a/n: This was written kind of randomly at midnight last night. My inspiration needs to work on its timing. Hetalia's not mine. Anyway, enjoy!
Sometimes, when the loneliness became too much to bear and not even his piano could fill his empty, echoing house, Austria would go to his room, lock the door, curl up on his bed, and cry until he fell asleep.
There was a reason he had married so many times. Each was not only to strengthen his country. They were all pitiful, helpless, useless attempts at erasing his never-ending loneliness. They had all worked, in their own ways—for a time. Too soon, they had all left him behind, each preferring their own path. Too soon, his too-big house was empty again, the only sounds his own voice and his own footsteps and the piano and the occasional quiet sob.
Austria knew that the life of a nation was a solitary one. Alliances were only made for political reasons and marriages were much the same. Everyone had an ulterior motive and no-one could be trusted. Ordinary humans were no good, either; they all died eventually and you were left more lonely than before.
Music brought a measure of solace. At the very least, when he was focused on notes and chords and rhythms and dynamics he couldn't think about how empty the room really was. When the piece ended, though, it was always the same: the last note ringing into that oppressive silence that weighed down on him and forced the breath from his lungs and the tears from his eyes.
On nights when he couldn't sleep, he would stare out the window at the moon. It always seemed to be mocking him. There it was, surrounded by stars, while he was so utterly alone. He would close the blinds, knowing this was ridiculous, but that made no difference to his thoughts. That silver orb would still be there, mocking him in his silence and emptiness. Empty house, empty room, empty life—it didn't matter which one.
And so he would curl up and cry, wishing for what he could not have while the silence echoed around him.