, even as his pulsed raced and hope grew, when he turned around the space would be empty. No one would be there.
Hungary was the last to leave his home, moving on to be on her own…
He was right, the house was empty. Silence wrapped around him, it smothered him. He took a deep breath, and began again.
I've become rather attached to Austria, despite the fact that I'm more of an art person than a music person.
Reviews would be loved.